Paper Butterflies. Lisa Heathfield

from his bag. It’s a small pot, and when he cracks the lid off it I can smell that it’s paint. Cherry passes him a brush and he dips it in. I thrash my head from side to side, but I can’t get away.

      The white paint is wet and cold on my cheeks. Ryan brushes it over my forehead, across my chin and over my mouth. The chalky taste drips on to my tongue.

      They hold my legs down as they brush the skin on my arms, painting me white.

      When the pot is empty, Ryan drops it into the bin.

      ‘You look like your albino friend now.’

      He turns his back on me and I hear the faucet turn on and the water splashing into the sink, as he cleans his hands. Lauren and Cherry get up and clean their hands too, while I lie motionless on the floor.

      Ryan looks back at me before he goes.

      ‘A big improvement,’ he says.

      They’re gone.

      It’s totally quiet.

      I look up at the ceiling, at the squares of foam bricks held together with strips of metal. I could lie here forever.

      A noise outside makes me scramble to my feet. Two younger girls come in and they scream when they see me and run out giggling.

      I won’t look in the mirror. I won’t see what they’ve done to me. I won’t see myself as their dream of white. I’m my mom’s colour and I always will be and that’s what I want to be.

      I turn on the faucet that Ryan touched and let the water wash over my arms. My skin comes back. I scrub at my face and work the paint from strands of my hair. I rub some wet tissues over my legs, until every last speck of the stinking white has gone.

      And, just like my mom, I hold my head high, push open the door and go to face them.

      Megan and I go into the kitchen and Kathleen is here. She has her apron on, tied round her neck and her waist. She turns to us and her face lights up when she sees Megan.

      ‘Beautiful girl,’ she says as she hugs her. ‘Did you have a good day?’

      ‘I got chosen for the soccer team,’ Megan says proudly.

      ‘My clever girl.’ Kathleen takes Megan’s bag and coat from her and brushes past me as she goes to hang them in the hall.

      I wait. I don’t know why. It’s the same every day. Every day, I wait and hope that it’ll change, that she’ll notice me. That I’ll be beautiful enough for her to say hello to. And clever enough to get a hug.

      ‘Tell me about it,’ she says to Megan, and she pulls out a chair so that her daughter can sit down. She pours her a glass of orange juice and passes her the bowl of yoghurt and apple she’s already prepared.

      I walk back into the hallway and hang up my coat and bag. I take off my shoes and put them neatly on the shelves before I go up the stairs.

      One day, I’ll shout and scream that I exist. One day, they’ll know I’m here.

      In my bedroom, the two chocolate muffins sit on my desk, as usual. I sit and eat, because if I throw them away, she’ll know.

      Maybe my dad will come back early. They’ll cancel his night away and he’ll be walking up our path in time for supper. I watch the gate through the window until my eyes start to blur. He’s not here. He doesn’t come.

      So I curl up on my bed and wait.

      ‘It’s dinner time,’ Megan calls up the stairs.

      I’m not hungry, but I know I have to go.

      The smell of Kathleen’s cooking comes up towards me and I push through it as I walk down.

      In the kitchen, they’re already sitting at the table. I look from one to the other, but they both ignore me as I sit down. Megan has an expression on her face that I can’t read. They have bowls of freshly made stew in front of them. In my place, there’s a plate of something different.

      ‘Eat up, June,’ Kathleen smiles at me. She has that look in her eyes and now I can smell that she’s given me dog food.

      I look towards the door, but my dad is not there.

      ‘I can’t,’ I whisper.

      ‘You will,’ Kathleen says.

      They pick up their forks and begin to eat.

      I sit as still as a stone. Maybe if I don’t move, I’ll disappear.

      I can hear the sounds of their mouths chewing their food. Their forks scrape to pick up more mouthfuls.

      Suddenly, Kathleen stands up. She grabs my hair and forces open my mouth.

      ‘You will eat,’ she says, so quietly. ‘I’ve prepared this for you, so you will eat.’

      She shovels some on to a spoon and pulls my head back. I want to scream with the pain, but I have to keep my mouth shut.

      The lumps of wet meat are at my lips and she’s trying to force them in. No no no no no. I’m stronger than you. I won’t let you.

      ‘Megan, hold her nose.’ Kathleen sounds so calm, yet my head is ringing with terror.

      Megan hesitates. It’s enough to make Kathleen turn on her.

      ‘Now,’ she says coldly.

      Megan gets up. She squeezes my nostrils shut so tight that my eyes water.

      And I have to breathe. I have no choice. The food meant for dogs is forced into my mouth. I gag at the feel of it. I don’t want to swallow it, but my throat jolts and it slips down.

      Kathleen spoons more in again, until my mouth is full.

      ‘You need some water,’ Megan says, and she lets go of my nose and grabs for a glass and there’s water mixing with the dog food and spilling down my cheeks and squeezing down my throat. I’m thrashing out and Megan looks suddenly terrified. She knows I’m finding it hard to breathe.

      ‘Mom,’ she says weakly.

      Kathleen lets me go. My eyes are burning. My throat is numb.

      I rush away from them, my school shirt wet, my mouth still full of the runny lumps.

      I get to the bathroom before they can catch me and I put my fingers down my throat and retch and retch until my stomach is empty.

      The smell of my vomit keeps filling the air.

AFTER

      ‘But at what point is a child to blame?’ Reverend Shaw asks.

      ‘Megan knew what she was doing,’ I reply.

      ‘Did she?’ he asks gently. ‘I wonder really whether she knew. Or whether she had any control over it at all.’

      His words are taking me to a place I don’t want to be, a time I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to think about how it could have been. I try instead to concentrate on the flowers that he’s brought in from outside.

      ‘I’m glad you’re not choosing my wedding flowers,’ I say lightly.

      ‘Church decoration isn’t my strong point,’ he smiles. But he knows that I’m trying to take the conversation far away.

      ‘People do strange things when they’re scared,’ he tells me.

      ‘Megan wasn’t really scared.’

      ‘She was a child too,’ Reverend Shaw says. ‘A very lost one, I should imagine. You wouldn’t have been the only person frightened of Kathleen. Any child living under her roof would have been terrified at times.’

      ‘So Megan could just do what she wanted? And get away with it all?’