Butterfly by Nelle L’Amour
CHAPTER 29
Sofi
“What the hell is this?” barks Roman, grabbing an intricate butterfly-inspired headpiece from one of the Romanoffs. “It belongs on a Martian!”
The poor woman shakes in silence as he hurls it to the floor. I keep my head bowed, focusing on my painting while he prowls the studio in search of his next victim.
It’s like yesterday never happened. Less than twenty-four hours ago, Roman was filled with light. Playful, all laughter and joy.
Today, he’s an entirely different person. All darkness. Any trace of light has faded from his being. It’s as if some dark storm cloud has descended upon him, robbing him of humanity. Turning him into a tyrant. A ruthless monster.
He paces the atelier in a frenzy.
His hair unruly.
His lips pressed tight in a thin angry line.
His good eye dark and piercing.
His expression brooding, borderline menacing.
His fists clenched by his sides, he lashes out at everyone. One vicious attack after another.
Brutally berating everything they’re doing. Nothing is good enough.
He scowls and snarls. Curses under his breath.
His negative energy saturates the air, so thick a fighter jet couldn’t cut through it.
Minus Madame DuBois, who is mysteriously MIA, the hard-working Romanoffs seem to take his mercurial behavior in stride. Either they’re wearing masks that hide their emotions or have taken meds to numb them. Whatever they have, I want. I need. Every cruel word Roman fires at me stings. Each one more scathing than the one before. I think if he bit me, I’d get rabies.
Painting the wings of a Malaysian Blue Clipper, I try to ward off his noxious behavior and concentrate on what I’m doing. It’s hard, virtually impossible with all his ranting. Every harsh barb makes me quake. What’s gotten into him? What’s wrong with him?
Mid afternoon, after a deli lunch that hardly anyone touches, his behavior takes a turn for the worse. He goes on a rampage, storming through the studio like a Category 4 hurricane.
Destroying everything in his path. Pulling apart gowns in progress. Ripping up patterns. Knocking over bolts and bolts of fabric. Hurling vats of sequins, feathers, and beads along with spools of thread. The atelier has become a disaster area. He’s become a madman. And I’ve become an exposed nerve, anxiously waiting to be his next unwitting victim. My muscles tighten, my heartbeat quickens.
Adding some aqua paint to my butterfly’s complex wings, I feel Roman’s presence behind me. Surrounded by his heat and his scent.
“What’s that?” he bites out.
“Duh,” I fire back. “A butterfly.”
“Sofi, please don’t insult my intelligence. Or vision. What kind of butterfly is it?”
The acid tone of his voice scares me. I wonder if he’s drunk, but I don’t smell the stench of alcohol anywhere close to me.
Steeling myself, I say, “It’s a—”
Like a judge banging his gavel, he cuts me off. “I don’t give a flying fuck what kind it is. I hate it!”
My heart aches. How could anyone hate butterflies? Can he possibly be on drugs?
His working eye stays on it as he moves beside me. “It’s ugly as shit!”
He’s out of his mind! There’s no such thing as an ugly butterfly. The two words don’t belong in the same sentence, let alone next to each other. My eyes burn with tears. To my horror, he snatches my jar of paint and pours it all over my creation, obliterating all the hours of detailed work I’ve put into it.
“Roman, what are you doing?” I cry out as he madly empties one jar after another on the bolt of fabric I’m decorating, creating an apocalyptic canvas that shares nothing with the beauty of butterflies.
“Stop!” I shout at the top of my lungs, trying to grab the jar of paint he’s clutching out of his hand. My force is no match for his strength. He continues to desecrate the fabric as I watch. Helpless and sickened.
To my relief, he flings the last jar onto the drafting table. Clink and then it skitters. Is he done? Oh God, please. I hope so.
He’s not. On my next breath, he snatches the paintbrush I’m holding and snaps it in half. My heart cracks with it. Then, in a fit of rage, he snaps one brush after another apart, hurling the wood fragments to the floor.
“What’s wrong with you, Roman? How could you do this?” I sob out. Is he having some kind of psychotic breakdown?
Suddenly, he stops. Glumly, he looks down at the damage he’s caused, his one eye hooded, his jaw slack.
“I’m sorry, Butterfly,” he mumbles, the rasp of his voice barely audible.
I join his somber gaze, tentacles of tears fanning from my eyes. I’m a very forgiving person, but this time in my splintered heart, there’s no room for forgiveness.
“Fuck you, Roman!” My blaring, enraged voice counters his soft, repentant one.
That’s right. Fuck him! The bastard’s torn me apart. Shredded my heart. Devastated my work. But there’s one thing he hasn’t destroyed and that’s my dignity. Letting it propel me to my feet, I leap up from my chair and flee the atelier, drowning in hot tears. Leaving him frozen in shock.
I’ve had enough of his emotional and physical abuse. His treating people like shit. How much can one person take? My blood bubbling with a bitter mixture of rage and hurt, I blindly run up the backstairs to my room.
About to turn the doorknob, I notice through my scalding tears that the door to the room between mine and Roman’s is slightly ajar. Always locked, I’ve never been inside it. Once at breakfast, I asked Madame DuBois about it and she blanched, telling me in an unusually stern voice to stay away—to never go inside. The first thing that came to mind was that Roman used it as a refuge and kept kinky sex toys inside it. In my imagination, I pictured a darkened room filled with all sorts of bondage things like whips, handcuffs, and other body restraints. With a shudder, I immediately changed the subject, not wanting to know more.
Stay away. DO. NOT. ENTER.Madame DuBois’s warning lights up in my mind like a neon sign. Should I or shouldn’t I? Curiosity wins. Hesitantly, I make my way to the unlocked room like someone who’s about to dive into an icy cold ocean. A sliver of light peeks through the crack as apprehension clings to me.
Looking over my shoulder to see if anyone has followed me, I push the door open. My eyes grow wide and I audibly gasp.
It’s a nursery!