Without Jake around to remind me of why it was a bad idea to share my work, I allowed myself the hours of solitude to bask in the glory of being good at my job—fuck, scratch that, it was my passion. No guilt. No self-deprecation. Just good old-fashioned pride. This was the work that fueled my life. It was my happy place, and dammit, it felt good to be appreciated for it.
I took the Harley out to the club that night. I was in a rare mood, a good one, and I put my name on the list without hesitation. Tonight, I'd read, and I'd let myself be proud for that, too.
When my turn came around, I approached the microphone with confidence. It had been weeks, maybe even more, since I last read one of my poems at the club. Poetry wasn't a constant in my life, I didn't always feel the need to write. But, every now and then, I felt the call and the pressure of vile verbiage, and I gave in.
I didn't announce my name to the audience of sordid faces and I didn't tell them the title, because it didn't have one. I never titled my poems, never gave them the respect. They were a release, mental fecal matter meant to be expelled, and nothing more.
So, I read.
A butterfly,
Born on the ground,
A crawling mess of fibers and legs.
We see it change,
We see it turn,
We see the transformation,
From fibers and legs to beauty and wings,
And we stare,
Awed,
Bewildered,
Entranced by its beauty.
But who stares at the caterpillar?
Ugly.
Disgusting.
Grub.
We spew these hateful words,
Shun the fibers and legs,
Until it is beautiful.
But is it not still a butterfly?
I was born beautiful.
Perfect pink toes,
Perfect blue eyes.
Perfection has a heavy cost,
And I paid the price.
Watch me grow,
Watch me transform,
See me change.
Scribble the ugliness on your paper,
Let it process,
Save it for later.
Godless.
Hateful.
Angry.
But am I not still human?
Am I not still a metaphorical butterfly?
A butterfly, but in reverse.
I stepped away from the mic and stuffed the torn-off sheet of paper into a pocket. I didn't care if I crumpled or destroyed it. It didn't matter—I never meant to keep it, anyway. I didn’t keep any of them.
A hushed applause resounded through the club. Heads bobbed with approving nods, though I didn't need their approval or praise, much like with my tattoos. But it did feel nice, good even, to think that maybe some people knew where I was coming from. That empathized and maybe even understood.
I moved my way back to my seat, ready to grab my jacket and make a run for it, when a hand laid against my back.
"Blake?"
The sweet melody of her voice was a ray of light, a slender stream of brightness through a pin-pricked hole in a never-ending canopy of dark. I froze on the spot, unable to move an iota of an inch. She’d rendered me speechless, motionless, and if it weren't for the vibration of my heart, I would've assumed I was dead.
She rounded to stand before me. Shit ... When I'd seen her a week ago, how had I not noticed then what a sight she was? Sure, I’d noticed she was attractive, but now, in this new light, she left me awestruck. White-gold hair gleaming underneath the grey light of the club. Pale blue eyes taking on a navy hue in the shadows. If I believed in a heaven, I could've been convinced that she'd fallen, an angel with fractured wings.
At the thought, my eyes dipped to a glint of silver hanging from a chain around her neck. The cross twinkled with every rise and fall of her chest, and I forced my disappointment down to the pit of my stomach. To turn and sour and haunt me later.
"Oh, hey." I said, regarding her with the kindest smile I could muster.
"Hey!" She grinned, showing off wide rows of white teeth. She extended her fair hand, and I hesitated. I didn't deserve to touch her, to soil her pristine skin, but I accepted and lightly held her hand in mine as she said, "Audrey. I don't know if you remember—"
"I do," I cut in without hesitation, nodding. That tattoo etched into her chest, its black wings peeking out from the neckline of her pink t-shirt, had haunted my thoughts and world for over a week. There was no way I could mask my recognition now.
“Sorry for bothering you,” she apologized needlessly. "I just saw you read that poem and had to tell you, it's beautiful. A little sad, but definitely beautiful."
"Thanks," I said, but I also wanted to correct her. It wasn't beautiful. It was me, my thoughts, and there was absolutely nothing beautiful about the shit crawling around inside my brain.
Beneath the dimmed lights, I watched a faint pink blush creep its way up her neck and blossom in springtime flourish over her cheeks. It was cold, the middle of October in Salem, and the cockles of my stony heart echoed with a deathly winter chill, but this woman reminded me of flowers and newborn animals. Of warmth, sunshine, and color.
"Are you here with anyone?" she asked.
"Nah," I answered, uncomfortable that she'd asked.
With a flutter of her hand, she gestured toward a table. "My cousins and I are over there, if you want—"
"I was actually just leaving."
The abruptness of my response rendered her momentarily speechless. Her mouth was frozen in a pink O that shouldn't have made me think lewdly, yet it did. I thought of her, on her knees, dirtying up those light-colored jeans. This is why I can't find someone, I thought, sending a message out to Dr. Travetti. I'm filthy, soiled, and I'd only ruin someone else. Especially someone like her.
"Oh, okay," she finally spoke. "Can I walk you to your car, then?"
"I rode my motorcycle," I corrected her, as if it mattered, and began to walk away. "It was nice seeing you again, Aud—"
"Hold on," she called to me, before telling someone else, "I'll be right back."
I listened for her footsteps. Hoping she was following, hoping she decided to stay behind. I moved quicker toward the stairs that would lead me to the sidewalk, tricking myself into believing she wasn't behind me, until I heard her say my name again.
"Blake! Goodness, you walk fast."
I didn't want to be a dick. Honestly, I didn’t. So, I made myself stop. I allowed her to catch up, and when she did, she smiled up into my eyes.
"Sorry," I muttered in a voice so low, it seemed nearly sinister to my ears.
"It's okay."
I didn't want her to walk with me outside into the parking lot. I didn't want her to see the bike that only came out to play once a week, when my brother wasn’t my responsibility. I didn't want her light to seep anymore into the fractured seams of my life, but I did nothing to stop her as she followed me up the stairs.
I pulled a breath of cool air into my lungs and closed my eyes. Audrey did the same, as if she was mocking me. Or maybe it was also her way, to appreciate the chill of a sunless night.
"It's beautiful tonight," she commented quietly. "I love the fall."
"So do I."
She laughed lightly. "Oh, I'm so surprised." There was sarcasm in her tone and when I looked to her, I saw that her bottom lip was trapped between her teeth, just begging for the permission to smile. "And don't tell me ... Your favorite color is black."