Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
DAMIEN
The delicate shading of Ophelia’s skin flushes the tiniest bit pinker. Her tongue flicks across her lips in a quick, nervous gesture that stirs my deeper instincts.
For days, her strange eyes have been in my head a dozen times an hour, each vision deepening my obsession. My fists clench, visions of what I have planned for her tumbling through my head.
Silence stretches between us.
The pause tips from anticipation into insult.
“What’s the problem?” My voice is sandpaper-rough, betraying me. “The appointment’s already made and I’m good for the money.”
She adjusts her bag then ducks under my arm, breaking free of my improvised cage. My head swims, disoriented by her sudden movement. Bewildered that she hasn’t accepted.
Ophelia might struggle with her vision, but I don’t.
The subtle shift in her posture, the quickening rise and fall of her chest—I saw it all. Her body responded when I gripped her throat, no matter how much she wishes otherwise.
“It’s not just the novelty.”
She retreats another step, fumbling in her bag. If she withdraws the cane she used before, that means she’s out of here. It’s the end.
My fingers clutch her shoulder, holding her in place. “You know, I find you oddly beautiful, and I can’t wait until your sweet—”
Her arm shoots upwards.
Liquid fire explodes in my eyes. Tears cascade down my cheeks, stinging like acid.
I inhale and my lungs ignite, triggering a violent coughing fit that folds me in half, ribs contracting painfully with each spasm. I stretch out my hands, seeking help.
“Stay the fuck away”—Ophelia’s voice cuts through my agony—“or next time, I’ll empty the entire can in your face.” The tap-tap, tap-tap of her cane punctuates her escape.
I wrench open my eyes, and they immediately snap closed again. My pulse thunders.
Can’t see. Can’t breathe.
The pavement punches my knees, then my shoulder as I fall. No idea which way is up. I touch my face and it’s like shoving it onto a hot element.
Water. I need water.
Pain distorts every sense as I stagger upright, blindly groping the air, tripping over the curb.
Footsteps pound towards me. “Shit, Damien. Are you okay?”
Philip’s hand squeezes my forearm. “Where’s Ophelia?” His voice gets firmer, followed by the electronic tapping of a phone screen. “Don’t worry. I’m calling the police.”
“No!”
My panicked outburst echoes off the community centre walls, and I force a laugh. “Last time I ask an old lady to show me what’s in her hand.”
“Old lady?” His voice is full of doubt. “Damien, I—”
“Can you help me to the bathroom?”
“Oh, shit. Yes.” His arm goes around my shoulders. “Sorry. This way.”
A palm presses against my back, guiding me into a bathroom, directing my hand to the cold metal faucet and turning it on, the other against the porcelain basin. “Here you go. I’ll just… Shit!”
More frantic tapping.
“Milk. It says milk should help. Get your head under. I think… I’ll just be a sec.”
The door slams, footsteps pounding into the hall. I thrust my face under the cool stream, and the burning retreats to a persistent throb rather than the sharp knife-end pain.
It’s not enough. Fuck.
I pry my eyes open with my fingers, letting the water pour straight into them, resenting the irony of a blind girl rendering me sightless.
Philip bursts back into the room. “Should I call an ambulance?” Muttering to himself, “I should’ve done that first. Stupid.”
“No. It’s better now. Just… give me a few minutes. I’ll be fine.”
Something small and rectangular presses into my palm, and I withdraw from the sink, blinking at the single serve UHT milk containers.
“Best I could do,” Philip says apologetically.
“You’re fine. I think I’m coming right.”
I stick my face back under the flow of water, keeping it there as the cold bites into my skin, growing calmer as the burning recedes.
“You don’t need to watch,” I say and maybe it’s my tight voice that sends him out of the room, packing up the community hall from our meeting.
The distant sounds of stacking chairs and clatter of cups is far less suffocating than him standing over me. I manage a few deep breaths into my singed lungs, stifling the noise as I cough them back out.
After ten or fifteen minutes, I withdraw, letting the water drip off me into the sink. A cold shower would be heaven, and they have the facilities, but I can’t risk Philip following through on his threat to call the cops.
Paper towels turn to sandpaper against my inflamed skin no matter how carefully I blot my face dry. The mirror shows bloodshot eyes, more crimson than white, surrounded by angry, swollen flesh.
“Are you sure I can’t call someone?” Philip hovers in the doorway. “This stuff’s illegal for a reason. We shouldn’t be cowed into silence when whoever attacked—”
I empty my face of expression, turning blank eyes towards him until he shifts uncomfortably, shoes squeaking on the bathroom tiles.
In a cold whisper, “I’m fine.”
“Okay, then.” His breath escapes in a relieved rush, already backing away. “If you’re sure.”
Coward. With someone who capitulates so easily running the bully support group, no wonder every member is a perpetual victim.
A chuckle escapes my raw throat.
Tonight, that includes me.
Outside, the cool night air feels good on my face. I’m near the corner when my foot bumps against the discarded pepper spray, and I pocket it on impulse. If Philip ever does phone, I don’t need police finding Ophelia’s fingerprints on the canister.
I reach my car and sit behind the wheel, waiting for clearer vision. Pockets of spray keep reigniting on my skin like tiny bee stings.
As the pain diminishes, I’m left with a strange sense of calm. A contradiction that puzzles me.
With any other attacker, there’s be a sense of urgency. To capture them, hurt them a dozen times more than they hurt me.
Ophelia surprised me again and all I have is sneaking admiration. I never saw that coming.
The hall lights flick off and Philip emerges, locking the door.
I hunch down in my seat until he drives away, then start my car, choosing the least populated route home. Traffic lights wear halos, and headlights turn into translucent streamers, floating in the air long after the cars pass.
Up in the hills, the steep roads are emptier. I pull into the garage just after ten, heading for the stairs and my ensuite shower.
“Damien?”
My hand clutches the railing, then I slowly turn, descending one stair. “Dad. I didn’t know you’d still be here.”
He strides closer, frowning. “What happened to you?”
“Had an altercation with a can of pepper spray. I really need to take a shower.”
“Have you seen a doctor?”
“Don’t worry. It’ll be fine by morning.”
His face is set in determined lines. “Let me call Abrams. He’ll clear a morning appointment for you.”
“No. I have school.” And third period is music, a lesson I don’t want to miss.
My father splutters out a laugh. “You’re kidding? Today you’ve decided you can’t miss school?”
I turn back, forcing my eyes wide even though they immediately water. “Isn’t that what you wanted? Your dutiful son to attend all his classes and get all his useless certificates?”
He ignores me, walking upstairs until he’s standing level. “If the police knock on my door, I’m done covering for you. Fuck up now and I won’t just let you take the fall, I’ll let them prosecute all the charges you’ve avoided.”
I close my eyes for a second, nose reclogging. His vitriol burns me along with the spray. “Jesus. I’ve got poison in my eyes and you’re threatening me with prison?” I shake my head. “What’s so upsetting about me doing exactly what you told me to do?”
“It’s never worked before.” His face is grim. “What are you really planning for tomorrow?”
I turn away and continue upstairs.
As I reach the landing, he calls after me, “If you’re showering, wear shorts and lean your body away from the water. You don’t want that shit getting on anything sensitive.”
Finally, some fatherly advice worth taking.
I don’t bother letting the water heat, getting under the spray as soon as I’ve pulled off my clothes. As the shower soothes the worst of the residual burn, I’m already planning my response tomorrow. The illegal spray can with her fingerprints sits in my glove box. My turn to use it as a weapon.
If Ophelia thought her attack tonight would end my pursuit, she’s gravely mistaken.
Early sunlight glares through my front windshield the next morning, making my sensitive eyes ache. I’m parked four doors down from Ophelia’s house, waiting for her to leave.
My Friday morning schedule has two study periods back-to-back, the perfect time to go snooping. Even if it wasn’t, this was the plan in my head when I woke this morning, and working on instinct? That’s how I perform best.
Five minutes after Ophelia leaves for school on the bus, I approach her front door. My school blazer’s insignia is prominently displayed, just a classmate offering a ride if anyone asks.
The front door has a deadbolt and brass chain. Cheap but effective. The deadbolt I could get past, given enough time, but the chain requires another approach entirely.
My fingers trail along the house’s perimeter, probing beneath terracotta pots crusted with soil, above door frames, kicking at suspicious rocks in case they’re fake.
Nothing.
Each ground-floor window frame refuses to give under my gentle pressure. The aluminium cool and unyielding. The back door is a solid possibility, but the exposure to neighbouring houses makes me hesitate.
These suburban streets teem with retirees and stay-at-home parents, eyes perpetually searching for distraction.
An upstairs window catches my attention, sitting slightly ajar. Still latched, but a flexible piece of wire should see me right. My gaze traces a potential path, from bay window to drainpipe to eave.