Chapter 1
Aston
Dear diary,
Today’s the day I earn my wings.
We’ll see how long this lasts…
XOXO
-A
AUGUST
The Eastern Tailed-Blue.
Cupido comyntas.
No bigger than the tip of my finger, their light blue gossamer wings flutter over the foliage growing along the chain-link fence.
Distinguished from their other blue brethren by white threadlike tails on their hindwings, these little guys are also known for being one of the few species of butterflies that actually flock to humanity. Thriving in areas others would consider disturbed; dangerous and inhabitable.
Sadly, by the time most tailed-blues reach adulthood, they’ll have lost their itty-bitty tails.
Including the one currently holding my attention—a male, as evidenced by its shimmery, rainbow-like sheen when the wings catch on sunlight—fluttering over the patch of weeds and white wildflowers before me.
Pity, I muse, wondering how it happened. If the tails withered away due to wear…or if some cruel, awful predator ripped them off in an attack.
Seated with my legs crossed like a pretzel a couple inches away, overgrown grass and weeds curling up around me, I narrow my eyes thoughtfully on the critter, head cocked to the side.
Did they try to hold him down?
Was he scared?
Did it…hurt?
A breeze blows through, making my hair and the butterfly’s wings dance. It’s a much-needed relief from the muggy, stagnant afternoon heat. As is the flickering shade provided by the trees creeping over the brick wall keeping me in.
Not that I’m complaining. Winter will be here all too soon, which means no more butterflies for five long months. Maybe only four if global warming is on our side, and spring arrives early, breathing new life into their summer home as it welcomes these fragile creatures back north.
Not like you’ll still be here, a voice in my head sings, prompting a smile to creep up my face.
No siree, I’ll have a garden of my own to tend to by then, along with a whole new host of butterflies to befriend and give forever homes to.
Not to mention, I’ll no longer have to deal with—
As if conjured by that train of thinking, a loud buzzing sound echoes across the enclosed yard, coming from the brown brick fortress behind me.
Time’s up, buttercup.
With a bittersweet sigh, I slowly extend my hand, approaching the butterfly still lingering by a patch of white petals. “Hey, little buddy,” I whisper under my breath, beckoning it with a curl of my finger.
Its glimmering blue wings twitch a little harder, like it’s readying for lift-off, and I freeze. Watching. Waiting. Holding my breath. Somewhere overhead, a crow caws. Leaves rustle. A car drives by beyond the trees, bass thumping rhythmically as it whooshes past.
Maybe it’s deaf, I think, when the butterfly doesn’t seem to be startled by all the ruckus. It just shifts side to side, swooping when the wings catch on another breeze.
“That’s it,” I murmur, inching forward. “Come to Daddy.”
My mouth ticks up as the butterfly crawls up my first knuckle. Gently, slowly, so as not to disturb it, I lift my hand to eye-level. Sunlight flickers over its glimmering blue wings, highlighting its gray interwoven threads.
“Gotcha,” I say, smiling.
And in a move too quick for the butterfly to sense, I bring my other hand up, and with well-practiced ease and precision, I pinch its thorax between my thumb and pointer finger, crushing his little itty-bitty heart, snuffing the itty-bitty life out of him.
“It’s okay,” I coo quietly. “Quick and painless, right?” I admire its petrified body. The taut, yet slackened wings fanned out from its narrow, flattened core.
Pride and relief puff up my chest. Perfect.
“Yo, James, pick up the pace before they yeet your ass back into the pit.”
I stiffen. Fucking Marshall.
Snapping my head around, I bare my teeth at him as I emphasize, “It’s Saint James.”
Marshall knocks shoulders with Vinny, one of his brainless lackeys. “Nothin’ saint-like about this one.” They both snicker and curl their fingers over their head, making the sign of devil horns.
Seriously?
“That wasn’t what Vinny was saying when I was sucking his dick last week.”
They both freeze at my words. Vinny’s face turns beet red, and he sputters, “Wh-what? Fuck you, fag. I’d nev—”
“Daniels,” someone barks. “Kline. Get inside.”
Vinny shoots me a glare before shuffling away. Marshall gives me one last scathing once-over and spits at the ground, before following suit.
I roll my eyes and turn away. The nerve of some people.
“Aston…” a deep familiar voice warns.
“I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” I mumble.
Unlike the other patients here, most of the orderlies call me by my first name, and it’s not because I’ve blown several of them.
It’s just less of a mouthful than St. James, I suppose.
I’ve also been here longer than most, so we’re practically family.
A somewhat kinky one, but a family, nonetheless.
Plus, at least Aston is the name I was given at birth. St. James was only bestowed upon me because that was the name of the church where I was dumped as a baby.
In nothing more than the blanket embroidered with my name and a bright red rosary placed atop my chest, I became known as Aston St. James, ward of the state of Pennsylvania.
And a ward I’ve been since. Something I don’t see changing anytime soon, despite what today is.
Climbing to a stand, I take great care not to lose my new little friend or break his wings as I slip him up my sleeve, letting him rest just over my fluttering pulse-point. I make sure to tuck my thumb inside the fabric, cinching it around the heel of my palm, securing him.
Many a friend haven’t survived this trip in the past, what with having to hide my treasures in my sleeves, fists, pockets, or mouth in order to transfer them safely to my room.
Not that dead butterflies are considered contraband, technically—at least to my knowledge—but I figure it’s best not to draw attention to myself.
I’m sure Dr. Zahiri—Ashwood’s on-call pediatric psychiatrist, and the bane of my sheltered existence—wouldn’t look too kindly on my little hobby after all the so-called progress I’ve made.
Some people just have no appreciation for the arts!
Bruce, one of the orderlies who I don’t actually despise, waits for me wearing a dull look of impatience. As usual, I’m the last straggler, but for once, it’s not because I’m dreading going back inside.
No, today I’m saying goodbye.
Fluttering my fingers over weeds and bushes sprouting up from the ground, breathing in the fresh air tinged with sickly sweet pungent notes from the dump down the road…
Fare thee well, dear friends.
Plus, even if I wasn’t getting released today, it’s not like I’d be sent to the pit—AKA the south wing, where they house the padded rooms among other super fun things—for something as innocent as stalling.
You only get sent there when you do something really, really bad.
Or just need a little alone time to…decompress.
But more often than not, when you misbehave, they’ll just stick a needle in your tush and carry you off to your room for a little reboot. Siesta a la booty juice. Less resources used up that way.
But the other patients floating in and out of this place don’t know that.
It would seem not just the asylum’s reputation, but my own, often precedes us—how, I have no idea, but I don’t bother trying to change their minds.
Fear offers far more protection in a place like this than anything else.
Especially when you’re a scrawny, skinny thing like me, standing at only five-seven with little to no muscle mass.
And it’s not like I can’t be as bad as they think. It’s not like their fears are totally unfounded. It’s not like they didn’t prove as much when they were foolish enough to test me….
These days, though, I’d just much rather have people know what I’m capable of, than risk jeopardizing my freedom now that I’m finally eighteen.
“Aston. Stop dragging your feet. I have places to be.”
I peek up through my lashes to find Bruce holding the door open, watching my approach with a knowing look on his rugged face.
Not exactly handsome, but better-looking than some of the other orderlies.
He’s also one of the nice ones. Gentle, even if he has to pretend to be all stern and scary when the others are around.
“Today’s my birthday.”
“Happy birthday,” he responds flatly.
“Did you get me anything?”
“No.”
I release a dramatic sigh. “I’ll let it slide this time, Brucey, given the circumstances.
” Stopping directly in front of him, I tilt my head, biting my lip.
“You’re gonna miss me, aren’t you?” His jaw tenses, eyes darkening as I drag a finger down his barrel chest. “Because I’m sure gonna miss you,” I croon, pushing up on my toes, arching into him.
He flushes, and quickly steps to the side, clearing of his throat. “Let's go, Aston.” Making a point to look anywhere but at me, he gestures for me to walk ahead.
Whistles and stomping greet us inside when we cut through the rec room. The television is on, playing some football game that seems to have nearly my entire second floor cohort in a tizzy.
“Hey, Ass-ton,” someone yells out, taking great care to make sure everyone hears the way he emphasizes my name. I glance over to find it’s none other than Jude, my long-time arch-nemesis who’s been a patient here almost as long as I have. Why am I not surprised?
He smirks, while the others cackle and howl as if what he said is the most original thing since sliced bread.
Puh-lease.
While the other orderlies converge on the room before things escalate and someone has a cow because of all the noise, Bruce squeezes my shoulder in one of his big meaty hands, giving me a little shove to keep going.