9. Ophelia
OPHELIA
I thought I’d be able to do it.
I’d thought I’d be able to sit in a classroom with other students and learn something other than how I was supposed to be meek and subservient, and how my soul would be tormented forever if I wasn’t.
I’d been wrong.
The moment I’d walked into the room, the walls had felt like they were closing in.
Everyone had been staring at me, and I’d wanted to vanish.
I can’t imagine there will ever be a time when I’m not going to feel like a freak.
Perhaps I don’t do myself any favors by refusing to copy the styles of the other girls, but even if I wore what they did, I still wouldn’t blend in.
People can sense when there’s something different about a person, how they don’t fit in, even if they’ve tried their hardest.
Besides, even if I wore the most expensive jeans and encased my torso in the tiniest of strappy tops, I still wouldn’t look the part.
The raised, twisted white scar running from my temple, down past my eye, and ending just below my cheekbone makes sure of that.
Maybe if I’d been a man, the scar would make me look tough, but being a woman means I just appear wounded. Broken.
My heart had started to race before I’d even sat down, and I’d fought to control my breathing. Then one of the men who’d been with Cain—one of the other Preachers—had moved to sit behind me.
I might look like a freak, but then so does he.
The difference is that he chooses to look the way he does. What’s with the black clothes and the nail polish? He’s covered in tattoos—all up his neck and the backs of his hands—and I was sure he was even wearing eyeliner.
Where I am pale, he is dark. Every way my opposite.
He’d scared me so much I’d had no choice but to get out of there.
For a moment, I’d felt paralyzed, torn between the terror of him there, moving to come sit right behind me, and the terror of getting up and leaving as everyone watched me go.
In the end, the panic in my body made it impossible to sit and be still. I simply had to move.
I rush through the corridors, my feet slapping on the floor, until I reach one of the doors that leads to the outside. I’m always running, and most of the time, I’m not even sure what—or whom—I’m running from.
It’s my greatest fear, that I’ll never be able to escape, because I’m forever carrying that place and that man with me.
I burst into the fresh air and come to halt.
I press my back against the cold stone of the old building and try to catch my breath.
My head is spinning. The sunlight is too bright out here, and I squint and turn my face.
There’s too much space. Where a moment ago, I’d been filled with panic at the enclosing walls, now it’s the seemingly endless expanse of the grounds and surrounding woodland of Verona Falls that’s making me panic.
No matter where I go, no matter what I do, the fear always wins.
The door I’ve just exited from opens, and the guy from class steps out. I try to shrink back, to become invisible, but there’s nowhere to go with the wall behind my back. He notices me right away.
“Ophelia?”
I jerk away and glance around, already searching for a new escape route.
He holds up both hands as though trying to steady a skittish horse.
“I’m not chasing you,” he says, “I promise. I just wanted to check you were all right.”
He’d tried to help me inside the classroom. He looks scary, but I’ve learned looks can be deceiving. Some of the worst people I’ve ever met have appeared completely harmless on the outside.
I open my mouth to reply, but I can’t catch my breath. A tight band has wound its way around my ribcage, compressing my lungs. No matter how much I try to draw in air, the band only seems to get tighter.
A strange sound escapes my throat, and the man’s brow furrows in concern. My eyes fill with tears, and his face blurs. It’s a handsome face, too, despite all the makeup and tattoos. His eyes are deep brown and intense, his lips full, his cheekbones defined.
This isn’t going to work. I’ll never be like one of these other students, not giving a second thought to doing something as simple as sitting in a classroom.
I’m going to be forever trapped by what happened to me, never able to move on.
It doesn’t matter where my parents send me, or who I end up being around, I’ll never be free.
I’m completely overwhelmed, and I want to keep running, but I can’t.
I don’t have strength in my legs, or enough oxygen in my lungs.
All I can focus on is not being able to breathe, and the panic that’s taking over me.
I can’t think straight, and I clutch at my throat.
I’m awash with heat, sweat prickling my upper lip and brow.
My heart pounds so fast, I’m sure it’s going to explode.
There’s a terrible pressure inside my skull, and I’m convinced I’m going to suffer from a brain aneurysm right here and now.
My legs turn to jelly, and I fall to my knees, head hanging down.
I sense a person next to me and lift my head to look. To my surprise, the man with the black eyeliner joins me on the ground. He’s kneeling, too, and he locks his brown gaze on mine.
“Ophelia, you’re having a panic attack. I’m going to take your hands. Is that okay?”
I give a tiny nod. He might scare me, but I need something—or someone—to hold on to. Some way of grounding myself or else I’m going to fall off this mortal plane forever.
The moment his hands touch mine, I don’t feel as scared of him. His touch is warm and dry and firm. I cling to his fingers, squeezing them tightly.
“Breathe,” he says, “slowly, in and out, like this.”
He slows his breath, deliberately inhaling and exhaling at length. I try to follow him, but the band around my chest refuses to release.
“I-I can’t,” I squeak.
“You, you can. You are not going to die, even if it feels like it. This will pass. It will end.” He squeezes my hands. “You need to breathe out first. You’re hyperventilating, and your lungs are full, but it feels like you need to suck in air. You don’t. Push it out first.”
I try to blow out some air but panic more. My vision is speckled and dancing with white dots.
“Just a tiny bit,” he says. He makes a blowing sound as he pushes out a long, slow breath.
I copy him and manage to push some air out.
I realize the band has loosened a little. I’m able to suck in a ragged breath. Oh blessed, sweet relief. It’s the most wonderful moment, like the first sip of water when you’re dying of thirst.
He smiles at me.
“That’s right. You’re doing great. Breathe with me. Follow the rise and fall of my chest.”
I’m able to concentrate on him now. His chest is hidden beneath his black t-shirt, but I can see the motion of the material.
My breathing is still ragged and I let out little squeaks and whimpers.
Tears pool in the corners of my eyes and, when I blink, they spill down my cheeks.
He notices and squeezes my hands harder.
I don’t know what I’ve done for him to be so kind to me. He doesn’t even know me. I don’t deserve his attention at all. It’s not something I’ll ever be able to repay.
He pulls me in closer, and I cling to him, riding the wave of panic I’m being carried on, waiting for it to wash me to shore.
He edges closer too, until our knees touch, our hands are clutched between our bodies, and our foreheads press together.
I’m unused to being so close to a man, but somehow, this doesn’t feel strange, or wrong, the way I was always told physical contact with men was.
Maybe it’s because I’m more focused on not dying than I am at his proximity.
“You just have to get control of your breathing,” he encourages, “and I know you can do it.”
I don’t understand why he has any faith in me. I don’t have any in myself. I don’t even know his name, though he knows mine. Cain must have told him.
At the thought of Cain, I’m reminded of my childhood.
I’m reminded of the girl I once was, before all this terrible stuff happened to me.
I think of tall grass and trickling streams and lying on my back in the sunshine and letting it warm my skin.
The memories have been unlocked since I saw Cain, and now they’re rushing to the surface like lava in a volcano.
I think that’s partly what’s causing me to be so emotional at the moment.
Still, these particular memories are good, happy.
I let them fill me, until I can feel the sun on my skin, as if I’m a kid again, just happy and innocent.
Finally, I discover I’m able to breathe normally again, and I let out a huge rush of air from my lungs, my shoulders dropping. My hair hangs around my face, and the man in front of me straightens slightly, then lifts his hand to tuck a lock of my hair behind my ear.
My breath catches, but for a whole different reason this time.
I find myself staring into his brown eyes, lost in the intensity of his gaze.
It’s as though he’s silently asking me, ‘Who are you?’ I see pain in those eyes, too, a story of his own.
What has happened to him to make him understand, at least in a small part, what I’m going through now?
He holds my gaze, and I can’t look away.
The atmosphere between us changes, and my lips part as my tongue darts out and swipes at my lower lip.
He’s so intense, and he looks kind of scary, but behind that is a kindness most wouldn’t see.
It’s there in the depths of his eyes. The longer we look at one another, the calmer I feel.
We have a connection, and I’m not used to feeling this way—as though I want to crawl into his lap and press my mouth to his.
The thought comes from nowhere, and it’s like being hit with an electric paddle, jolting me back to reality.
I’m not allowed to have thoughts like that.
He will know.
The man who took me and ruled over me with an iron fist for the majority of my teenage years.
He made me believe he could see into my heart and soul and mind.
That he could read my thoughts and would know if any of them were impure.
My therapist told me countless times that such a thing is impossible, that no one is gifted, or cursed, with such an ability.
My therapist got me to stand in front of a mirror and stare into my own eyes and say things like ‘my thoughts are my own’ and ‘no one else knows what I’m thinking. ’
It still feels like he can see through my eyes, though, that he sees me now, holding hands with a stranger, our foreheads practically touching.
I’m still terrified of the repercussions, not only of the beating I’d receive, but of how my sin would send me to hell.
I yank away and stagger to my feet. The panic threatens to return.
“Ophelia? What’s wrong?” He stands, too, palms out as he takes a step forward.
I take a couple of steps away. “I’m sorry. I-I can’t.”
“Can’t what? We weren’t doing anything.”
Maybe in his mind we weren’t doing anything, but it’s different for me.
Everything is different for me, even kneeling on the ground with a boy who is trying to make me feel better.
I’m sure he is used to being around girls.
Looking like he does, he’s probably slept his way through most of the university.
He probably just sees me as a new girl to conquer, but I’m not like that. I’m not allowed to be like that.
I turn and walk away, my feet crunching over gravel. I start at a fast walk but then break into a run.
His call follows me. “Ophelia, wait!”
This is the second time I’ve run from one of these men. I don’t even know where I’m going, but it won’t be back to class. I can’t spend the rest of my life locked away in my bedroom, but that’s the only place I feel even slightly safe.
I’m always running, but I can’t run from myself.
I know what’s frightened me so much about being around him.
He made me feel something other than panic and fear.
For a moment, in his proximity, I felt the stirrings of what we were told is the ultimate sin.
Lust. A need to touch another person and have them touch me.
I’d wanted to climb onto his lap, and straddle his thighs, and know how he felt between my legs.
I’d wanted to press my mouth to his, and my breasts to his chest, and discover if his jet-black hair is as soft as it looks.
It’s not a feeling I’ve experienced before. It’s something we were taught was the deadliest of all the sins, and I was always kind of okay with that, because I’d never met anyone I felt that way about. Why worry about a sin you don’t expect to commit?
In fact, the sensation is so foreign it took me a moment to understand what was happening. I almost didn’t recognize the meaning behind the way my body reacted to him.
So I keep running. Away from temptation and away from my fears.
It’s not until the sound of his voice fades that I realize I don’t even know his name.