It has been seven long years since I was last in this town. Seven years spent hidden away in hospitals and institutions where I was monitored and observed. Seven years in which I talked with earnestness about me, and what drives me to do what I do. Seven wasted years of psychoanalysis and treatment for my condition.

What is my condition? You tell me, I certainly do not know. All I know is what I have been told over these seven years. What I have taken in through my drug-fogged brain, that I am a self-abuser, a damaged mind with a determination to do harm to myself. A basket case in short. I could have told them that, but why do I do it? That is something none of us knows.

Seven years ago it started. I was thirteen and beginning to grow. My mother, who was so uncomfortable in her puritanical, narrow-minded little world with such words as puberty and hormones, euphemistically referred to my changes as growth spurts. When I think back now, even the word spurts had a believed or imagined connotation to it that made her uncomfortable. She was never comfortable with sex. God alone knows how her and my father ever managed to get it together to produce me. I imagine they probably did it by polite letters. Now that conjures up some strange images. Best not go there.

I was a normal child. Well, as normal as any child could be coming from my family. We attended a Church that was so grievously anti-sex that it even had edited versions of the bible, where any begetting was edited out to read acquiring. So, that was it. I was acquired. Figures I suppose. Sex was never mentioned in our house or out of it for that matter. Even my friends were vetted for suitability. I was only allowed to play with certain children. The children of others from our Church.

Then it began. It started slowly and I cannot remember exactly what triggered it. That is part of what my shrinks have been trying to uncover all these years. I began to hurt myself. At school was the first time I remember consciously doing it. I cut my arm badly with a craft knife in art class. Of course, my teacher thought it an accident, but one of my few friends later told them that she had seen me roll up my sleeve and cut myself with the knife. It had taken her a few weeks to confess. Poor kid was scared half out of her mind by what I did. Then it started to get worse, as did my behaviour in general.

The doctor asked me why I had hurt myself like I did? But all I would say was that I didn’t do it. It was someone else. Not someone else physically harming me, but someone else all together who was hurting themselves. I was in denial of what I was doing.

My mother had to watch me like a hawk. We would be in the kitchen, preparing dinner and she would turn her back on me for a second, and the next thing she knew, there was blood all over the floor and I was stood there with a kitchen knife in my hand and my wrist bleeding.

It really freaked her out when I did it. I often wonder if that was why I did it. To get to her. Not to hurt her, but to get her to love me, to notice me. She was such a cold fish and showed me no affection, other than an occasional light peck on the cheek at bedtime. Never a warm embrace or hug. My father was just as bad, you would think I had some terrible disease the way he avoided touching me.

I remember once getting out of the bath, putting a towel around me and going to the living room where he was reading his paper in front of the fire. I tried to climb into his lap for a hug, but when he saw me, mostly naked with the towel around me, he flipped, throwing me to the floor and jumping up like I had poured boiling water into his lap or something. God, I was only six years old.

There are some things I remember with happiness about my life before hospital. Even though my friends were chosen for me, they were good friends and we had a great time together. In particular I remember Susanna Morris. She lived up on the hill, a good half-mile from our house. I remember her with particular clarity, but it was her father who sticks out more in my mind. We used to call him “The Butterfly Man.”

We would go to Susanna’s house, about five of us from Church, where we would play and have fun like kids are supposed to. Her father was widowed and he was much less authoritarian than my folks. He was a kind man. He gave us lemonade on hot days, something my parents never did. He would let us play inside the house on cold days, my mother could not tolerate five little girls running around the house getting things out of place and messing up her rugs. But most of all, I remember the butterflies.

In his cellar, he had what seemed to my young eyes, hundreds of display cases with butterflies pinned to green baize backing. The colours were incredible. Each one was neatly labelled with its Latin name and genus and its more common name beneath it. Benches were filled with the paraphernalia of his hobby. Jars and tools, each one laid out with care, everything had a place and it was always so neat and tidy down there.

Susanna would invite us round to play, but we would nearly always end up in the cellar with her father, watching him as he mounted a new specimen or gazing on in childish admiration as he tended to his caterpillars and chrysalis.

He would tell us about how butterflies were born. How each one laid eggs on different plants and leaves. How the egg became a caterpillar and eventually, when full of food, it would become a chrysalis and go into stasis, only to be reborn and emerge as the beautiful butterfly that he had in the jar before us. I loved going there.

One day, I asked him why he had to kill them? Why didn’t he just keep them in the wire cages he had made for them? He laughed at my stupid question and threw his arm around me and gave me a hug. Probably the only time a grown up had ever hugged me spontaneously like that. I wanted it to go on forever, never to stop. I wanted him to be my real dad and to hug me like that everyday of my life.

He explained to me how certain butterflies only live for a few days, some only for hours and how some lived for months, even a year or more. He took me over to the

wire cages were a vast variety of coloured wings fluttered around from leaf to leaf. He pointed to the bottom of the cage where two or three butterflies lay on the bottom, for all the world like they were asleep. They were in fact dead. He opened the cage with care and took them out.

“You see, Rebecca. The butterflies I have die naturally, I don’t have to kill them. Some collectors put them in a jar with ether to kill them painlessly, but mine just die of old age. Then I take them out and mount them in the cases.” I looked at the dead butterflies and wondered how old they were. I wondered if they did the same with old people some place. When they died, did they put them in glass box and display them for their families? I told Mister Morris and he laughed again, giving me another hug.

He carried them to his workbench and set them out for displaying. We were alone, as the others had become bored with watching and wanted to play upstairs. He gently spread their dead wings and pinned them to the baize in a half-empty case. He had labels ready and stuck them in with all the care of a surgeon attending a human patient.

I loved to watch him work with his beautiful butterflies.

There was also the time when I was at their house and Susanna and I were in the cellar with her father. He went upstairs to get something and he called Susanna to come up as well, leaving me alone down there.

I went to the wire cages and watched as the butterflies flitted around inside. I realised that they had the butterfly equivalent of the easy life here. No predators trying to eat them, just as much as they wanted to eat and then a nice quite death and then preserved for posterity in a glass case. I opened the door to one of the cage to put my hand inside, as I had seen Mister Morris do. I wanted the butterflies to land on my hand the way they did on his, as if they knew he meant them no harm and they loved him for it, like I loved him for hugging me like he did. But it didn’t work like that.

As soon as I opened the cage door, I realised it was a stupid thing to do. The majority of the butterflies flew straight out and took off around the cellar. I almost yelped with surprise when they did that, and I tried to catch them and put them back again, but I forgot to close the cage door and more escaped.

By the time Mister Morris came back again, I was crying because of what I had done. I thought he would send me home in disgrace. But no, he just laughed gently. Closing the cellar door, he began to collect them all up with a small net and he put them back in the cage. Once he had them all safe and sound, he came to me and knelt down. He took out a handkerchief and dried my tears telling me it was OK, that I shouldn’t cry, it was an accident. I felt so stupid that I cried even more. He reached out and took me in his arms and gave me the biggest hug ever until I stopped crying.

But that was all seven years ago. Since then I have been in hospitals all over the state. My parents were not rich or well insured for that matter, so my medical care was in some pretty rough places.

After I began to hurt myself, a string of doctors examined me and talked to me. They wanted to know why I did it. My arms were now a mass of crossing scar tissue where I kept on cutting myself. Then I started to behave badly. It started out with small things, like peeing my pants in class or taking my clothes off outside in the street. But it got a lot worse. I started to hurt other kids, I became a bully and I was banned from playing with my few Church friends, all except Susanna Morris, her dad still let me come to their house and play with her. She was the only one I did not try and hurt for some reason. Then I really did the big number.

It was just before Christmas one year. My mother convinced my father to get a tree for the house. In years gone by he had always refused, saying it was a pagan ritual and not at all the Christian thing to do. But one of the elders of the Church proclaimed it OK to have a tree for the symbolic value, and that we could, if we tried hard, imagine it to be the cross on which our Lord had died. So, we had a tree that year. I don’t doubt that the change in heart had something to do with the fact that the Church elder’s brother-in-law had the concession to sell Christmas trees that year.

Dad did not get any lights for it, but he did get candles and holders. He said that lights and tinsel were not appropriate and that candles were his limit for decorations. He set it all up and we lit the candles. It was, for the first year ever, something like a real Christmas. I rushed around and put the scant few gifts I had received under the tree. My father did not approve of that either, but he let me do it when he saw that look in my eyes. He didn’t want to spend Christmas day at the hospital while they stitched me up again.

We went to bed and dad put the candles out for the night.

I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to see the tree again, and so I got out of bed and went downstairs. In the living room stood the Christmas tree. I did not want to turn on the lights, in case my mother or father should wake up and see the light from downstairs and come to investigate what was going on. I found the box of matches that my father used to light the candles with and I took one out.

I held it between trembling fingers and struck it, the acrid smell of burning sulphur assailed my nostrils. I wondered if this is what Hell smelled like? Fire and brimstone for all eternity.

I reached out gingerly to light just one of the candles. I had to see the magic of the tree lit up again. I lit one, then I thought, why not light another. So I did, then another and another and then another match and then I had all the candles lit.

I stood back to see the tree in all its splendour. I was entranced by it, I had never seen anything so wonderful in all my life, maybe with the exception of the butterflies.

Then I heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs and my farther calling out, asking who was downstairs this time of night?

I panicked and rushed to the tree, frantically trying to blow the candles out before he got to the room. I stumbled and fell into the tree, knocking it over. It only took seconds really. Some of the drier branches of the tree caught and then the sticky sap began to burn and flared up, so the curtains caught as well. Soon the windows were on fire, the tree began to burn as well.

My father ran into the room and cried out in alarm.

He rushed to the kitchen and came back with a bowl of water, which he threw on the tree, dousing the worst of the flames. I was paralysed with fear because of what I had done, I was rooted to the spot as he ran back to the kitchen for more water. Once the fire was out and my mother had come down to see what the fuss was all about, they turned their attentions to me.

My father had never really struck me before. I believed it was because it would mean having to touch me that he didn’t do it. But his time there was no such illusion.

He gave me the thrashing of a lifetime. His worries about spending Christmas in the hospital with me were soon to be a reality. I think now that if my mother had not pulled him off of me, he would have killed me.

He did manage to break my arm though, and I ended up in County Hospital for Christmas day.

While I was in hospital, I cut myself again. I broke a glass and cut my face with it. This was really the deciding moment.

I had doctors in with me everyday. Shrinks, normal doctors even the police came to see me and then they told me that once I was better, I would have to go to another hospital for a while. Just until they found out why I kept hurting myself like I did.

The rest as they say, is history. I spent the next seven years in one institution or another, being examined and questioned and drugged until they decided I was a hopeless case.

A year after they took me away, my father died. The cancer that took him was a quick death, thankfully for him. It was diagnosed and within three months he was dead, leaving my mother alone in that big old house. She stopped coming to visit me after that. I suppose she blamed me for everything that happened, but I didn’t care anymore. As long as she left me alone I was happy.

Then last year, she died too. The official cause was heart failure. The doctor that examined her and who issued the death certificate was a member of our Church, and he hushed up the fact that the heart failure was brought on by the massive overdose of pills she had taken. Suicide was frowned upon almost as much as sex within our Church, so they decided to reduce the stigma of having a member, a respected member, kill herself. A nice clean godly death was what was needed.

On hearing the news, I don’t really remember how I felt. I think relief was foremost in my mind, but it did not register as that at the time. The doctors kept a very careful watch on me for several weeks afterwards. I was now deemed to be at high risk of doing myself serious injury. But I never did. If anything I began to feel better and to get better too. I was morose and depressed in hospital, but my personality lifted and I began to take an interest in life again.

So now, a year on, they have let me out. Back into the community to become as one doctor put it, “A valuable member of society again.” What a pile of BS.

I came back to the town where I grew up, as I really had no other place to go. Remember I had been in hospitals for the last seven years of my life. I grew up from age thirteen in hospital and I had no social skills, other than dealing with doctors and nurses. I had no job, no prospects of one and I had missed a great part of my education. So, coming back here, where I had inherited the house that we all used to live in together was the only viable option for me.

I had support from the Church. They wanted me back in it I suppose. They helped me get settled in and they gave me second-hand furniture and some money to keep me going, but once I made it clear that I had no intention of coming back into the fold, they soon lost interest in me. Now here I am. Alone and living in this house, where the memories of a dead past life still linger in the very fabric of the building. But what else do I have?

I was left a very modest inheritance in financial terms, but I get support from other areas as well. I still have to see a doctor on a regular basis, you know, in case I start to do it again. But it is not that bad. He has even come to the conclusion that hypnotherapy might be good for me. He thinks that now I am out of hospital, I might be more receptive to treatment. A way to resolve some of the issues that are obviously still haunting me. I think I am beginning to agree with him. I do not know what made me hurt myself like I did, but I sure would like to find out, so as it can’t happen again.

This is a small town and people have small minds but they also have long memories. My return has started a wave of half stares from across the street, murmured comments when I pass by. The usual stuff you would expect from people who’s own lives are so dull and tedious that they seek whatever refreshing entertainment they can in the misfortunes of others. The Germans even have a word for it. They call it Schädenfreuder. I can almost hear what they are saying, in my own mind.

There she goes, that’s her. The self-abuser. They sent here away because she was mad. It killed her father and mother, and now she’s back here.

I don’t really care all that much what they say, as long as they leave me be to get on with my life.

I have started to renovate the house. I say renovate, but that is misleading. I have put up new curtains and such like. I can tell you, hanging curtains on that window in the living room was not an easy task. I can still smell the smoke and the resinous stink of burning pinesap. But it has to be done, it is a kind of therapy in itself, out with the old and in with the new. But in truth I am only fooling myself into believing it is different. It will still be their house and it will always have an overwhelming feel of them about it. I will just have to learn to live with that.

I was in the local hardware store the other day, buying paint. I don’t know if it is my subconscious at work here, but I swear I can still see the black and charred wood around the window frame. I want to give it another coat of paint to cover it up. That way I can be sure it is gone forever.

I was heading for the counter when I saw him. My heart jumped a beat. It was Mister Morris, the only person in this town that I remember with anything approaching affection.

We got to the counter at the same time and he placed his purchases down and took out his money. I placed mine beside his, but I said nothing. I was waiting for him to turn and see me. I wanted him to be the first to speak. I wanted to be able to judge his reaction at seeing me. If he was warm and friendly as he always was, then everything would be fine. But if he was cold and distant, like the others here, then I would at least know where I stood.

He turned and saw me and his smiled a distant, but polite smile. The kind of smile you give to a total stranger. I then realised that the last time he had seen me, I was thirteen years old. I was now twenty, and fully-grown. Of course he did not recognise me. Why should he?

I felt a little foolish, so I paid for my paint and left the store to head on home.

I was walking along when a voice behind me suddenly broke my train of thought.

“Rebecca, is that you?” I stopped dead in my tracks. I recognised the voice at once. It was the only voice of an adult I can remember that ever spoke to me with genuine affection. I turned around to see Mister Morris stood there, a slightly embarrassed look on his face. He was obviously not sure it was me, and he must have felt a little foolish speaking to a perfect stranger like this. I smiled to put him at his ease and to assure him that his assumption was correct. I didn’t speak. I really didn’t know what to say to him after all this time.

He saved me from my dilemma by speaking for me.

“I thought it was you back there in the store. It didn’t register at first, you have grown so much since..since,” he hesitated. He was obviously uncomfortable with saying, since they took you away to the nut house all those years ago. I finished the sentence for him.

“Since I was at your place and I let all of your butterflies out of the cage?” I couldn’t help myself, I laughed a brief snorting kind of grunt and then I immediately regretted it. Mister Morris went a little red and I felt like a total pig for having done that to him. But he quickly recovered and laughed at the memory as well. “Yes, since you set my menagerie free that day.” We now both stood in the street, unable to think of anything to say to each other after seven years. What was there to say anyway? I had been a child the last time we met and now I was a woman. Two completely different entities, as alien to each other as god and the devil. Mister Morris was going a little red again, so I stepped in and saved the moment for him, for both of us.

“Look, I have to drop this paint off at home and do a few chores, why don’t you come over for coffee later on. Say, in about an hour?” His face brightened up. “Why yes, That would be very nice. Where are you living now?” he asked.

“At my parents old place. You remember where it is?” He nodded his head and smiled again. “See you in an hour then,” he said and turned to go to his car.

I hurried home and set my purchases down on the table. I felt suddenly very nervous at the prospect of having Mister Morris here. It was I suppose, something to do with the fact that I had never entertained anyone one before. You don’t tend to have much of a social life in hospital. I busied myself with tidying up as the house was still in a state of flux, what with me painting and changing things around, but it did not take long to make it presentable.

The hour passed very quickly and the smell of the coffee reminded me of the time and I set out cups on the table. When the doorbell rang, I nearly jumped ten feet in the air. It was the first time since I had been back that anyone other than Church people had been to see me. I wondered that Mister Morris had not heard about me being back before. He was a member of the Church after all. Talk like that spreads like wildfire amongst the righteous.

I let him in and showed him through to the kitchen. It felt like safe, neutral ground for us both to be on. He sat at the table and I poured coffee for us both and joined him.

He held his cup in his hands, warming them up against the cold that had permeated his flesh on the way here. It was the beginning of December and the wind could be vicious when it tore into you. Once he seemed to have warmed up a bit, we faced each other and smiled. It was an awkward moment, neither one of us knowing what to say exactly. Then he broke the ice.

“Rebecca, forgive me, but I think this needs to come out into the open right now, or we are just going to sit here and talk about the weather or something. I am really sorry for all that you have been through. It must have been an awful ordeal for you, all those years I hospital. I know what you did to yourself. I don’t suppose there that there is a single person in the whole town that does not know about that. Bad news like an illness travels fast. I just hope that you will be able to cope with the stupid people here when they get awkward when you try to speak to them. You will see their eyes going down to your arms, to see the scars. They won’t be able to look you in the eye and talk to you like a human being. To them, you will be some kind of freak, a possible source of danger to them. They don’t mean to be so cruel, but it is human nature. Try and forgive them now, before it eats you up with anger.”

I was astounded. I had not expected him to be so candid with me. But when I thought for a second, I realised that he was right. I had noticed the way in which people looked down at my arms whenever I had need to speak to them. I had noticed that some people could not wait to get away from me if they were forced to engage me in conversation. It all began to fall into place now. I think my body posture must have changed slightly, I think I must have slumped down, as the next thing was, I felt Mister Morris’ hand on my shoulder. I pulled back quickly, I was not so used to human contact that I was comfortable with it. The poor guy flinched almost as hard as I did at the physical rejection. I apologised and passed it off as being a knee jerk reaction to his touch and nothing personal, but he could see it in my eyes that there was more to it than that.

We sat for a moment in silence. I was the first to speak, as the lack of conversation was now drumming in my ears like a brass band. I asked about Susanna, his daughter and my one and only real friend here in town. His face became a pained mask of deep sorrow for a flickering second in time, but he regained his composure quickly.

“Susanna? She’s fine. She lives abroad now, someplace in Europe, can’t remember the name of the country. She does missionary work for the Church these days, though why they need missionaries in Europe is anyone’s guess. I suppose it is all about spreading the word.” He looked down into his cup and said no more on the matter of his daughter. Again, we hit the awkward silence of two people who do not really have much to say to each other.

“Do you still keep butterflies?” I asked, groping for a topic of conversation that would be acceptable to both of us. His face brightened up again at the mention of his hobby.

“Why yes, it is the only thing I have these days, since Susanna went away and of course her mother dying all those years ago. I doubt you would remember my wife, Jean. She died when you were only little. Yes, I still keep the butterflies and I have a huge collection now. I give them away to institutions and schools when they start to take up too much space. But I still have a quite a collection. You should come on over and see them sometime.” His invitation to come to his home made me sad. I remembered all those years ago, he was the only person who would allow me to play with his child. I could not go to other friend’s homes, as their parents disliked me for what I had become. A self-mutilating freak and a bully. I smiled at him and said I would love to come by sometime and see his collection. That seemed to signal and end to our meeting. He got up and made his excuses and left. I cleared away the cups and got on with my painting.

It was two days later that I had to go and see my doctor. He was a kindly man, much more understanding than the ones in the hospital, he allowed me to sit in silence if I wanted to, or he would let me talk my heart out if I felt so inclined to. He seemed to understand but like all the others, he could never really appreciate what it meant to be me. Even I didn’t know what it was that drove me to do to myself what I did. Today though, he was in a talkative mood. He had found a reputable hypnotherapist for me to go and see, one who would help regress me back to try and find the root cause of my problems. I suppose that my cynicism was written boldly all over my face. I never really was good at hiding emotions from other people. He sighed and put his pen down.

“I know Rebecca, you have heard all kinds of weird stuff about this type of treatment. You don’t really want to find out that you were Attila the Hun in a previous life, I understand, but that is not what this is all about.” I was grinning now at his joke. He was spot on with his assumption about my reluctance to see this new shrink. I had read about this type of treatment, where people are regressed to a supposed previous life. I thought it was all so much horse shit, but he was explaining the reality to me clearly and I found I was becoming interested.

“What the hypnotherapist does, is to put you into a hypnotic state and then they peel back the layers of your subconscious until they find the root of what it is that is making you sick. The mind is a strange world, one that we do not really understand, but it has a clever way of scabbing over events that we do not wish to or cannot deal with. The mind can hide the trauma of say, a road accident from a seriously injured person. It is a way in which to deal with what we cannot really cope with at the time. Come on Rebecca. Give it a try. I promise you, I would not suggest it unless I thought it had a chance of working, and let’s face it, we are going nowhere very fast with every other treatment we have tried. What do you say?” I thought for a while and then I agreed to his idea. After all, what did I have to loose?

He made a call and set up an appointment for me for the next day. It was an out of town address and so I would have to take the bus to get there. I went home and worked in the house until late. I made myself tired, as I knew I would not sleep otherwise. When I went to bed, it was very late and I was exhausted.

I heard the alarm ring, and I turned it off and rolled over and went back to sleep. I had intended to have an extra ten minutes, but when I woke again, I realised that I was going to be seriously late for my appointment. Jumping out of bed, I ran around and got ready. There wasn’t even time enough for more than a quick face wash, a shower was out of the question. Dressed and seriously stressed, I left the house and head for the bus stop.

When I got there, I saw the back of the bus just pulling away. As I said, this is a small town and the bus service is infrequent, so there went my chance of making my appointment. I cursed myself for being so stupid. I would have to go to the doctor and get the number for the therapist, as I did not have a phone at home. That was a luxury I could ill afford at the moment. I set out for the doctors when I saw Mister Morris drive past in his car. He saw me standing there and stopped in the road. Reversing back, he wound down his window and asked me if I needed a lift?

I leaned into the car and told him what had happened.

“Jump in, it just so happens that I am going your way anyway. Good fortune smiles on us both. You get to keep your appointment and I get some company on the drive.” I smiled and opened the door and got in. We set off again, me feeling like a fool and he smiling to himself for being the Good Samaritan.

On the way he talked of inconsequential things. The weather, how far Christmas was away, the price of bread. He seemed to me to be avoiding saying something and then I realised he was just curious as to why I was going to see the new doctor.

I had no problem with telling him everything. He listened as I told him about the hypnotherapy, but he said nothing. I told him that the doctor had said it was really the last resort to try and find out what was wrong with me. I told him what the doctor had said about the mind and how it can cover over events in your life that are too painful or too traumatic to deal with, and how the therapist can get to them and free them from your subconscious, allowing you to eventually deal with them and resolve them so as you could move on. I sounded like an advert for the damn doctor. I suppose I was just trying to convince myself that this would work. I didn’t know what I would do if it didn’t. I was afraid that I would one day go back to the way I was before. Mutilating myself for no reason I could pin down.

We were close now to the therapist’s place and Mister Morris spoke for the first time, other than talking about the price of bread.

“Rebecca, I don’t know if this will help any, but I do understand to some degree what you are going through. I felt much the same when Jean died. I couldn’t cope and I buried a lot of stuff deep down that I have never really managed to come to terms with. But if ever you feel it is all getting too much, you know you can talk to me don’t you?”

My reaction to this generous and selfless offer of help was an explosion of anger.

“How in the hell can you know what I am going through? Even I don’t know what its all about, so how could you possibly sympathise with me? How dare you presume to tell me that you know what it is that makes me the way I am. You know nothing about me, Jesus, even your own daughter has left you for a Church mission thousands of miles away. I have had my fill of people telling me they understand and how talking to them can help. You are all the same. You just want to hear the gory details to satisfy your morbid curiosity. You make me sick.” My outburst ended as quickly as it had come on. God alone knows what made me blow up like that, but I now felt very foolish and very embarrassed. I told him to stop the car and he pulled over, he was so shocked that he could not find words to say to me as I got out of his car and slammed the door. I walked off towards the therapists surgery leaving Mister Morris in his car, confused and upset at my vitriolic tirade against him. The poor man had no idea what he had done to make me explode at him like that.

I found the therapist’s office and spoke to his receptionist. She confirmed my appointment and told me to sit down and wait, that he would be with me soon. I sat and picked up a magazine to read. Try as I might, I could not focus on the words on the page, everything was a blur. Then I realised I was crying.

The receptionist called my name and told me to go along the corridor and to take the first door on the left. I found the room and knocked and went in.

Mister Peterson sat behind his modern desk and wrote something on a pad in front of him. He looked up at me and smiled as I came in and indicated for me to sit down. Once he had finished writing, he put his pen down and looked up at me.

He was about fifty or so years old, with a kind, if somewhat lived in face. My own doctor had told me he had been in the Navy for a long time and had seen service in some pretty terrible places. That was why he followed the profession he did now. He was an expert of dealing with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder through hypnotherapy.

He looked at me with a slightly puzzled frown.

“Been crying already? I haven’t even sent you the bill yet.” I laughed despite myself. I was still feeling terrible about my outburst against Mister Morris, but Mister Peterson had lifted my mood slightly. I was sure I was going to like him.

We talked for a long time. There was no sense of urgency as I had felt with some other doctors, with their want to get me out of the office as soon as possible so as they could herd more patients in to keep the subscription up at the golf course. He was kind and he probed gently around my problems with easy questions.

After a while he seemed satisfied with the amount of written notes he had taken and he invited me to lie on the couch that took up one wall of his small, but tidy office. This had been the bit I was dreading. I knew the couch all too well. Not this one in particular, but couches as a rule made me nervous.

I lay back and he explained to me what he intended to do.

“Rebecca, hypnotism is not exactly a science like medicine or surgery. It’s more of a way of getting inside the mind where the real damage lies and to be able to see it clearly without the filters that we humans put in place to protect ourselves. I know your doctor will have explained all this to you already, but I want to take it a little further.

Hypnotism is simply a kind of sleep state. When you sleep, you either sleep lightly near to the surface that is consciousness, or you sleep deeply, REM sleep, where your dreams occur. When you are in REM sleep, your subconscious files away all the events of the day or issues that are bothering you into neat little packets that your mind can deal with. It then stores them away for retrieval later on. Now, when you come out of REM sleep, it is like you are surfacing from a deepwater dive. Like a diver you come up slowly, and when you get to a certain point, you transcend from REM sleep to light sleep, and then to full consciousness.

The plateau that you reach when coming up is where I will take you to under hypnosis. I will simply let you start to fall asleep and then stop you when you are at the midway point. From there we can see into your subconscious without too much trouble. I can guide you to where the problem is and we can bring it out into the open and we can look at it together and hopefully deal with it and stop it hurting you any more. Do you understand what I have told you Rebecca? Do you feel comfortable for me to take you into your subconscious and to try and find the root cause of your problems?” I was actually falling asleep at the sound of his voice. I snapped awake, slightly embarrassed, but he just laughed lightly, saying that it showed I would be a good patient to work with, as if the sound of his voice put me to sleep, then just think what he could do with a swinging pocket watch.

In the event, he did not need stage props to send me under. He just spoke to me, soft and slowly, each syllable enunciated carefully, until I felt relaxed and at ease. He told me to close my eyes and to just relax and float away. That is exactly what I did do.

The next thing I remember is his voice calling me awake. Slowly, like the diver he had used as his example, I surfaced from the realm of my subconscious back into full consciousness and then fully awake. I felt a little light-headed but I felt good. I felt the most refreshed I had done in years, it was like the best sleep ever and now I was awake again.

He walked away from me and went back behind his desk, sitting down he began to make notes. I got up and went and sat in front of him.

“So, what did you find down there? I imagine there was plenty enough material to write a book about huh?” My levity was partly brought on by the feeling of relaxation I was experiencing and partly bravado. I was a little afraid now of what he was going to tell me he had found. He did not look up, he just kept writing his notes. I began to get a little worried.

When he did speak he was his usual friendly, easy going self, but there was something in his eyes that said all was not as well as it should be. Now I really was worried. What had he found out?

He wanted me to come again tomorrow and he asked if I would sign a waiver form allowing him to tape whatever I said under hypnosis. When I asked what for, he simply said it was a legal requirement. “If I tape what you say, I have to have your permission to do it. If I were to find out some terrible secret, like the fact that you had robbed a bank and hidden the money, then I might just get you to tell me where you had hidden it. It just covers me legally that’s all. Nothing sinister.” I was not so sure, but I signed anyway without really reading the form. I didn’t understand all that legal stuff anyway, so it would have made no difference if I had.

I left his office unaware that as I was going out of the door, he was making a phone call to the Police.

“Can I speak with detective Muir please? Yeah I’ll hold. Pete? Hi, it’s Bob Peterson. Yeah long time huh? Listen, I think I need your advice here. I think I have a case of sexual abuse, long time back, but still causing problems. I think the abuser may still be alive, so I need to know where I stand legally on this. I doubt she will ever have the courage to go to court with it, but I want to know if there is anyway we can get the creep in some other way. OK, I will call by later, thanks.” He hung up and cancelled his appointments for the rest of the day.

***

The next day I went to his office feeling positive about things. I was not sure why he wanted to tape me, I supposed it was so as he did not have to write up everything I said from memory. That way he would get everything and there could be no mistakes. I didn’t really mind though.

He greeted me and told me to go straight to the couch and lie down. There would be no lengthy preamble today. I guess he must have all the background on me he needed. I lay back on the comfortable couch and he came over. He showed me the tape recorder and he made a test recording to see that it worked. He then spoke into the microphone.

“This is a recording of my second session with Rebecca Miles. Rebecca? Could you please talk into the mic for the record and say that you have signed a waiver for me to record our session?” I did as I was asked and he began to process of putting me under.

I took a little longer this time, as I was now aware of what he was going to do and I was curious to try and follow the sensation as I went under. I wanted to try a feel the point at which I actually went into a trance. It did not really work and I went under without realising it.

“Rebecca? Can you hear me?” I replied yes, I could hear him.

“Good. Now Rebecca, I want you to go back to where we were yesterday, back to the point where you were telling me about Mister Morris. Can you remember that Rebecca?

OK, now I want you to tell me again about Mister Morris. Can you do that Rebecca?”

My mind felt free and I was floating in a place where there was no pressure. No doctors or hospitals, no one telling me I was sick in the mind. I was free of the problems that had haunted me all my life. Then I heard Mister Peterson talking to me, asking me about Mister Morris.

“We are in his house. He has a lovely house, we can play here. Not like at home. I can’t play at home. Not allowed. Here I can though, Mister Morris is very kind to me.

He showed us his butterflies again today, down in his cellar. There are thousands of them, all different colours, all of them different sizes, big, small. Some of them are really big. So pretty, so delicate and fragile. Mister Morris is very kind to them, he doesn’t kill them. He lets them die on their own when they get old and then he puts them in boxes.

He has lots of butterflies. I want to touch them. I want to touch them like he does, when he touches me. I like it when he touches me. He gave me a big hug today and I like that. I love Mister Morris, he is so nice to me.

I want to put my hand in the cage with them. I want them to settle on my hand like they do when he puts his hand in the cage with them.

Oh no, they are getting out. Flying around the cellar. They won’t come back, Mister Morris is going to be angry with me for letting them out. I can’t make them come back.

Mister Morris is here. He is catching them in his net and putting them back in the cage. He is asking me why I am crying?

He is wiping my eyes, taking the tears away. He is so kind to me. He is giving me another big hug. He is not angry with me at all. He says it was just a mistake, not to worry about it. He says he won’t tell anyone if I don’t. It’s our secret. Ours alone no one will ever know.”

“Rebecca, I want you to open your eyes when I count to three. Are you ready? OK, one, two, three, open your eyes Rebecca.” With my eyes open, I blinked against the light coming in through the window. I sat up and swung my legs off of the couch. Mister Peterson was back behind his desk like yesterday.

I went over and sat down. He did not look up at me.

When he did, he had that odd look in his eyes like yesterday.

“Rebecca, can I ask you, have you seen Mister Morris since you were taken into hospital?” I thought it was an odd question.

“Not while I was in hospital, no. I saw him the other day. We met and had coffee.” Then I remembered the car ride here yesterday and I guess I must have blushed a bit in my shame.

“Why are you blushing Rebecca? You have gone very red, is it something to do with Mister Morris?” I felt as complete fool now. I said that, yes, it was something to do with Mister Morris, but I felt such a heel for the way I had treated him, that I did not elaborate on why it made me blush.

Mister Peterson asked me a few more questions, mainly about Mister Morris and then he told me that he needed to do a little work on this case, to consult with a few colleagues and that he wanted to see me in two weeks time, a few days before Christmas.

I left the office and went home, feeling less enthusiastic than I had the day before. I suppose that I was thinking that even Mister Peterson was stumped about my case and that it was his way of telling me he could not help. I got home and I was in a bad mood. In the kitchen, I made myself something to eat.

The boiling pan of soup brought me out of my reverie. It had spilled over onto the stovetop and it was even now dancing around on the hot plate, little drops of soup, frantically racing around, trying to escape the killing heat.

It was then that I noticed I was holding a knife in my hand and that my other arm was folded across my chest. The knife was close to it. Oh my god, had I been about to cut myself? I dropped the knife and stood back. I was shaking now. I was alone and I had come close to cutting myself again. This time it could have been a lot worse. If I had really hurt myself, then who would have been there to help me?

I turned the heat off under the pan of soup and grabbed my coat. I had to get out of here.

I had no intention of going to Mister Morris’ house, but that is where I found myself.

The lights were on so I figured he was home. I went up the path and rang the bell. It seemed like an eternity before he answered the door. I was stood there shivering not only from the cold December air, but from the shock of what I had come close to doing to myself. He was surprised to see me, and I would not have blamed him if he had slammed the door in my face for the way I had treated him the other day, but he just stood aside and told me to come in out of the cold.

Once inside he led me into his kitchen. It was nice and warm. I remembered this kitchen, as Susanna and I had spent many happy hours here drawing pictures and telling stories to each other. It was a friendly familiar place and I felt safe here.

We sat down at the table and he placed his arms on it, his hands held together, clasped tightly. I sat there with my head hung in shame. How was I going to apologise for the other day?

In the end I did not need to. Mister Morris spoke first.

“I am glad you chose me to come to Rebecca. I know you do not have many friends here. I also know you don’t have any truck with the Church anymore. I also know what is probably going through your mind right now, yes I know I said that the other day and you tore me off a strip for being so presumptuous, but I really do know how it feels. There is nothing to apologise for, if that is what is making you hang your head like that. As I said, I am glad you chose me to turn to.” He got up and put on a pot of coffee, leaving me to sit and wonder at this man’s compassion and kindness.

The coffee was made and he sat back down at the table. I looked at him for the first time properly since turning up on his doorstep. “Thank you Mister Morris. I really don’t deserve this.”

“OK, lets get one thing sorted out. You are not thirteen years old any more, please call me Arthur, or Art as my friends call me. Now, what in the hell are you doing wandering around in the cold on a night like this?” the question was forthright and demanding. Gone was the subtle gentleness that I had always remembered. There were shades of my father in that tone of voice and I must have cringed back a little, as he looked surprised and he reached out over the table to take my hand. This time I did not jump back from the physical contact with him. He took my hand gently and held it in his own warm palm.

I could hold it in no longer. First came the tears and then came the tirade of garbled nonsense as I tried to pour out seven years of pain and hurt in a few seconds. Experiences that I had in hospitals, the meeting with Mister Peterson, the coldness of my parents towards me, everything came flooding out at once, like a river bursting its banks, sweeping away everything that found its way into its path.

Art sat and listened to me without interrupting, without judging or trying to analyse what I said. He just listened to me. For the first time in my life, someone just listened.

I don’t know how long I talked for, but by the time I had finished the coffee had gone cold. Art poured a fresh cup for me and sat back down.

I was exhausted and emotionally drained. I didn’t feel I had anything left inside of me. Art just sat there and watched me.

Eventually he spoke, as he saw the look on my face that almost begged him to say something to break the silence.

“You know, when my wife died, I was pretty relieved really. We had been married for fifteen years. Fifteen years of misery and frustration. All those years spent together, it was like living with a total stranger. You see, it was she who introduced me to the Church. Oh I went to Church regular enough, but this was her Church not mine. I went there just because I was in love with her and I wanted to marry her. She said that would only be possible if we were to be married in her Church. So, I joined them. I soon found out though that it was not for me.

I doubt you will have remembered much about them, but they are very puritanical about sex and love and physical things. They did not encourage sex, even between married couples. By all means, do it to have children, that is the only way, though if they could have found another means they would have. Artificial insemination was not around back then, but it would not surprise me to find out it was one of them that invented it.

Our relationship was almost a barren one. Sex was something that happened once to conceive Susanna, after that it ended. Never to be repeated. That was why I was relieved when she died. Not because it meant I was free to sleep with whomever I pleased, but because I would no longer feel those pangs of longing for the woman I had loved.

Your folks were pretty much like that too. I remember you as a kid, coming here to play with Susanna. Your dad phoned me and gave me the ground rules for you being Susanna’s friend. He was almost as cold as my Jean had been. Your mum was not much better.

So you see, when I told you I understood your feelings the other day, I really did mean it.

Now, as to why you do what you do to yourself, I have no idea. I am not a doctor and I can’t pretend to understand it all, but I do know that it all stems from your folks that I am sure of. I don’t know the whys and the wherefores, but I am not any one’s fool. I have eyes in my head and remember even now how you clung to me like a limpet once when I did what I would have done with any kid. I simply hugged you and you clung to me, as if you were to let go, then the world would end. Now that told me a great deal about you. You just needed love, that’s all. That was something I know your folks never gave you.

My Susanna is all caught up with the Church. She became just like her mother, cold and empty. She never showed me any affection or love after she turned about fifteen. The Church had her good and proper. Then when she was eighteen, she was old enough to make up her own mind and she took off for Europe and the mission. I haven’t heard from her since and I doubt I will ever again. I know how that makes me feel, and I could imagine that hurting yourself to try and get those you love to notice you could be as good a way as any. But as I said, I can’t say for sure. I am not a doctor.

Now, I think that you are just about ready for bed. Drink your coffee and I will drive you home. Then tomorrow, if you want, you can come see me again and we can talk all you like. But only if you want. Nobody is forcing you to do anything you don’t want to.”

The relief I felt was incredible. This man, this simple but kind man had managed to identify the very thing that had driven me to damage myself for years. I was light headed with it all. Why had I not seen it before? It was all so simple really. Art drove me home and I promised I would come see him the next day for sure. I had a new-found friend and I was not about to loose him. Neither of us noticed the car parked opposite his house as we left the drive in his car as he took me home.

Art drove back to his house with a sense of relief. He had wondered why Rebecca had blown up at him like she had the other day and he was too afraid to go to her house to ask her. He did not know her state of mind and he did not want to be the one responsible for pushing her over the edge into doing anything that might harm her. He was relieved that she had now a reason for her self-mutilation. He was not sure that it was all of it, there could well be much more to it, but he felt they had hit upon the root of most of it.

He got out of his car and walked up to the front door. As he put the key in the lock, he felt that there was someone close by watching him. He turned slowly around, in case it was some drug-crazed mugger. He did not want to startle them and end up with a knife through the chest for the sake of a few dollars. As he turned he saw the man come out of the bushes in the garden. He looked normal enough, well dressed and not at all like a mugger. Art relaxed a bit, maybe he was just lost.

“Can I help you?” he asked as the man drew closer.

“You might just be able to do that. I am looking for Mister Arthur Morris, would that be you by any chance sir?”

Art nodded his head. “That’s me. And you are?” he asked the stranger.

“Detective Muir, Mister Morris. I would like to speak to you if I may.” Art’s heart leapt. Could it be something to do with Susanna? “Sure, come on in,” he said and threw the door wide open.

Rebecca went to bed that night with a feeling like a great weight had been lifted off of her. It was not her fault after all. She knew really deep down that it had been her need for love from her cold and emotionless parents that had been the reason she hurt herself. She just never wanted to admit it. She figured it was because if she did, then they would find out and would become even more distant from her, then where would she be? The only course open to her then would be to kill herself. She felt that if she hurt herself, then they would take her in their arms and tell her it was alright, that they did love her and that she was going to be safe. It just never worked out like that. That was the reason the doctors were lost when they asked her why she did it. She told them it wasn’t her it was someone else. In her own mind, it was someone else. To admit it was her, would drive her parents further away.

But now Art had managed to get her to see that it was not her fault and that regardless of what she did, it would have made no difference.

Rebecca felt she was now closer to reconciling her emotions than ever before. And to think, just the other day she had been so desperate that she had given herself over to yet another doctor to try and find out what was wrong with her. Now she knew she could cancel her next appointment and never need to make another one.

Art sat at the kitchen table in stunned silence. The portable tape recorder sat between himself and the detective, the motor still turning the tape around, though now all it played was the static hiss of blank tape.

“Please play it again detective, I am not sure that I can fully take in what it is you are trying to tell me here.” Detective Muir pressed the buttons to rewind the tape and then he hit the play button.

They both heard the voice of Mister Peterson, the hypnotherapist asking Rebecca to confirm that she had signed the waiver form.

Then they heard Peterson talking Rebecca down into a trance state. They heard his soft voice bringing her back to the moment where they had been the day before, talking about Mister Morris.

They heard Rebecca telling her story of the escaping butterflies and of how he had embraced her, of how she liked the way he touched her. They heard her tell of how she loved him because he was so nice to her. Her voice came over clear on the tape as she talked about their secret that no one else will ever know about. Then the tape stopped and Muir pressed the stop button.

Art sat with his head hung down, he did not know what to say.

Muir spoke first.

“You see Mister Morris, Rebecca is a very disturbed lady. She was a very disturbed child back then, that’s why she spent so much time in hospital. What I want to know Mister Morris, is what part did you play in all this?

What ways did you touch her that she liked so much? What was this big secret that no one else would ever know? You see Mister Morris, this leaves a very bad taste in my mouth for several reasons. Firstly, a paedophile is a disgusting creature and it is my job, no, it is my duty, not only as a police officer, but also as a parent and a human being to ensure that such people are not allowed to harm other children once they have been identified. I think you would agree with that Mister Morris. I know that your own daughter left home at eighteen to go live in Europe. That’s a long way to go when you are eighteen Mister Morris. I wonder why she left home in such a god-awful hurry?

Secondly, it leaves a bad taste in my mouth, because it is highly unlikely that Miss Miles will ever be able to bring herself to face you across a Court Room and denounce you for the scum that you are. I cannot do anything about you legally, because Miss Miles signed a waiver, which only allows the practitioner to tape her treatment and not for him to make it public. The information I have against you would not stand up in court. So, I have to make a choice. Do I try and convince a very sick, mentally disturbed lady to testify against you, or do I try a more subtle approach and make your stinking life a living hell until you either confess or do the decent thing and kill yourself. I assure you that had I the gumption, I would put a bullet through your filthy perverted head right now. But why should I suffer for what you have done?

I am going now, but rest assured we will be seeing a great deal of each other in the months to come. I will be everywhere you are. I will be waiting for you to screw up and if you touch another child again, then I promise you this. I will go back on my word and I will kill you myself.”

Art knew there was no point in protesting his innocence. The evidence, however distorted the way they chose to look at it, was there on the tape. He knew what she had been saying, he knew she was speaking of a time when she was a child and that she had been thinking as a child would think, and speaking as child would speak when she said what she did. He knew she was not condemning him, he knew that all she was talking of was a simple gesture of affection that she craved so badly that it had nearly overwhelmed her when it had happened. She was an innocent, as he was innocent of any crime.

He did not try and defend himself from this man, he knew it would only anger him and give him an excuse to do violence to him. He knew that all he could do now was to suffer in silence and then leave as soon as he could. Just get away, there was nothing here for him anymore really. No Susanna, no Jean. Just the town and the Church that had taken the two people he loved the most away from him.

Muir left him alone in the kitchen and Art heard the door slam shut as he left the house.

Rebecca spent her day cleaning the house, trying to remove traces of her parents from it. She knew now that she had finally come to terms with at least the cause of the problem, if not the whole problem in total. She felt a whole new life beginning, one in which she would go back to school and get an education. She would finally be able to look people in the eye and say, “I am not sick. I am normal, it is you who are the sick ones.”

She felt great. Tonight she would go over to Art’s and cook him a meal and they would talk long into the night. She wanted to be with him now, but she had a lot to do. He was so wise and she needed to have him tell her again that it was not her fault. That all this had happened because of what someone else had done to her, that she was not a bad person at all, like she had been made to believe for most of her miserable life. Art knew her. He knew all about her and that was also a first. Understanding.

As evening came around she got ready and set out up the hill for Art’s house. She was in a buoyant mood. For the first time I her life, she actually felt like she really wanted to talk about her problems and Art would listen to her.

She got to his house and went up the path. There were no lights on and she felt this to be strange. He was expecting her after all. She rang the bell, but there was no answer. She tried again. Still no answer.

She was a little concerned now. Had he changed his mind? Did he realise what he had let himself in for with her? Had he decided he did not want her problems as well as his own? Confusion and inadequacy were pilling up in her mind again. She had found a friend and now he had deserted her.

She stood on the doorstep not knowing what to do, when a voice from behind her called out.

“Can I help you Miss? You looking for Arthur?” She turned to see a middle aged lady walking her dog.

“Yes, have you seen him today?” she said hopefully.

“I saw him, yes. He packed up his truck and left town a few hours ago. I asked him where he was off to and he told me to mind my own business. Said he was leaving and not coming back. I think he might have been telling the truth, as he took all those damn butterflies with him. Best rid of the old fool if you ask me,” she said.

Rebecca was close to panic now. “He didn’t say where he was going?” she asked the woman.

“No, but I guess he will head off for his place in the woods. He has a cabin a few miles the other side of Carlton, next town over. I don’t know the address, but I am sure you could ask around town. They are sure to know where he is.” She turned and walked off almost dragging the dog along behind her.

Art sat in his cabin and played the tape back time and time again. He still could not believe what had happened. How they had persecuted him for this, without even confirming with anyone what the truth was. All he knew was that Muir would hound him to the day he died if he went back home again. He supposed he could not blame him, but it didn’t make it any the easier to accept. He was bitter about it, but more so the fact that he had let Rebecca down. How would she feel when she found out he had vanished like that? He imagined that she would probably blame herself again. He just hoped that she did not take it so bad as to hurt herself again, but now all he could do was to look after himself and keep the hell out of Muir’s way.

He lit a fire and played the tape again.

He sat and reflected on everything and decided that overall, he was best off out of it. Rebecca was in need of help, that much was true, but he now doubted he was the one capable of giving it to her. He rationalised things to suite himself. He had to or his sense of grief would have overcome him.

The knock at the door jarred him from his thoughts and he had a moment of panic when he thought that maybe Muir had found out he had gone and had come to hound him here as well. But the knocking had been soft, almost apologetic not the vicious knocking of a cop with a vengeance for child molesters. He got up and opened the door.

Rebecca stood there, looking at him with accusing eyes. Had they got to her as well? Had they managed to convince her that she had been the victim of some terrible crime he had committed, that she had blocked out for all these years? They stood and looked at each other for what seemed like an eternity until Rebecca fell into his arms and hugged him like the world would end if she were to stop. She clung to him like a limpet, afraid to let go in case he should leave her again. It was then that Arthur knew everything would be alright.

Behind him, content and safe from predators, his butterflies flitted happily around their cages.