Page 9 of Vicious Butterfly
Rosaline huffs. “Men. It figures. I wish I had sisters.”
She leaves, slamming the door, and I can finally turn my attention to Griffon. He makes stressed motions with his hands and body language I’ve learned to read. I’ll be the first to admit it, I didn’t respond well when he first stopped talking.
He was diagnosed with selective mutism. That’s what they called it anyway, but the term has never sat right with me. It makes it sound like Griff chooses not to speak, like he could talk if he wanted to.
But his brain literally has his voice on lockdown. The pathway is blocked. Something inside him decided that speakingwas unsafe. The first therapist never pushed him. Trust would come first, words second. Father didn’t have the patience for that. After a year, he switched Griff’s therapist.
We were told that the sign language Rosaline and I had learned would delay his recovery. That we shouldn’t let him write things down. Every accommodation was outlawed by the new therapist.
Such fucking bullshit, but Father liked what that therapist had to say better than the last, even though Griff got quieter. It was as if it stopped being about what was best for him, and Father was out to punish him.
It was hell for a while, but Rosaline and I found other ways to understand Griffon when we had to, still signing with him in private. Over the years, he’s spoken to Rosaline and me when he feels safe, but even then, he prefers not to use his voice.
Doesn’t mean he can’t communicate.
Making my way over to him, I grip his chin gently so I can take a look at the damage. Sweat streaks his glossy red hair and blood runs in wet ribbons over his freckles. I should kill that asshole. He’s getting fucking fired, that’s for sure. Griffon lets me look for a quick minute, but then he shoves my hands away.
“Are you okay?”
He shakes his head so hard that the longer pieces of his red hair on the top of his head shake with him, making a floppy halo. He points to the suitcase again.
“I know.” The words scrape against my throat. “I’m sorry, Griff. This is my fault. Father did this to keep me in line.”
I’m a fucking failure generally, but I hate that I’ve failed him in the worst way possible. The shame coiling around my insides is as suffocating as that damn jacket. I should have done more. I shouldn’t have let this happen.
But maybe I have let Father break me. Maybe it’s crept up on me day by day, year by year. All the little things I accepted.All the times I did what I was told without argument, even though I really didn’t fucking want to. My agency eroded in the background, so gradually I hadn’t noticed the loss.
Griffon nods grimly. He gestures at my appearance—the robe, my damp hair—as if to say,So, were you out whoring yourself around?
I smirk. “I wasn’t out. Wish that were the case if I’m honest. Would have been a lot better than where I was.”
Griffon puffs out his cheeks. Sometimes he’ll use sign language—when Father’s not around—and other times he’ll send text messages or write things down. But my favorite is when he gets expressive. A dramatic eye roll. A long-suffering sigh. Something exaggerated in his lips. Unique Griffon quirks, and I’ve come to understand every single one of them.
“Yeah, I was in the tank.”
His eyes well with tears that spill over, joining with the blood, leaving wet red trails down his cheeks.
“Hey, it’s okay. Don’t worry, alright? I mean, look at me—you think anyone’s taking me out with a little cold-water therapy? Nah.”
He wipes the tears with the edge of his palms, nodding, but no way he fucking believes me.
I take a step, moving toward him. The room spins, and Griff catches me. This is fucked. I’m supposed to look after him, not the other way around. But it looks like I’m still human, and I’ve reached the limits of my mortal form or some shit.
Griffon helps me onto the bed, eyes pinched with concern.
“I’m just tired,” I insist. “Get the hoodies from your closet. We’ll wear them in protest as we get you packed.” I won’t even get to travel to school with him. He’ll be a freshman, aka a plebe. They have to attend a special training camp that starts a week before my classes begin. He’s still got a few weeks before he has to leave, though. Why’s Father making him pack so soon?
I yawn despite my best protests. A sad smile spreads onto his face.
“Don’t do that, Griff.” I yawn again.
Sleep, he signs.
My heavy eyelids close without my permission, but I force them open. “Not till you get the shirts.”
Fucking stubborn, he signs with the facial expressions to match. He heads off to get the hoodies while my eyes fight to close, sleep threatening to take me under. Not now. I can sleep later.
I was so sure Shadowridge was a go for him that I bought us Shadowridge U hoodies. I teased him that he’d be at my rival college, and that we’d be sworn enemies for the year. He pointed out that at least he wouldn’t be playing hockey. My brother’s an outstanding hockey player, but he elected not to play in college. But, yeah, if he did play for Shadowridge, we’d be ice rivals, too.
