Freedom Reins

Chapter 2: Inside the cocoon

I screamed with pain and fear as my father tossed the bloody body into the closet with me. Miss Jemma landed on top of me in a heap, crushing my frail form. I looked pleadingly up at my father as he began to close the door, begging with my eyes, without words to be let out. There was nothing in his eyes. They were dead, as emotionless as he was himself as he slammed the door shut and I heard the click of the lock. Time had no meaning to me, day was night, night was day, I didn’t understand. All I knew was darkness but it took so long to inch my way out from beneath the heavy body that I was sweating and shaking with pain and fatigue by the time I was huddled in a tight little corner. I remember feeling tears streaming as I strained to move as far as I could from whatever it was that had been tossed in with me, remaining frozen long after the salty streaks of tears had dried on my filthy face and still there was no movement. Outside, on the other side of my door I could hear my parents fighting again, yelling at one another and then more sharp slapping sound as flesh met flesh. That was a sound I was familiar with. I had heard it multiple times against my own skin. These times when my father was like this, it was much safer to be inside the closet rather than out.

A soft muffled sound escaped from the limp form I was trying to stay away from. Her scent however was sweet and soft. It beckoned like a beacon of light in the darkness and my tiny fingers reached out to touch. I felt wetness against her face and quickly pulled back, rubbing my fingers against the wall to rid myself of the red that pooled from where I had touched.

’You must be Cassidy,” Miss Jemma’s voice was slurred, her speech funny as she tried to talk with her broken jaw. I could hear the hiss of pain in each word she uttered though I couldn’t see her hand rise to mold itself against her jaw.

My eyes turned towards the gentle, funny voice though I made no sound in return. I didn’t understand what she was saying but I wanted to hear more. The words were like a warm bath on a cool night and I wanted nothing more than to sink into it and envelop myself with the sounds.

“It’s ok Cassidy,” the sound again, the one word I did understand- my name. “I’m not going to hurt you honey,” Miss Jemma shifted and moaned as she tried to move. I could feel her struggle, felt her pain as I had felt it daily living in these cramped quarters with the bruises and the broken bones. Breathlessly she leaned against the wall, sitting cross-legged before passing out again. She drifted in and out, not speaking for long periods though I listened to the soft inhaling of each breath she took, drank in her fragrance and pressed more closely to her as my body screamed to move. It was quiet outside now, my parents must have passed out or gone out, I didn’t know. What I did know was that I didn’t feel alone.

I think I drifted for a time, waking up startled as I felt gentle fingers gliding along the prickles that were my hair growing back. My father had chopped it off because I had lice. It was easier than cleaning me I suppose. “It’s ok little lamb,” Miss Jemma cooed. “I’m here to help you. “She said she could feel me tremble and shake with fear as I wet myself. She pretended not to notice. “Come little one,” she beckoned with her tone and her fingers gently drew me closer to her, closer still until I rested on top of her. I know she was ignoring the pain as she wrapped tender arms around me and held me against her, letting me feel the beating of her heart. “My name is Jemma,” she continued. “Your grandparents are looking for you.”

All of these words were gibberish to me but I no longer cared. I curled up against the warmth and the tenderness, tears trickling out as I felt comfort and love. “You don’t understand what I’m saying do you?” Miss Jemma leaned her head back; I am sure from pain, not from surprise. “Well that’s ok; we will sort that out after.” Each word must have been torture to speak with her broken jaw but she continued as she tried to soothe me. “I know they call you Cassidy,” I looked up hearing my name, “but I think I will call you Butterfly, little one. A beautiful butterfly that is going to escape this cocoon to spread her wings and be free to live the life you deserve.” And for the first time in my life, I felt the press of lips against the top of my head before Miss Jemma faded back into unconsciousness.

I played with her long silky but tangled hair now matted with blood while she drifted in and out, my mouth forming the words Miss Jemma. Over and over I tried to repeat the sounds Miss Jemma had until I could say them. I hadn’t realized she had said Jemma, not Miss Jemma but with her jaw broken the words were muffled and slurred. It was how the word sounded to me. Perhaps that is why it is so special. It was after all the first words I had ever spoken. The first of so many gifts she gave to me.

A moan alerted me to Miss Jemma wakening. I felt her try to move and shift, gasping with pain as she did. It was impossible for her to stretch out and I felt her arms move to her legs as she began to massage the spasms that raced through each muscle within them. “Hello there little Butterfly” she was talking to me again though the words were further garbled by the swollen flesh surrounding her face. I had never seen her but wanted nothing more than to touch and feel her warmth and safety. Her arms wrapped around me again once she completed the task with her legs and I felt warmth spread through my belly that expanded throughout my body. It made me cry it was just so beautiful. Still today I feel a little guilty for feeling happiness that she had found her way into my closet. I knew nothing more than that, nothing more than I wasn’t alone. Miss Jemma said it was how I was supposed to feel but there is a touch of shame that lingers.

“Can you talk? Can you tell me your name?” Miss Jemma stroked my face and my hair that was just now beginning to grow as she questioned me. I tilted my head up to her, knowing she couldn’t see the curiosity within my eyes or the eagerness to hear more.

“I’m guessing you can’t speak little lamb. Well it appears we have some time, let’s see if we can begin to remedy that shall we?” I am sure at that point; Miss Jemma just needed to talk, to hear the sound of her own voice as we sat in the tight cramped closet. “Think they will let us out soon to go to the washroom?” She sighed softly when I made no response except to curl more closely against her. I felt her arms tighten even more, heard the hiss of pain escape her swollen lips but she made no complaint as she hummed softly to me and began to rock me gently.

Her soft fingers ran over the filthy overly long t-shirt I was wearing. Holes littered the fabric, tears from where he had grabbed me and it had ripped. The stench of it before was unapparent to me until I had inhaled Miss Jemma’s fragrance. Now I knew what I must have smelled like to her and blushed thinking about it. But Miss Jemma never complained. She simply held me as she leaned back against the side wall, trying to hold back the pain as she soothed me. For me, it seemed a short period of time being in there but for her it must have seemed like a lifetime. The door opened once and my mother threw a thermos of water into the closet as my father watched with careful, calculated eyes before re locking the door on us.

Miss Jemma reached for the container. I could feel her body shaking with suppressed pain but she offered no complaint. Instead she opened it and held it to me so that I might drink. It felt so good against my parched throat. I didn’t realize my lips were cracked from dryness and malnutrition but I greedily drank my fill before she tried to take a few sips. As painful as that must have been, she knew that without having some fluids she would dehydrate and be completely useless. I didn’t know, I simply had a new friend in my hell hole but Miss Jemma had no intention of remaining there permanently.

Hours or days later, the clicking of the lock had me jumping fearfully away from Miss Jemma. I wanted to hide. I never knew quite what to expect when the door opened. There were days I was allowed out and days my father just wanted to torment me. We both blinked as the light made its way into the closet, blinding us momentarily. Before I could move I saw my father’s hand reach in. He grasped Miss Jemma and dragged her out before shutting and locking the door. I felt what I now know was loneliness and fear when she was gone. It felt empty and I felt more alone than I had ever felt before. I missed her arms and the feeling of security when nestled against her. Repeatedly I strained to hear at the door for any sounds, afraid to hear what I might but unable to resist. Miss Jemma in that short time had become my world and I was terrified for her. I huddled in the corner and waited, and waited more and still she didn’t return. I had just closed my eyes, giving up hope when she was pushed back into the closet and the door was locked again.

Something was wrong, I could tell. She stumbled onto her knees before trying to settle cross legged again. Her breathing was ragged and shallow, her arms were behind her back as I settled on her lap and I reached up to touch her face I felt wetness around her eyes. “It’s ok little Butterfly,” each word was strained and filled with pain but there was something more in the tone. Something I had never heard before. “I promise I am going to get you out of here and no one will ever hurt you again. I promise.” I didn’t know what she was saying but I lay my head against her chest to hear her heartbeat as she continued to ramble. Finally I looked up, I had practised and practised. My lips pursed to form the words. “Miss Jemma.” Her words were now barely more than slurs, her jaw locked but the tone was the same soft comforting sound I had come to expect from her.

“Oh Butterfly,” she whispered as she leaned down to press her lips to my head again. “We need to get out of here and I’m going to need your help. “ She ignored the yelling, the screaming from my parents on the other side of the door as she began to teach me letters. She was patient, waiting until I had formed them before moving onto the next. Apparently i have an almost perfect memory and was quick to pick up letters and words. Miss Jemma still tells me that she is amazed at the progress I made that night in the closet. She didn’t understand the thirst I had to make the sounds she did, to understand what she said to me. To me it was slow, agonizingly slow. I wanted to learn it all now. Miss Jemma continued until there was quiet outside before she stopped and listened. I felt the change within her though I couldn’t begin to understand what it meant.

She waited longer, keeping quiet though I tried to form words with her. I could say the alphabet and recited it over and over to her but she didn’t respond with more words. I was meant to learn this. I knew it deep inside, the yearning grew exponentially and it was frustrating to not be able to do so.

“Shh,” Miss Jemma whispered. “It’s time for my little butterfly to be free.” I felt her head move down as though she were looking at me and turned my head upwards. She pressed her lips to my forehead as she nuzzled my face. “I promise, Butterfly, I promise we are going to get out of here but you have to help me.” My head tilted, I didn’t understand what she was saying but I believe I felt the desperate need that rolled through her in waves.

“I need your help little Butterfly,” she whispered again as she began to shift and turn until I fell to the side of her. She motioned to her arms, frustrated at the darkness, finally lifting and moving them as much as she could. “I need you to untie me, Butterfly so we can get out of here.” Again she made the motions with her arms and I stared with confusion at her. “Please Butterfly; please understand what I’m saying to you. I need your help to save you, your help for you to save me. Untie me Butterfly.”

As she lifted her arms, flapping them back and then against her again my fingers travelled downwards, feeling the thin rope that surrounded her wrists. That was why she wasn’t holding me anymore-she couldn’t. I remember that feeling at the moment. I will remember it until my dying breath, the abject fear of making a choice to loosen the knots and face my father’s wrath or to just crawl back onto her lap. I knew what would happen to me if my father caught me, what would happen to Miss Jemma. I moved my fingers away and tried to curl up again on her even though she didn’t move. She leaned back against the wall as I pressed my head to her chest, listening to the frantic beating of her heart. I didn’t know how badly he had hurt her the last time he had taken her from the closet. Had I known maybe I wouldn’t have hesitated but I was afraid. I needed Miss Jemma. She waited patiently while I curled on her pressing kisses to my head in total understanding.

It wasn’t the same though. Her arms were the closest thing to home that I had known. It was the one thing that in all of my eight years I desperately wanted to feel again. Miss Jemma moved as I slid from her lap, twisting so I could reach her arms as my shaking fingers reached down to the ropes. I pulled and tugged, having no concept of how to untie a knot, but I could hear her words, the sound of her voice as she encouraged me to continue. We listened carefully for any sounds on the outside as I clawed and scratched at the rope trying to tear it from her arms. Miss Jemma would shift and pull at her own arms as I worked, trying to free them. It was almost a game for me; well she made it seem such. The first time I had played with someone, done something together with someone and I was determined now to rid her of the bindings. Breathless and panting Miss Jemma finally pulled one arm free before reaching to pull me onto her lap and hold me tightly to her. She cupped my face with her hands and leaned forward to press kisses along my eyes and cheeks, making another game of it as I giggled quietly before becoming serious.

“It’s time for the Butterfly to emerge from its cocoon my little darling,” she strained to hold the pain from her voice as she rose up to her knees. Taking a spoon from her pants pocket she showed it to me. “Took it from the bathroom earlier,” she was talking to herself again and really I just enjoyed the sound of her voice. “Your parents use drugs in the bathroom.” The bottom side of the spoon was black from being lit to heat the silverware enough to use it as a base to smoke the drugs. “We are going to use this spoon to get out of here Butterfly.”

She strained to loosen the door hitch. I pressed against her leg, keeping quiet as she whimpered and moaned softly, each motion painful and becoming more so. Miss Jemma would pause, listening at the door ensuring silence on the other side before continuing. To my ears the metal on metal sounded loud but I really don’t believe she cared any longer. She was not one to be kept in a closet as I was. With a grunt of satisfaction she pulled out the top hinge and tried to grin with satisfaction before beginning on the lower one. I watched, mesmerized as she worked, not comprehending but happy to be with her in any situation. I waited for her to pull the second one out but she stopped before doing so.

“We don’t want this one completely out, Butterfly,” She whispered as she settled back, pulling me on her lap. This time her seating was different. Her booted feet were against the door, her back, though she arched repeatedly was pressed to the wall opposite to the door. Softly she stroked me, making me feel safe as she waited for well, I had no idea. It didn’t matter to me. I was back in her arms. Forgotten was the fear of reprisal that would befall me when my father discovered what I had done. All that mattered to my eight year old mind was that moment in time. “Be ready Butterfly,” Miss Jemma spoke quietly. “It’s time.”

And then Miss Jemma began to scream. Honestly it scared me though she held me close. “Help!.” Over and over the words erupted, louder and louder each time she shouted. My eyes were as wide as saucers. I knew it would bring the ire of my father at being disturbed. I tried to crawl away or crawl behind or hide anywhere but there was nowhere to go. And the moment I had been dreading since Miss Jemma yelled was now upon us. I heard the click of the lock and my father shouting on the other side. I trembled with fear and wet myself again but Miss Jemma pretended not to notice, instead she pushed with all of her strength against the door before he could open it.

Having removed the one hinge and loosened the other, she had freed the door enough that once he unlocked it, she was able to push with all of her might, the door propelling him backwards before landing on him. Miss Jemma was quick for someone who had been thrust in the closet as long as she had, putting me behind her own body before jumping on the door repeatedly with my father still beneath it. Finally she kicked the door aside with her foot to stare down at my father who was sprawled on the floor, bloodied, his eyes closed. She turned her attention to my mother who was now yelling and shouting as she rushed to aid my father. Miss Jemma brought her arm back; her fist closed and punched her as hard as she could. I watched as my mother joined my father on the floor, neither really moving.

I crawled from the closet, my legs having been bent for years and the lack of food or sunlight made them thin and almost useless and moved to her. I have never witnessed in my now seventeen years anyone as angry as I had seen Miss Jemma. She saw me, really saw me for the first time as I slithered on the floor and I believe what she said to my father before kicking him in a place no man ever wants to be kicked, would have filled our swear jar at the house. With the rope that had been used on her she bound my father. My head tilted and I looked at him a curious detachment, lying there, screaming and writhing in pain. I wondered if that is how I looked when it had been me that was in that position. My head turned towards Miss Jemma as she reached down to pick me up, cradling me against her as she searched the house for her phone, hoping they had just sold her bike for drug money and not the phone. It would have been to their advantage to keep it, she told me after- to contact their dealers. She was correct. I knew I would never wonder about being the person writhing in pain on the ground again. I was home.

She found it by the side of the bed as she settled me on it. I revelled in the softness of the mattress, felt the side sink slightly and my body move towards her as she sat beside me. Her voice was trembling as she called the police and I wrapped my little frame around her. I felt her hand reach out to stroke me, ignoring the thin frame, the bones that jutted out against the pale skin and her eyes focus on mine for the first time. I saw her. Miss Jemma’s swollen face, broken jaw, dirt and blood took nothing away from the beauty that was unmistakable. I wanted to shrink away, I felt ugly compared to her. Thin, malnutrition causing my ribs to stick out, filthy I felt I should hide again and looked towards the closet. My fingers tugged at the ragged t-shirt as I tried to cover myself, drawing it downwards to try and hide my legs. But she tried her best to smile at me and her eyes, her beautiful caramel eyes were filled with nothing but love. My lips turned up into a shy smile as I responded to the love the spilled forth towards me.

“Yes,” she spoke into the phone. “This is Ms. Jemma Roberts. I have been kidnapped and I and my little angel need assistance please. You will have to track my phone as I don’t know the address. The captors are a little incapacitated at the moment but I don’t know for how long.” And she set the phone down to pick me up into her arms again. I read those words some time later as we went through the trial for my parents. As my arms wrapped around her neck and I curled against her I noticed the back of her torn blouse was covered in blood. Whatever my father had done to her was not good but there was no way for me to ask. Miss Jemma looked down at me and touched her nose to mine before drawing back to speak. “Are you ready to leave little Butterfly?” With gentle fingers she brushed back my hair before kissing my forehead. “It’s time for your new life.”

Her fingers shook as she traced the bones in my hands, hands that seemed so fragile even in her small ones. Tenderly she ran them up to my wrist, circling it, tears welling as she realized just how tiny I was. None of it did I understand save the safe touch and the gentle feeling that accompanied each stroke from her. She traced over my collar bones that jutted almost fiercely against the skin, wanting to break free from the thin tissue and upwards to cup my face. Miss Jemma looked directly at me, sunken in cheek bones that made my dark chocolate eyes seem even larger in my emaciated face and she leaned forward as tears fell from her long lashes to trail down her bloodied face as she kissed me. Finally she held me closely against her, ignoring her pain as she stroked me. I couldn’t see the flash of anger she turned towards my father nor know what it cost her not to kick him again. She said I was more important and nothing she did to him would change what had happened and it was more important to just hold me rather than hurt him.