Free Butterfly by Elle Harper Page B

get through
this, Grace.’
    I hope she hears the absolute
belief in my voice.

15
     
    GRACE
     
    I wait for him to look at me
differently, with disgust, but he doesn’t. Instead, all I see in
his face is kindness, compassion, worry, and patience.
    Rape. Survivor .
    I think about the words, and I
know he’s right. It’s taken someone else to say them before it
sinks in.
    He slides his fingers across the
table towards the middle and turns his palm upwards. It’s a simple,
soothing, and comforting gesture.
    ‘You’re safe, Grace. I’m never
going to do anything to hurt you. I just want to help you get
through this. You can trust me.’
    I look at his hand and then
search his face. I do trust him, and I do feel safe with him. I
have ever since I met him, as irrational and weird as that
sounds.
    Tentatively, I reach out and
slide my fingers towards his. He engulfs my small hand gently in
his big one, and we sit in silence. I don’t know why I’m allowing
myself to touch him. It’s something I don’t do with men, but I’m
surprisingly at ease with his touch. It’s compassionate.
Energizing, somehow.
    I don’t know what the
appropriate thing to feel is after you’ve told someone you were
raped, and even though I’m bone-numbingly tired, I feel stronger.
As if he’s taken some of the weight from me and tossed it away in
the gutter where it belongs.
    ‘I’m so sorry about Mia,’ I
say.
    ‘I’m sorry about everything,’ he
says wearily.
    I glance at the clock. It’s
almost ten p.m. That’s enough for me for tonight. I’ve taken the
first step.
    ‘I think I’d better be getting
back home.’ I release his hand, and already I miss the warmth and
comfort there. ‘I hope I didn’t keep you from anything.’
    ‘No.’ He points to the bruises
on his face. ‘I’m not allowed to teach for a while. Doctor’s
orders.’ He picks up the mugs and plates and rinses them before
stacking them in the dishwasher.
    As I turn off the lights and
lock the front door, he waits for me outside on the street with his
hands stuffed in his pockets. Everything that’s happened tonight
feels so surreal, like I dreamt it all.
    Except for that flutter of hope
inside. That’s very real now.
    I walk up to the flat and unlock
the door.
    ‘Night, Grace. I’ll see you
tomorrow.’
    I bite my lower lip for a
second. ‘Thanks, Ben. For everything.’
    ‘No need to thank me.’
    I close the door and check the
locks, but the urge isn’t as strong as usual. I manage with only
checking each lock six times then strip off and get into a long,
hot shower.
    I wash away the shampoo and
shower gel, and its swirling down the plughole hypnotizes me. It
reminds me of the night it happened. How I came home and showered
like a mad woman. Scrubbing and scrubbing my skin with stinging hot
water until it was raw, and even the pressure from the water hurt.
How I wanted to wash myself with acid. How it felt like I could
never be clean enough.
    Soiled.
    Dirty.
    Disgusting.
    How I must’ve been a horrible
person for this to have happened. Wanting to crawl out of my
skin.
    I tried to wash it away, except
it wouldn’t go. Would never go.
    Knowing I’d never be the same
person again. That woman was gone forever.
    I fight back the nausea in my
stomach and the adrenaline closing my throat as I try to take deep
breaths.
    In. Out.
    In. Out.
    I hear Ben’s calming voice in my
head and try to think something positive. Something different.
    It wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my
fault.
    And now I’m trying to believe
the water washing away is a cleansing ritual, as if I’m taking the
first step to rid myself of the memories.
    I force myself to smile. This is
the beginning of something big.
    When my head hits the pillow, I
try the deep breathing again. I fall asleep before I even know
it.
    It doesn’t last, though. Maybe
talking about him has made it worse, brought the fears to
the surface. I wake up at two a.m. bathed in sweat, seeing his
face. Feeling him