15. Ophelia
OPHELIA
I am so unnerved by Cain’s visit that I start to pack my bags.
For a good fifteen minutes, I have such an epic freakout that I almost turn tail and run home, but then I calm down and remember what my therapist told me.
The worst thing I can do is keep hiding.
Keep running. If I do that, I’ll never recover.
I’ll never truly be free. I agree with her.
To get better, I must live. I haven’t had any of the normal rites of passage that most young girls have when they pass into adulthood.
I need to do those things to learn who I am.
All I have behind me is trauma, and it’s my choice now to decide what lies ahead of me.
That’s the gift I’ve been given. A future.
I was brave enough to escape, so now I need to be brave enough to live.
My mind flashes back to the commune and how abnormal life there was.
My first period was spent crying in the house of shame , as the other women half-jokingly called it.
Whenever we were on our unclean period , we had to go stay in that house on the edge of the commune.
The other women would bring us food, and they’d be kind, but we were basically ostracized for four to seven days a month.
Then there was my first kiss. It was a boy who was the son of a family who had helped raise me after he had taken me.
He’d pushed me up against the kitchen counter one day, while his mother was in the garden, and pressed his cold, wet lips against mine.
It had been disgusting, and I’d shoved him away in shock.
He’d called me names after that, claiming that I’d tempted him, and soon the family made me leave.
The actions of the men and boys in the commune were never their fault.
It was always the woman or girl who had led them astray.
I had to go live with an older couple who had no children at home and who would help me with my impure and wicked impulses .
The Prophet controlled every part of our lives.
We were told what we could read, what kind of music we were allowed to listen to—gospel only—and things like television were strictly forbidden.
We were even told what to wear, and everyone had to dress in the color maroon.
Whenever I see it, or variations of it, it sends me right back to that place.
I’ll never wear anything of that shade again for as long as I live.
Even now, a year away from the place, I still haven’t caught up with normal life. I have no favorite bands I want to see. I don’t have a social media profile.
No bookshelves full of my favorite reads. No notes passed to me from boys in the hall at school. No Snap messages from my bestie.
Nothing.
I’m a blank canvas. A woman who doesn’t know who she is or what she wants in life, and I hate it. The way people look at me is either with pity or as if I’m a freak. Part of me wants to be normal so badly.
With slightly shaking hands, I pick up my phone—a new addition I had to be taught how to use—and type out a message before I can second guess myself. The reply comes fast.
I smile, and the mix of nerves and excitement is almost too much to bear.
When the knock at the door comes, fifteen minutes later, I’m surprised I haven’t worn a path in the carpet, I have paced that much.
I pull the door open, and Camile grins at me. “Hey there,” she says.
She has a big bag in her hand, and she walks into the room. “I grabbed a few things that might fit. You’re smaller and a lot slimmer than me, but with some of these outfits it won’t really matter.”
I had texted her and asked if she’d go to the bar with me, and also if she had anything I could wear. I can’t go to the student bar in one of my handmade dresses. I’ve seen the looks I get everywhere around the college wearing them.
Mom had begged me to let her take me shopping, but I’d said no.
She’d gone without me and returned with bags of clothes she deemed to be more appropriate for someone my age.
I have some with me now, but I’ve never even tried them on.
I’d thought it would be a sin to wear those kinds of clothes, but now, here I am.
About to sin, because it turns out that I just can’t face being looked at by everyone as an outcast anymore.
Perhaps to save myself, I must become a sinner.
Camile empties the bag, and she chooses a strapless denim dress. “Try this first. I think it’s the best bet to find something to fit.”
I undress to my underwear quickly, not used to being seen, but knowing it’s okay as Camile is a girl too. This isn’t sinful. Doing it in front of a man would be very different. When I’m in just my panties and white bra, I turn to her. “Okay.”
She slips the dress over my head.
It’s got a zipper up the back, and when it settles over me and Camile has zipped it up, I realize it’s just above knee length.
“This is perfect,” Camile says as she steps back and looks at me. “But you’re going to need to lose the bra.”
“Really?” It feels like a step too far to me.
“If you’re going to wear the dress in public, definitely.”
I bite my lower lip and hesitate. It’s showing far too much skin compared to what I’m used to, but it’s no more than I’ve seen other girls wear, even sitting in class.
I remind myself why I’m doing this—because I want to be like those girls—and, making up my mind, quickly turn my back and whip off my bra.
I straighten the top of the dress, making sure it fits snugly around the top of my breasts and then turn back to Camile.
Her brown eyes light up and she claps and jumps up and down. “You look amazing!”
I tug at the material. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. On me, it’s a bit shorter, but on you, it’s a great length.”
I feel self-conscious with my pale legs sticking out of the dress. “Do you have anything longer?”
She shakes her head. “Not with me. You want to fit in, right? Long dresses aren’t really right for the student bar. I think this suits you much better.”
I walk to the mirror and look at myself. I feel silly, like a stupid little girl playing dress up in her mom’s clothes.
Camile takes out a small brown zip-up bag. “I have some makeup in here. Can I put a tiny bit on you?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to say it’s a sin, but then I remember, tonight, I’m strong. I’m going to live like a normal girl for one night, and I will ignore that damn voice in my head.
I relent. “Not much.”
“I promise.” She goes to work, and when she’s done, she says, “You can look. I only used a bit of brown mascara, a tiny bit of pale bronzer, and a subtle gloss.”
I examine my face and can’t stop staring.
What the heck? It’s like a magic trick. I’m me…
but not me. My eyes look huge with their spidery brown lashes.
And they’re natural compared to most girls’, I know, but for me, they are striking.
My lips are shiny and look bigger, but the biggest difference is the way the glow of the bronzer highlights my cheekbones and tip of my nose, making my scar less of an issue.
Like this, with the makeup on, it’s not the first thing you see.
I don’t want to stop staring at myself. That’s why it’s a sin to wear makeup , his voice says.
A shiver runs down my spine. I need to drown him out.
“What do you do if you want to forget everything?” I ask Camile.
“I have a drink,” she replies with a grin as she comes to stand behind me.
Her face is reflected next to mine in the mirror, and instead of feeling ugly next to her, I feel half pretty.
I bite the inside of my cheek. “I don’t really drink.”
It’s a white lie because I don’t drink at all. Ever.
“We can get you something easy like a vodka and Coke.” She smiles again, holding my eye in the mirror.
I can’t help comparing our faces, how her brown eyes are naturally framed by thick, dark lashes, how her lips are full, how her cheeks are flushed pink. She seems so confident in herself and relaxed in her own body. I wish I was more like her.
“Okay.” Gathering my courage because it’s now or never, I say, “Let’s do it.”
She crooks her arm, offering me her elbow.
Anxiety bubbles up inside me. “Don’t leave me, will you?”
“I promise. I’m glued to your side this evening. Anyway, it’s a quiet night in the bar. It’s later in the week it gets busy.”
We walk to the bar, and when the cold air hits me, I really notice it on my legs.
When we get inside the warm bar, I feel relief for all of thirty seconds, then I see all the other students gathered.
They sit around tables or stand in groups, laughing and talking.
Camile said it wasn’t busy, but this is more than enough people for me.
Thank God we haven’t come on a busier night.
Heads turn as Camile makes her way to the bar.
I follow, sticking right by her side. Everyone is staring, and I swear I notice some of them elbowing their friends and nodding in my direction.
I feel so self-conscious, I want to shrink into nothing.
It takes all my strength not to turn and race out of there.
Only the idea of making myself look even more ridiculous stops me from doing so.
Camile orders two drinks and passes me one. It’s a dark liquid in a glass with ice, and a small straw. I sip at it and almost spit it out.
She laughs. “That bad, huh? You’re not supposed to be able to taste vodka. What do you normally drink?”
I search my brain and can only think of what my parents have with dinner. “Wine, just a little.”
“Well, this is less likely to make you sick, I think. Wine always gives me an awful headache, especially if we’re not eating.” She glances around. “Do you want to go sit in that corner?”