SWT - Chapter 1

I won't be uploading the entire book chapter by chapter...but Flock members will get the Prologue AND first three chapters between now and next week. Patreon ARCS go out in a couple weeks.

Thanks for being here! Enjoy getting a look inside Aston’s head 🤪

Dear diary,

Today’s the day I earn my wings.

We’ll see how long this lasts…

XOXO

-A

SIX YEARS LATER

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. 

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 with 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 if 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.

He knows Jude’s been testing me for weeks now, all because he overheard that not only am I getting out—as if it’s my fault he’s a couple months younger than me—but that I’ll be moving in with my case worker. One who just so happens to be his case worker as well, along with five other lucky ingrates currently glaring at me from various spots around the room.

Sucks to suck, boys.

As if summoned, a loud female voice rings out from the doorway just ahead of me, silencing the room in a heartbeat. “That’s enough, Judas.”

Someone oohs at the use of Jude’s full name.

Matilda Jennings. 

My sweet, little ol’ Tillie.

Standing at five-foot-nothing, with bright red hair chopped short around her ears, her command of an entire room of baby lunatics and would-be criminals is half the reason why I adore her endlessly.

The other half being that I’m her favorite, something that’s widely known around here.

Heck, it’s only thanks to this woman that I have a place to go now that I’m eighteen. If not for Tillie and her stuffy husband—who I’ve yet to meet—I’d be left to fend for myself on the streets, until I ended up either face-first in a fly-infested gutter—nameless, faceless, and forgotten; a no one to anyone and everyone…

Or back here at Ashwood, where I’d be thrown into gen pop and sentenced to spend the rest of my days getting my brain zapped and pumped full of so many meds that I’m nothing more than a lifeless, slack-faced husk staring blankly at a wall.

And that’s only if I was lucky enough not to wind up in prison instead. Which, given my track record with all things luck…well, I’m about as bankrupt there as I am in funds and fucks to give.

Maybe if the other patients stopped acting like uncivilized shitheads once in a while, they would’ve realized this could’ve been them too. But nooo, they just had to go and keep making things harder for themselves. Getting into fights, sneaking contraband, flipping their lid when the cafeteria ran out of pudding cups…

Didn’t anyone tell them that no one likes a lost cause?

When Tillie’s attention finally zeroes in on me, I don’t miss how her gaze flits to my shoulder, hardening.

As if realizing he’s still touching me—not only that, but caressing my neck with his thumb—Bruce retracts his hand like I burned him.

I smirk. Busted.

Tillie’s fiery gaze meets mine, but I know her ire isn’t toward me. Not really. After all, it’s not my fault I'm so irresistible. It’s the orderlies who should be ashamed for being so weak-willed. From the second I turned sixteen, they’ve been on me like bees to honey. Content to delude themselves that things like age of consent still apply in a place like this… Anything to justify that what they’re doing isn’t wrong.

I wanted it after all.

Begged for it.

Seduced them with my feminine wiles.

And even if I didn’t… 

Who am I to claim the R word?

Who are any of us to think our voices actually matter?

We’re crazy. Degenerates. Black stains on society.

Dirt to be brushed under the rug.

A secret to be hidden away.

“That’ll be all, Bruce,” Tillie says shortly, dismissing him.

Okay, so to Tillie, they matter. We matter. But she doesn’t have a penis. And waving that around is about the only way to get anything done around here. Trust me on that.

As I spare one last cursory sweep of the room, I don’t miss Jude glaring my way. I lift my fingers into a V and waggle my tongue between them.

Laters, babe.

He lurches forward, face reddening with his snarl.

So vicious!

I almost regret never tapping that.

Not waiting around to see what happens, I quickly skip off after Tillie, hoping my new little friend tucked safely against my wrist can wait just a little bit longer.

*

A wardrobe change, an exit interview, and a whole bunch of tedious paperwork later, I burst out the double doors of Ashwood free as a dove.

Cue the heavenly lights. The trumpets. The choir of angels.

I’m back, bitches.

Thumbs hooked through the straps of my ratty, faded red JanSport that I’ve had since I was a kid, I descend the stone steps in my brand spankin’ new high-tops. Tillie takes the wheelchair ramp, a rolling black suitcase in tow.

My suitcase, apparently. My very first one.

Not that I needed it. I don’t think she realized how very little I actually owned in my rather cluttered room. I could have easily split my belongings between my backpack and a grocery bag or two.

Parked along the curb, a baby blue Volkswagen Beetle waits for us, one that up until now I’ve only seen through barred windows.

“Why does your car have eyelashes?”

It was the first thing I ever said to her.

She just shrugged and said, “Why not? It’s fun.”

That was two years ago. I was sixteen, and she was as green to the job as the sparkly nail polish she wore, not scared of me in the slightest. We’ve been inseparable ever since.

And by inseparable, I mean she’s the only caseworker who hasn’t run crying to the powers-that-be, begging for reassignment the second things got a little…dicey.

You bite a guy one time…

You’d think I committed murder or something.

While Tillie loads my suitcase into the trunk, I get settled in the passenger seat, reacquainting myself with things like seatbelts and glove compartments and vent switches. I also take the opportunity to double check that my newest little buddy is safe and sound in the front pocket of my backpack. It’s not ideal, but it’ll have to do until I’m alone again and can put him with the others.

“This is it,” I tell him in a whisper. “We’re free.”

The trunk slams shut, and I quickly zip my bag back up, hugging it tightly against my chest with a deep inhale. Taking stock of the new, yet strangely familiar smells washing over me.

Pine air freshener.

Stale coffee.

Motor oil.

Like crisp early winter mornings, blowing through yellow lights to make it to work on time, exhaust fumes blowing clouds into the frost-bitten air. A crackling radio playing “Manic Monday” as a new work week begins.

I picture Tillie behind the wheel, flipping down the sun visor to inspect her makeup in the mirror in between looking at the road, rolling her lips together to even out the pink gloss she’d brushed on hastily before rushing us out of the house.

She’d be a good mom…

“Ready?” Tillie says brightly, joining me, and popping my little daydream like a balloon.

The door slams shut, and I meet her crinkly-eyed grin, mirroring it with one of my own. “Born ready.”

The radio kicks on with the sputtering start of the engine, and I perk up when the song just coming on is one I recognize. “Heaven Is a Place on Earth” by Belinda Carlisle.

Tillie whoops and cranks the volume up to full-blast, gesturing for me to roll down my window before she does the same.

And just like that, with a popping shift of gears and a squeal of tires—exhaust smoke clouding the hazy, late summer air—I bid goodbye to the last six years with a middle finger salute waving on the wind, and a vicious smirk stamped across my face.

Sayo-fucking-nara, losers.