Fuck, my case is cracked and the clips have snapped on one side. Kid has been taking his pick of the clothes in the bag, so there’s nowhere to hide the blade to prevent him hurting himself. The thought of pushing it down the drain makes my hand tremble.
I search the walls of the bathroom for anything to help, then stop on the rectangular sink, resting on a flat sheet of metal. There isn’t a shelf to put the blade on, but there’s a small gap between the sink and the frame. A gap the blade will fit in. Running the water to stop him from hearing anything, I delicately push it between the screws keeping the basin in place. It fits perfectly, but I snap my phone case in half to use the flat plastic to check I can still access it. Relief courses through me when I manage to slide it out. I quickly place it back in the gap then fix my clothes, wipe any errant drops of blood, pick up my phone, and wash my hands, fearful of any signs of what I’ve been doing.
When I go back out, Kid is in bed, blankly staring up at the ceiling.
“What’s wrong?” I kneel at his side.
“Sometimes I miss Xanthe and Jasper,” he whispers.
“I miss Delilah too,” I weakly admit as I lay on the floor beside his bed, folding my arm under my head to act as a pillow against the hard floor. The sting of my pants touching the fresh cuts eases some of the pain of being here. Kid chases the rest away as his hand falls over the edge of the bed. His little face is next as he stretches out, reaching for my hand.
My arm is at an awkward angle as I hold his hand, waiting for him to fall asleep again.
“Does Delilah teach you things like Xanthe and Jasper?” he whispers.
“Yeah, she’s taught me a lot.”
“Like butterflies?” he asks. “Jasper said butterflies are special. They live two times. One time, they’re dirty and they crawl through mud. The other time, they’re pretty and they can fly away.”
“He’s right, Kid. They start as caterpillars.”
He chews on his lip as he thinks. His long dark lashes cover his pupils while he looks down, staring at a point on the fleece blanket as I wait for whatever he’s going to say.
It takes a while, but he looks up with so much longing in his eyes as he asks, “Can I be a butterfly?”
“Yeah,” I whisper, throat constricting. “You can be a butterfly.”
An insect is a sign of hope for him. An insect who started in the dirt like all he’s ever known.
I open the camera on my phone, sliding through the frames for one with butterflies then turn the screen so he can see his face around them. His smile is wider than it’s ever been, barely rounding the apples of his cheeks as he shyly rubs his cheek against his shoulder. “Butterflies.”
“And you,” I say softly.
“Kid and butterflies,” he whispers back in awe.
“Do you want me to take your picture with the butterflies?”
He gets even shyer as he softly nods, rubbing his cheek against the thin pillow. The screen lighting up is pitch-black in comparison to the joy in his eyes as I slowly press the shutter. I bring up the last photo so he can look at it, and he gently traces the wings of the digital butterfly on the frame around his face. The tip of his finger moves around the peach edges on the outside of the top of the wings, then over the deep red it blends into, around the bright green edge and down to the bright blue scaled pattern at the bottom of the wings tailing into green.
“I want to be that one,” he declares gently.
He grows in confidence, attempting to touch the insect. It moves the image across the screen to one where I have my arm wrapped around Delilah while she sits between my thighs on the sofa in Montana. Even when I was pretending to be Asher, steeped in hate for her, I looked at her with nothing other than devotion.
“Is Delilah like Xanthe?” Kid asks as I swipe the photo back to his own face.
“No, she’s my wife. Xanthe is your friend.”
He stops looking at the screen and I lock it to preserve the battery as he fills with questions. “What’s a wife?”
“Someone you love,” I say easily.
In the time I’ve been around him I’ve learnt when he goes quiet he’s thinking, so I hold his hand. He turns on his back. He must be tired.
We’ll both get out of here, then we’ll get Delilah and find our baby. We’ll all be fucked up, but we’ll resemble a family who will be there for each other. Me, Delilah, and our kids.
“Kane?” he asks without moving.
“Yeah?”
