Freedom Reins

My name is Butterfly. Actually, it’s Cassidy, but I’ve gone by the name Butterfly since being rescued from the closet where I spent the first eight years of my life. Perhaps I should start at the beginning. I was born to parents addicted to drugs- meth, heroin; I’m not sure what else. The doctors say it is a miracle that I was not born addicted. Perhaps there was something good inside of my mother, and she tempered her use long enough for me to be delivered, though I have little to no faith that was the case.

Once I came along, however, the novelty of a baby quickly wore off. I suppose it’s fair to say that a few parents don’t realize the work required to care for a baby, especially parents who have spent so many years plunging needles in their arms. I’m thankful those are memories I don’t carry, as some days the burden of the ones I do is heavy enough. In the small cluttered trailer, there was a very small, filthy, dark closet. It was there I was placed when my parents were tired of me until the age of eight, when a miracle happened. Miss Laura found me.

Years later, I still refer to her as that, though hundreds of times she has said: “It’s just Laura, Butterfly.” Inside, deep inside, and perhaps once I complete this, I will call her what my heart refers to her as mom, but there is a special meaning for me that goes along with referring to her as Miss. Without her, I know I wouldn’t be here to write this; I would be dead or living the same life that my parents lived.

My heart breaks for what I know I have missed, though in some ways I am perhaps fortunate that I knew no life other than the one inside of the cramped, dark, dirty, and hot closet. If I cried or made too much noise, I was punished, beaten, not fed, left in there for a day at a time. I believed this was how life was supposed to be as I understood no other way. Now I know differently, and many days I struggle with a ferocious anger that is very difficult for a teenager to temper. I carry the scars and the marks on both inside and out of what life was like.

As I grew, the closet, this tiny cramped space, became far too small for me, though I was still rarely allowed out. My body cramped and contorted, and my bones didn’t grow as they should from being so tucked up in the small space. It hurt, and I did my best not to cry, hoping they would allow me out for short periods of time.

I was never taught how to read or write; it was a gift Miss Laura gave me when she rescued me, though it nearly cost both of us our lives. I had no words, no way to communicate, and no hope for a better life, nor any understanding that life could be different from the life I was living. Now I have the means, the confidence, and the freedom to speak words I had never known, to believe I would be safe to do so without fear of reprisal.

That was my life before my heroine came into my life. My true life began when I met Miss Laura, so I begin this journal, this journey upon meeting her and our perilous escape, though I will say that until our meeting, what I write now is just what I have been told.

Miss Laura is, from what I have been told, vastly wealthy, though she neither flaunts nor lives in a manner one with the finances she has would. Our house, I believe, is the only luxury she has ever purchased, and I suspect it was more for my benefit; the fact that it was a ranch was the true selling point. She is a well-known author and a part-owner of a magazine. Her passion, however, lies in another direction, and that is how she ultimately found me.

It took more than a few years to bring her passion to life, but in doing so, she touched many people’s lives. Each night, those who now reside in the senior home she founded told me Miss Laura noticed more and more elderly people on the street. Not those addicted to drugs, not those who were bereft of mind, but those who had been battling and struggling to make ends meet until their Social Security arrived.

I admit even at the ripe age of seventeen I’m not quite sure what that entails, but I know it tugged at her heartstrings. Government bureaucracy at its finest, she would chime up each time another came to live at the home. Red tape, she would mutter as she took them from the street and gave them a place to stay so the government could find them and begin paying them what they were owed after working their entire lives.

My grandparents were two of the ones Miss Laura brought home. Without them, I wouldn’t be here. She found them late one evening on her way home, riding her motorcycle. Everyone she knows hates her on that bike; they worry for her. But there were my grandparents, crouched in a box, huddled together, shivering as the rain dripped through the soaked cardboard.

Miss Laura said it was Grandpa’s arms wrapped around Grandma as she rested her head upon his shoulder that compelled her to stop. That may be true, but there is something to be said about fate. Grandma laughed as she told the story of the fear she felt when a bike ridden by a leather-clad person stopped beside them.

They had been comfortable in their home their entire lives until they began their search for me. That led them to live on the streets. Miss Laura took off her helmet and gave them a welcoming smile as she approached Grandma and Grandpa. She spoke soothingly, letting them feel secure instead of in danger. They were new to the streets; I am thankful for that and for Miss Laura finding them before anything horrible happened.

She sat on the pavement by the box, letting the rain soak her beautiful blond hair as she spoke to them. Comfortingly, without condemning eyes that so many others had who walked past them throughout the day. It took some time, Grandma said, but eventually she told MissLaura that they had spent their life savings trying to find their granddaughter-me. Their old-age security was no longer being sent because they had no permanent address; that’s what Miss Laura calls government bologna.

Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out her phone, and within moments a car pulled up to take Grandma and Grandpa to the home. Miss Laura followed on her bike. That night would change everyone’s lives, most especially my life.

Miss Laura cries easily, though she likes to think she is tough. Grandpa said the tears flowed almost endlessly as they shared the story of their fruitless search for me. How their son had gotten caught up in drugs, had disappeared, leaving no trace of their only grandchild. He also said it was the first time he and Grandma felt safe and secure. I can understand that emotion as I’ve experienced it each and every day since being rescued.

Miss Laura took their son’s name and his girlfriend's and hired a private investigator to begin searching for me.

I close my eyes as I remember this section, as it is neither pleasant nor pretty. Miss Laura may not be tough, but she is tenacious, and she is also very stubborn. Each day she worked with the investigator, tracking down leads, riding into dangerous neighborhoods in hopes that one of the leads would prove correct. One finally did.

MissLaura said it was about ten pm when she received the phone call saying my mother had been spotted. Leave it to her to go alone and search instead of bringing others with her, but it most assuredly is Miss Laura’s way. Her bike was quiet as she pulled into the trailer park. She drove through the deteriorated and unkempt neighborhood until she found the trailer that had been described.

I’ve asked her more than once, as have others I know, what possessed her to go into a drug-infested, crime-riddled area alone like that and how she had felt. Miss Laura simply shrugged while responding… some things are just more important.

I heard a strange muffled sound as I remained huddled in the closet. A knock I would call it now, but as I had no words nor understanding of anything, it was just something different, something unusual that broke the monotony of life within the closet.

I pressed my ear against the thin door, listening for anything, anxious and fearful at the same time. Maybe I thought I would be allowed out tonight, or would it be something that would set my parents off on a tangent, leaving me battered and bruised again? I was afraid to breathe. My body shook as I heard the gentle melody that was Miss Laura’s voice.

Though I had no knowledge of what the woman on the other side of the door was saying, I could feel warmth within me that I had never experienced before. I pressed eagerly against the door in hopes of hearing the soothing sound again, feeling that emotion, almost desperate for that unknown sensation. There was a clicking noise against the floor, so I shuffled my far too thin body downwards to peek beneath the crack. I could make out a pair of shiny black boots with a two-inch heel.

That had to have been the noise I heard. Miss Laura keeps those boots, though she has retired them from her closet. I could feel the pain in my body as I contorted myself enough to watch, working to push past it. I’m still unsure why, but my hands pressed against the door; life flowed inside, and what I now know was hope surged within.

Surged and plummeted as my father’s slurred voice became louder and more violent. I had been on the receiving end of that tone more than once, and I feared for whoever was now feeling the lash of it.

I can’t say I know what happened next; I don’t, not with any clarity, though I know what the police and others related to me afterward. My father used Miss Laura’s helmet and smashed it into her face, breaking her nose and jaw. I could see drops of red litter the floor around the boots that had made the gentle clicking noise, but I never heard her scream in pain.

She told me once when we spoke that she would not give him the satisfaction of seeing fear. I did see her body fall to the ground, however, and heard the loud crack as her head hit the floor. I strained to see but drew back as I saw my father’s shaky fingers take off the black leather jacket that Miss Laura always wore, she still wears.

I covered my mouth as I saw him kicking her unconscious form and heard the sound of breaking bones. I tried so hard not to scream, but he continued until my mother finally begged him to stop. I guess I owe her something after all.