Ophelia
The moment I open my eyes I know something is wrong.
It’s in the silence, in the way the air feels stale. My temples pound so hard my vision ripples. I press my palms to my forehead, willing the pain to ease, but it doesn’t. It sits there behind my eyes, a throb that makes my stomach turn.
I blink up at the ceiling and take in the crown moulding, the pale cream walls, the light fixture with its gold trim. I know this room, it’s my dorm at the academy.
Slowly I push myself upright in the bed, every part of my body aching. My feet burn, and when I glance down in confusion I freeze.
They’re bloodied, streaks dried across my heels, the skin raw and split in places. My dress, what looks as though it was meant to be white satin, is soaked with red. I drag in a breath and the air feels thick with the scent of blood, metallic and copper, impossible to mistake.
I try to think, to remember what day it is, to piece together the night before—where I went, who I was with—because looking at the state I’m in, I clearly wasn’t here having a quiet night with the girls.
But the moment I reach for it, pressure slams behind my eyes and I suck in a breath through clenched teeth to stop a sound from slipping out.
I can’t remember anything, and the harder I push the worse it gets, which unsettles me more than I want to admit.
I have no memory of ever putting this dress on, if anything, I can’t even recall owning it. My mind is a complete void, offering nothing, no clarity, only silence.
I ease my legs over the side of the bed and wince as the soles of my feet meet the cold hardwood floor.
As I begin to stand, a wave of dizziness washes over me. I grip the edge of the mattress to steady myself, waiting as the room tilts. My pulse races, uneven and far too fast. My hands are cold, alarmingly so.
Something faint brushes my cheek. I lift a hand to my face and when I pull my fingers back there’s blood.
My chest tightens.
I’m hurt, I’m bleeding. It’s on my face, my hands, my dress, everywhere. And I have no idea why.
I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself, but it doesn’t work. Panic stirs under my ribs. I must have hit my head, that would explain the blood on my forehead, and the dizziness.
Or maybe the faintness is from my condition. That would be more likely, I try to reason with myself.
I manage to stand, slowly finding my balance as I make my way to the en suite. When I reach the mirror I stop, staring at my reflection.
The girl looking back is undeniably me, but somehow not. Blood is smeared across my face and chest, not only fresh from the cut above my brow but older too.
Whose blood is it?
I don’t feel hurt enough for there to be this much.
My white hair hangs in a tangled mess, strands knotted with bits of leaves and dirt. My skin is pale, my lips drained of colour, my green eyes wide and glassy. I look as though I’ve seen a ghost.
I look as though I could be one.
The sight disquiets me and tells me nothing.
I turn away, pressing both hands to my face and shutting my eyes, willing the truth to come through the haze.
What happened to me?
Too many questions and not a single answer. I try to think, truly think, but nothing comes. My mind remains blank, and the pressure in my skull builds until the pain becomes unbearable. At one point, I have to grip the edge of the vanity to keep myself from collapsing.
I push the thoughts aside, if only for a moment, because all I can think about is getting under a shower, as if it might lift this weight from my skin.
I feel filthy, not just on the surface, but deeper, as though something inside me has been stained.
It’s a feeling I can’t name. I want to scream, to cry, to break something apart, and yet the same question circles back to me, why?
I peel the dress off slowly, and step into the walk in shower.
My hand trembles as I adjust the water. I usually prefer it hot, but today I turn it slightly cooler, hoping the shock might clear my head and cut through the fog that has settled there.
I step under the spray and close my eyes, letting it run over me. For a while I just stand there, unmoving, until eventually my gaze drifts to the bottles lined along the shelf, the shampoo, the conditioner, the scrubs and gels.
They’re all familiar, yet at the same time distant. I don’t remember choosing them, I don’t remember opening half of them, and I’m not even sure I’ve ever liked some of these brands. I could swear a few weren’t here last night, yet they are already half empty.
Once I’ve scrubbed my scalp and rinsed the blood from my body, a faint sense of cleanliness returns.
I squeeze the water from my hair, step out of the shower, and wrap myself in towels, one around my body, another twisted through my hair. When I catch my reflection in the mirror again, the cut on my forehead is still bleeding quite badly.
I take the first aid kit from under the sink and bring it back into the bedroom. Every step is agony, as if I’m walking on glass.
I lower myself onto the bed, and begin cleaning my feet with antiseptic. The sting hurts and I bite my lower lip, only letting go when it starts to ease.
Carefully, I wrap each foot in gauze and stand, carrying the kit with me as I cross the room to the vanity. I ease into the chair and set the box down beside me.
The wound above my brow is worse than I’d realised. It will most certainly require stitches. I clean it as best I can and suck in a breath as the alcohol touches the exposed skin.
It is utterly absurd. I’m covered in cuts, bruises, dried blood, and I can’t recall a single detail of how it happened.
I need to remember.
There has to be something, an image, a sound, that stayed with me.
What is the last thing I can recall?
My head throbs again, worse than before, and I have to let it go, at least for now.
Once I’ve finished bandaging myself, I move into the closet and pull on the first outfit within reach, black leggings, an oversized hoodie, and Dior sneakers. I sit to lace them slowly, telling myself I’ll grab something to eat before I collapse from running on empty.
The wound on my forehead needs stitches. There is simply no version of reality in which I wander the academy with blood running down my face.
As for food, there might be something in the kitchen I could prepare, but I’m far too unsteady to attempt it properly.
So, the first order of business, the academy doctor. Then the dining hall.
Once the bleeding has been dealt with and the dizziness is no longer threatening to knock me unconscious, then, and only then, can I begin to question whether I’ve truly lost my mind.
Because, by all appearances, it seems I have.
I leave the bedroom and step into the main room of my dorm. It’s a refined space, elegant and spacious, with dark wood floors, pristine white walls, and a grand arched window that frames the distant woods of Elaris Isle.
A large tufted sofa is paired with a matching lounge chair, both arranged atop a soft, pale carpet. A low table sits between them, and a sleek television is mounted across from the seating area.
The kitchen stretches along the far wall, separated by a marble island and a small dining table.
Everything looks perfectly arranged, curated with care and taste, a reflection of me, altered by a hint of foreignness.
The room is recognisable in shape and structure, but there’s a distortion I can’t quite place, as if the familiarity has been tampered with.
Nothing is obviously wrong, but the unease clings. Certain details draw my eye, things I’m almost certain weren’t here before. This space is mine, and at the same time, it isn’t.
I walk towards the door and reach for my coat, hung neatly on the standing wardrobe near the entrance.
An unexpected knock comes just before my hand touches the sleeve. I blink, my brows pulling together, still caught in the fog of confusion. Without thinking, without even checking, I open the door.
Octavia, my sister, stands on the threshold. Or at least, I think it’s her.
A memory of last night surges back so sharply that I gasp.
Her features are familiar, yet changed, older, her expression harder, her posture unnervingly rigid. And then there’s her hair.
Pink.
Her mid length waves catch the light, a soft rose shade that seems almost unreal. But yesterday she was blonde. Of that I am certain. I saw her with my own eyes.
Last night, my sister was blonde.