Butterflies.
I've always had a thing for them; that's why I got three tattooed on my left ribs.
I trace my pointer finger around them now as I lay on the cold, hard concrete floor of the room I've been kept in since they brought me here.
Freedom.
The tantalizing idea has yet to flee from the clutches of my damaged, traumatized brain since I woke up within these walls for the first time, oh, so long ago.
"Fly, fly butterfly," I sing-song absentmindedly as my finger runs lightly over the middle tattoo, "Fly, fly away."
Elliot Jensen and Elliot Fintry have a lot in common. They share the same name, the same house, the same school, oh and they hate each other but, as they will quickly learn, there is a fine line between love and hate.