Butterfly

Chrysanthemum George (otherwise known as Chrys) is drowning in a world of self-harm, suicide and dark thoughts. Recovery has never been her plan but when a new face arrives on the scene will Chrys have any choice in the matter? A story about the darkness eating at a generation and the difficult route out of it.

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8. Chapter 2, Part 6

I don’t have any lights on in my room at night. I never have and I doubt I ever will. The demons don’t stop when the lights are on and a light in my room isn’t going to stop them anyway. I burrow deeper down underneath my duvet as Jen says goodnight and shuts the door behind her.

I turn over under the duvet so I face the wall opposite the door. A small thud lets me know that my phone’s fell from the side of my bed to the floor. Great. Do I really want to risk letting cold air into my air pocket of warmth under my duvet for the sake of my phone? I roll my head over the edge of the bed to look down at it as it lies alone in the great beyond of my floor. I sigh as I mentally prepare myself for the torture that awaits my arm in the rescue of my phone, the cold.

My arm darts out quickly and nabs the phone but instead of hauling it back into the warmth of my bed, it slips from my hands and flies straight underneath my bed. My eyes roll heavenwards as I wiggle to the edge of my bed and peer underneath. I can’t see it. Wrapping myself more solidly into my duvet in what I imagine looks like a giant duvet slug, I slide off the edge of my bed silently and peer into the darkness hiding underneath my bed. I walk my fingers underneath my bed slowly, alert and ready for the tickle of any marauding spiders. My fingers slide back lost hair grips and hairbands but it is a while before I find anything with a smooth surface. I slide it back but as I do so it pulls out something else from the dusty depths as well.

I pick up my phone first and blow the dust off it hastily. I’m not sure if dust can scratch the screen but it’s a new phone and I’m not taking any risks. Call me paranoid or dramatic but in a foster home a new phone isn’t something to turn your nose up or risk damaging. I slide it under my pillow for safekeeping before turning my attention back to my other discovery. Suddenly, I wished I’d left my phone under there.

Two large grey eyes smile back at me in the joyous face of a six year old. I can spy the old pink walls of my first room at the Home and purple drapes hanging on either side of the window frame the girl’s face. Her usually pale face is flushed with the pink hues of happiness and the usually dull grey in her eye seems alive and merry. She’s happy. I look down at my own auburn hair as it hangs down to my chest before looking back at the short auburn pigtails sitting on either shoulder. It had been easier to control when it was the same length as hers, and I should know. The smiling girl is me. 

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