Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
OPHELIA
After dinner, I sit on my bed, back propped against the rigid headboard. Grunge metal thunders through my earphones, the distorted guitars drowning out any lingering unease.
My thumb hovers over Damien’s social media profile, each swipe revealing another layer like I’m peeling back skin. His confidence radiates from every enlarged pixel, and my throat tightens when his laugh echoes from a short video, velvety rich. Power throbs from the screen, and why wouldn’t it?
Damien Kade is rich.
Not just ‘well-off’ or ‘sorted’ but a jaw-dropping level of obscene wealth.
Which is why the quote I have queued up in my documents isn’t from the optometrist where I got my current pair of glasses. It’s from the preeminent low-vision specialist in the city, and the feature list reads like sci-fi.
Zoom ability, contrast adjustments, colour enhancements—the works. Technology I hadn’t even known existed and could never afford from my mother’s sporadic support.
I want them so badly, but a warning bell clangs in my head. Damien’s comment about earning my suggested thousand in cash sent a strange quiver through my midsection. An echo of my reaction when he said my wriggling made him hard.
Fear. It must be.
But it isn’t quite the same. It feels more like fascination. The same as if I think of handling a tarantula or a large snake.
Revulsion, yes, but mixed with a dangerous allure.
A dichotomy that led me here, trawling through his socials, searching for insight.
My eyes ache by the time I reach the end of his feed, but I click into tags, immediately clenching my teeth. There are so many girls, and none look the slightest bit like me.
This afternoon’s class probably meant nothing, just another bullying tactic from his armoury. Feeling me up against my will, expecting I’d be too shy to protest.
Even if he were attracted, it’ll probably be a fetish. Like Andrew ‘the human guide dog’ or Tommy, a university student who said ‘pure’ so many times during our short-lived acquaintance, the word still gives me the ick.
The door bursts open and I jump, iPad tipping forward as I whip the earphones from my head.
“Please tell me that’s homework, Ophelia,” Bryan says, sounding both tired and amused. He steps inside, frowning when I hunch over the screen. “If you can tear yourself off TikTok for a few minutes…” He lifts two steaming cups of cocoa, a nightly ritual.
My eyes widen with shock, and I check the time. Jesus. The evening slipped by without me noticing.
I switch off the iPad and slide it under my pillow, then take my cup. Bryan sits on my desk chair with a long sigh, running a hand through his thinning brown hair. Whatever physical attraction Mum saw in him is fading, lines etching deeper into sallow skin.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’ll need to call your mum about those glasses.”
He’d spotted the makeshift repair the minute he got home, even though by then I’d coloured in the tape with a black Sharpie.
I nod, hiding my distress with a large sip, and my lips twist at the cocoa’s bitterness. Probably another supermarket-brand substitution; in the past few months we’ve made plenty of those, saving dollars where we can.
Bryan’s chair creaks as he shifts, clearing his throat. “There’s just no way I can take on more overtime.”
Mum can easily afford the money for the repair, but… “She won’t answer.”
“Give it a try. She might surprise you.”
“We mightn’t have to pay. The boy who broke them—”
“I thought it was Chelsea.” There’s an edge in Bryan’s voice, but when I glance over, he’s just frowning vaguely at the ceiling corner. I squeeze the fragile mug tighter, a knot between my shoulders.
Bryan’s not even my legal guardian. Just the ex my mother had been living with before she took off, leaving her burden behind.
A good enough man, he took me in when he didn’t have to, and her money might once have been an incentive, but the longer it goes, the less she pays. Out of sight, out of mind.
Now I’m eighteen, he could toss me onto the street any time he wants.
“She tripped me, but it was a boy who stepped on my glasses. Accidentally,” I blurt, instinctively covering for Damien who won’t care at all. “Anyway, he’s loaded, and said if I sent him a quote, he’ll take care of it.”
“Ophelia… it’s not just the glasses. You know how tight things have been lately.”
“I’ll call her, I will. Just…” I trail off into a shrug and swallow another mouthful. The drink is hot, but that’s not the reason my throat burns. “You don’t have to worry about this.”
His heavy exhalation sounds irritated, but when he says, “Drink up,” his voice is warm, and he rests a reassuring hand on my knee.
This is the stability I craved through my chaotic childhood, dragged from one short-lived affair to the next, from party houses to private yachts, no one ever bothering to ask if I should be there.
I finish the rest of my cup in a few gulps, hiding a grimace.
“Thanks,” I say, handing it back to him. “I’m so grateful I landed here. Really, I am.”
He gives me a one-handed shoulder hug. “Me, too. ‘Night, Ophelia.”
“Goodnight.”
I absently pluck at a hole in my jeans for a few seconds, then change into my sleep shirt and slip under the covers.
When I first lived here, our cocoa chats would sometimes last over an hour, warm with laughter, teasing out information, forming a substitute father-daughter bond. He used to say Sweetheart, not Ophelia, when he said goodnight, but I can’t remember the last time I heard an endearment.
Probably when Mum stopped paying what she should.
I tap my phone awake. “Open contacts. Cruella.”
The screen shows Mum’s details, and the stringent smell of hospital antiseptic suddenly floods my nostrils; the taste of activated charcoal and bitter pills coats my tongue.
After my failed, ahem—attempt—my stomach had pulled tight every time someone walked through the ward door; sinking when it was a nurse or another patient’s visitor standing there instead.
For days, I believed my mother would catch a twelve-hour flight to sit by my bedside.
She never even called.
I close my eyes, rehearsing a conversation. Except I can’t imagine anything beyond a confused, “Hello?”
It could equally be, “Sorry, Ophelia who?”
It could be nothing because she’s blocked me.
Just do it, you coward.
My throat is so dry, I can barely swallow.
Do it!
My thumb hovers over the dial button.
Then the phone buzzes and I yelp, clutching it so hard the screen flashes with streaks of yellow. My heart pounds, but it’s not her calling, just a random notification. Exhaling a shaky breath, I press the button for read-aloud.
DAMIEN
You like that one, huh?
Knew I was getting to you, Snowflake.
I sit bolt upright. What?
The message is like walking into a conversation midway, and I wait, expecting more context. When nothing comes, I swap my phone for my iPad, and a cold pocket opens beneath my ribcage.
I’ve hearted a post by accident.
My cheeks throb with embarrassment. It probably happened when Bryan interrupted, but that doesn’t go any way towards explaining why I was on Damien’s profile, especially not when I check the date.
The post isn’t from yesterday or last week, it’s six months old. I might as well shout in his face that I’m a sneaky perv.
OPHELIA
Just connecting so I could send through my quote
An excuse that won’t fool anyone. But a friend request pings, then a reply:
DAMIEN
Send away
Two words, and even through the robotic vocals, I can hear his smirk.
I accept the request and attach the summary from my current optometrist, the safer option.
But when I switch back to the app, Damien’s uploaded a photo from school today. His arm around Chelsea, her false smile filling the screen until her laughter echoes in my ears.
I remember his cold indifference as he stepped on my glasses. The blankness lurking behind his charming smile.
Two bullies mocking me. They deserve each other.
And what I deserve is an upgraded pair of glasses.
I upload the five-figure quote and send that instead, turning my devices on silent so I won’t know if he replies.
Then I curl under the covers, my body stiff and uncomfortable. Their image burned in my retinas, so I see them even when I close my eyes.
I wake from a nightmare of groping hands and paralysed limbs, breathing heavily in the few seconds before I orientate back to reality.
When I do, I roll onto my back, groaning. The quote! What was I thinking?
Too late now.
I postpone turning on my devices until I’ve showered and dressed. My teeth clench when I finally give into the urge and check, but I needn’t have worried.
There’s no demand for an explanation. No reaction from Damien at all.
“Ophelia! Breakfast.”
I hurry downstairs and find Bryan waiting at the kitchen counter. He’s staring at a letter, unreadable from where I’m standing, but the red of an overdue stamp flashes as he folds it away.
“Here.” He presses three pills into my right palm, and a small glass into my left. The prescription bottles are already stored back in their pantry safe.
“Down the hatch,” I say like I do every morning.
And like every morning, I tongue the capsules between gumline and cheek, swallow a sip of water, then open my mouth wide, tongue waggling. The inspection is barely a glance today, a far cry from my first days back from hospital.
He cups my head, gently stroking the edge of my fading bruises from Friday—walked into a tree—then turns away. “Cereal’s on the table.”
With my back to him, I spit the pills into my palm, and shove them in my pocket, then sit, frowning at unfamiliar colours on the box.
“If you want the old brand,” he says in a tight voice, “tell your mother.”
“Just admiring the packaging.” I shake it into the waiting bowl, adding milk. “This looks good.”
I’m still swallowing claggy spoonfuls, when he emerges from his bedroom, tie in place. “Ten minutes or you’ll be late.”