Chapter 17
Ophelia
"THAT MAN IS FEEDING MY ADDICTION one massage at a time. I’m telling you, he’s dangerous, but so damn fine," Caroline says dreamily as her scalpel sinks deeper into the fresh corpse on the table.
With practiced ease, as if she were carving into butter, a trail of blood pools under the pressure of the blade while she makes a Y-shaped incision in the exposed chest area.
The body belongs to a woman who apparently died under suspicious circumstances. It's possible her husband was involved, given that her fingerprints are nowhere to be found on the ladder he conveniently found her under several hours later.
As much as I’ve missed hearing about my cousin's nightly drunken escapades orchestrated by her walking dead man in the mortuary room, I can only focus on the deliberate breaths I force myself to take.
For the last half hour, a cold hand has dug into my shoulder like a hook, not allowing me to concentrate on anything but its feather-fine stabs demanding my undivided attention.
Can you feel me? An eerie woman’s voice, broken and sharp as shattered china, echoes in my ears as if she were speaking from the depths of a tunnel; the sound, rippling like static through my bones.
This is my grim normalcy and suffocating as it may be, it is also familiar. Aside from Dante's voice, I prefer this one, to any sound of the mortal world. Down here, there is no judgment, no pressure beyond the call of the void.
"Was Damian here last night?" I ask Caroline, but the cold breath next to my cheek has my full interest, no matter how hard I try to center myself in the present moment. I feel my blood pulsing, the fine hairs on the back of my neck standing up as my eyes water.
He’s closer than you think; she breathes and I freeze in place.
These ominous words are the last I hear before the presence disappears as if someone had blown out a candle in passing. Gradually, all of my senses regain some of their clarity, yet my heart beats a restless rhythm.
Could it be one of the passed victims trying to warn me? I didn’t recognize her energy, but the perfume of death, the tragic and harrowing kind is easily distinguishable. As if branded with a hot iron, the spirit bears the stain of its executioner and final hour until its release from this world.
Could she be talking about the Grave Digger or someone else entirely?
If she’s an omen of sorts, trying to warn me of his intentions, the position I find myself in is graver than I predicted. Entities rarely make the great effort to communicate with the living in such an assertive manner.
"You didn't listen to a word I said, did you?" my cousin asks and even though I didn't do it on a conscious level, my dissociative nature has instilled in me the habit of keeping a window open to the material world, even if I am far away.
"He came by and ripped your new dress off. You did it on the floor, right in this room," I answer on reflex, my eyes transfixed on a blank spot behind her shoulder.
"You’re good, hun, but don’t insult my female intuition. At least not while I'm holding a scalpel," she teases even though I can see concern in her eyes as she observes me carefully, the thin blade momentarily hanging above the forehead of the woman’s lifeless body.
"I’m sorry, I’ve been distracted by someone else," I say truthfully as I pour the last of the caramel liquor in my coffee.
Today, the smell of formalin and slow decay doesn't sit well with my anxiety, heightening my need for something strong to soothe my nerves.
"Living or dead?" she asks, licking her lips in concentration, as she removes part of the skin, exposing the crimson tissue underneath.
For my whole life, the sight of organs, even those of animals, has turned my stomach. The gore unsettles me to the point of sickness, but time and time again I force myself to watch the whole process like an incoming train wreck. Why do I do it? I think I’ll never know.
My head feels heavy, tunnel vision looms over me, while the ringing in my ears becomes almost unbearable. Something – someone’s forceful energy is resting its whole weight on my chest, and I…I can’t breathe. This is not normal.
"Ophi, darlin', what is it?" she asks, kneeling and placing an ice cube on my forehead, visible concern now covering her doll-like features. "Is it about that unresolved case?"
"Yes and no," I answer truthfully, forgetting for a second my filter.
I instantly regret it, since I am not in the frame of mind and spirit to give her access to my struggles. The weight is mine to carry and she has enough of her own.
Caroline sighs at my vague response, a latent guilt making a rare appearance. She deserves my honesty, considering she's the last person in the world who would judge or wish me harm, but I simply can't share myself with her. With no one else other than my Dante.
"You’ve been awfully quiet lately. Is there something I should know or would you rather pretend everything is fine and dandy until I’ll eventually implode?" she asks, studying her nails, a sardonic smile covering her lips as she raises an eyebrow.
Short lived warmth settles in my chest at her worry. After all, she has been the only soul who truly cared for my well-being since our grandmother died.
"Forgive my distance. Something did happen, but I’m not ready to speak of it yet," I say as I fight a crippling migraine. Caroline deserves for me to be a fair and decent friend who also shares parts of her earthly experience, even if I do it once every full moon.
It's not that I don't trust her or that we're not close enough. I am simply the kind of person who listens and offers the support that the one in front of me needs. My private world is mine alone, and opening its doors feels sacrilegious, even with people who I consider dear.
Fortunately, she understands my peculiar way of being and always has. Just like I accept her rebellious impulsivity.
"Okay, but am I granted one question though? I’ll back off afterwards," she asks, the feeling of suffocation easing some.
"I feel awful when I see you being so cautious with me," I say, relaxing in the eighties floral-print armchair she just thrifted.
"Hun, it's already water under the bridge, believe me. So, is there a handsome gentleman haunting your bed in the dead of night? Yes or no are considered valid answers," she says, batting her eyelashes in that adorable way of hers that could make a grown man melt. How could anyone ever refuse her anything?
"Yes, and he frightens me in unfathomable ways," I admit, crossing my legs and smiling to myself as I rotate the coffee cup around the plate.
"Well, stone me, I knew it! It was about time. I am so happy for you Ophi!" she exclaims while hugging and giving me a peck on the forehead.
"Thank you. I promise, my being withdrawn has nothing to do with you. I just need more time," I say, patting her hand.
"That thought never even crossed my mind, I know you are an introvert who goes through long periods of isolation and I will always respect that," she says while cleaning her scalpel on her pants. " Anyway, I asked because I wanted to know if I should add a plus one for my last minute wedding."
* * *
I feel a pair of eyes belonging to the living on the back of my head, which is a far more terrifying sensation than being watched by the dead. Malevolent and cold, they stare at me as I wander through the dense midday crowd, seizing me with practiced ease from a distance.
On impulse, I take a sharp left, wanting to establish once and for all if I've been followed for the last hour on my way home. Without any hesitation or sign of retreat, they continue to trail me, my heart beating a sickening rhythm in my throat at the realization. This is definitely not paranoia fueled by sleepless nights.
The line of people walking past me thins down the alleyway of Durren Park and I can't help but turn my head in fear. However, when I do, amid the ravens hovering in search of scraps and the bare branches of the oak trees, there is only the faint light that slips through the dark lenses of my sunglasses.
Feeling vulnerable, I hide my face deeper into the faux fur collar of my blazer, instinctively trying to hide myself. The sound of my stiletto heels clicking on the deserted pavement accentuates my nerves as the mist blanketing the ground evaporates under my hurried steps.
All the while, that sinister gaze trails down my spine like an axe as I make my way to the chapel at the far end of the park that I've visited only a few times in the past. The mere thought of remaining exposed in the open scenery makes me feel trapped, and this is the only place that comes to mind where I might be safe enough at the moment.
As I approach the narrow pathway leading to the Gothic sanctuary looming before me, I exhale a sigh of relief, feeling somewhat lighter at the sight of another woman entering its premises. There will be at least another person in case the lurker will come closer and the knife hidden in my garter will fail me.
With trembling fingers I make the sign of the cross as I open the door of St. Martin's Chapel and enter the dark, intimate space. The familiarity of stained glass windows in different shades of burgundy and topaz gives me a sense of feigned comfort. While the smoky, slightly bitter scent of myrrh mixed with that of melting wax reminds me that sanctity in this fragile, fraying at the seams world still exists.
Although this place of worship is fairly small compared to a regular-sized church, I count six rows filled with no more than three people. Each one is lost in prayer before the altar, an amber glow from the myriad of candles illuminating the space inviting me to follow suit.
On timorous feet I make my way to the front row, my heels echoing in the deep stillness surrounding me.
My chin begins to tremble once my knees hit the pillow on the floor, the harsh material scraping my thin stockings. Soon after, I’m shaking as if I were forgotten linen on a wire in the middle of a brewing storm, because the deafening creak of the door behind me announces itself in the tomb-like silence.
I don't have to turn my head to know, with my whole being, that the person who followed me has just entered the chapel I deemed safe enough from him – The Grave Digger.
Jack Travers takes a seat two rows behind me, his loud breathing swallowing entirely the sacredness of the space with his moldy energy.
God help us all.
With a dread that makes my chest hurt, I push the knife into the fabric of my skirt, the blade barely making a sound as it slips down my thigh and hits the pillow. With my other hand I take out the rosary from my bag, along with my phone.
As discretely as I can, I dial the only man that has ever reached my soul, the one who thought me that safety can be found in another.
I plant one earbud in, while my lips brush over the rosary as I grip it tightly between my hands. One lone tear falls down my cheek with gratitude as I bow forward when he answers after one ring.
"Dante, my love," I breathe the words solemnly, as if in prayer.
"Ophelia, what’s wrong?" he asks, panic already coating his voice, since this is the first time I’ve called him.
"He, he is here, he–" I stammer, unable to find the words amid the daggers pointed at my back.
"I’ll skin him alive," he grits out, in less than a few seconds, the sound of a revving engine filling the line.
"Please don’t go…" I say with silent tears falling down my cold cheeks and praying hands as I mold them tightly around the string of beads.
"I am right here, la mia vita. I’ll reach you in five minutes. Did he lay a finger on you?" he asks with a strained, muffled voice.
"No. How do you know where I am?" I whisper, trying to swallow my fear away, even though I know nothing will put my mind at ease until I’ll be in his arms.
"I placed a tracker in your phone a while back," he says, swearing under his breath at something.
"Thank God," I breathe, not caring about my privacy or other inane matters when my life is so erratic these days. To be honest, the fact that he is so consumed with me that he has to know where I am at all times does nothing but warm my neglected heart.
"Do not move from that chapel, not if he just watches from afar," he says in a calm voice that I know he's only using for my sake.
"I’ll wait for you, just please stay with me," I plead, bowing my head further.
"Mia cara, not even death could remove me from you," he says both firmly and deadly as I hear him accelerate. "Do you want to hear a story?"
"Y-yes," I whimper, salt coating my upper lip and falling down my terrified mouth as I hear the man behind me change places, leaving only a pew between us.
"Good girl, focus on me," he says tenderly. "Once upon a time there was a boy who stole everything that was forgotten and left behind, giving them a new home. He didn't like shiny things or novelties; he believed them to be rotten. Are you following me?"
"I do…follow you," I whisper, in case the man tries to catch a glimpse of the words dripping from my mouth, though the double meaning burns like the candles before me.
"You see, the day of his eighteenth birthday he was on the lookout while his uncle retrieved something he stole the night before and hid in a mausoleum. As he was waiting in the barren cemetery he saw something more precious than anything he had ever witnessed ever since."
I am so engrossed with envisioning his story that I can barely hear the murderous man behind me shifting his weight on the bench, the aged wood creaking.
Blindly, I grip the knife tighter along the rosary. This is how I pray, while listening to the voice of the only soul capable of grounding me.
"The sight he witnessed with his young, unprepared eyes changed his life forever. There, on the crest of an impending storm, stood a girl bent at the waist and kneeling; whose silky, raven hair reached to the wet ground as her frail, pale hands dug deep into it. The boy had never seen such unblemished beauty, such anguish as that in her grieving form, which seemed to bear the pain of a thousand women as she wept," Dante barely breathes the words down the line as I dryly swallow a wail burning in the back of my throat.
"In that moment he realized that no treasure, no riches this treacherous world might ever offer could compare to his need to steal away her pain; to place it in his pocket and carry it for the rest of his days if it meant she would never again feel what now brought her to her knees," he says solemnly, as I feel a physical void poised to swallow me whole as I stand before the altar and its absolution.
"Exhale deeply if you’re feeling at risk," he says, urgency coating his words as if he feels my distraught even though a word hadn’t left my mouth in the past few minutes.
I let out a long, shuddering breath from the hollows of my fear, sensing the ominous presence behind me slowly creeping closer like an evil spirit ready to eradicate me.
"The shadows are yours, tesorina, and so am I. Never forget that," he says devotedly, his words giving me renewed strength. "Do you want to know what the boy did next?"
"Yes," I murmur, pretending I am softly clearing my throat, with tears falling down my décolletage.
"Despite being hardly prepared for such emotions, the boy felt that the weeping girl was important and would always be to him. Even though their eyes had never met, he had seen them lifted to the sky – their grey pallor, the alchemy behind them, made him fall in love irremediably like struck by lightning. Not in passing or romanticizing the idea of who she might be, but with her soul; because he recognized himself in her," he says in a raw, passionate voice.
"Coup de foudre," I add, rapt with awe.
"Exactly," he swallows, the wind getting increasingly stronger.
I wet my lips as I rearrange my knees on the pillow and press my body in the wooden surface in front of me. I want to mold myself and disappear into Dante’s words filled with messianic passion and vanish from the sights of the evil presence behind me.
"Just when he wanted to bow at her feet, to cradle her frail body to his chest, smell the smokiness of her hair and inhale the pain away, fate vehemently opposed. Someone nearby shouted out of nowhere as his uncle ran towards him with desperation in his eyes. Looking down, he knew that moment would be pivotal in his life. He could choose his own blood and freedom, considering they would be arrested if caught, or stay here with her and suffer the consequences. What was he to do?" Dante asks, silence and the faint hum of the engine purring down the line.
"What was he to do?" I mirror in a small voice, not because I don't want to disturb the silence, but because the importance of what follows demands it; forgetting for a moment the man breathing heavily behind me.
"He chose her. Their eyes met while his knees hit the ground; and the earth was shaking, the blood in his veins flowed like mercury, the time stopped and waited for them to touch but –"
"But?" I ask, feeling the beat of my heart throughout my whole body.
"Their eyes didn't lock for more than two seconds before the man lost track of his uncle in the commotion and headed straight for him instead. Before he could ask the girl for her name, an older woman with eyes that glared at him with silent threat came and ripped her away, just as he was picked up by the police. And that’s the story of how he lost her before he had her."
I hear the man behind me rising to his feet and, after a tense second, sense him leaning forward and inhaling deeply. The sensation sends thousands of spiders running down my spine and a vile taste in my mouth before I feel him slowly retreating. But it doesn’t matter anymore, nothing does but…
"Dante," I sob, because I was sixteen once. Sixteen and mourning on the cold wet grounds of the cemetery floor. Grieving like a mother, like a sister, like a stranger for a beloved little boy who will never get to experience his first day of drama school, planting a fig tree forest, to love and be loved. All because I wasn’t there to protect him.
And now I know that an eighteen-year-old Dante was standing beside me through it all. I remember vividly seeing his shoes from my periphery, as my hands gathered the freshly turned earth, chocked up and overwhelmed by all the tears I had held back for weeks. Myself departed, I sobbed for the injustice and cruelty of my brother's fate, sobbing for all of humanity and its implicit inhumanity.
As motionless as he was, and I, being consumed with the inmost turmoil of my being, I believed him to be an apparition watching over me; manifesting there only out of pity.
But no, I couldn't have been further from the truth. At one point, I felt his need to touch me from a distance and yet I didn't turn my head, continuing to pour out my pain on the damp ground because I was afraid.
Somewhere deep inside me, something warned me that if I were to meet his gaze, he would fall at my feet, lay my head in his lap and hold me in his arms until my eyes become a land void of all rain.
I can still taste how frightened I was that he might give me something I desperately needed in that crucial moment. That the second my tears would dry on my cheeks, he'd dust himself off, give me an sympathetic look and continue on his way, leaving me behind altered and more alone than ever.
So, I didn’t risk my soul. I couldn’t afford another loss, no matter how insignificant it might have been. By remaining oblivious I could still feel him standing over me, like a protector, strong enough to carry my battles if my internal wars bled out of my pores to the point of hurricanes.
Little did I know that we were both fighting against ourselves to stall for one more second, to feel destiny at our fingertips, to be together.
The furtive memory of him had remained amongst the ones of those painful days I rarely dare visit, just like the photo of my brother I can’t bear to look at on my vanity. But my heart – it remembers him, not from that day in particular but from entire lifetimes ago, where we had loved with a potency transcending the human spirit.
A flicker of light comes from someone opening the door and shattering the memory in half, creating a thin strip of sunlight on the marbled cream floor. I shiver both in fear and relief when I turn my head and see the pew behind me empty, that very same figure I had seen at Penelope’s funeral just exiting the chapel.
At the same time, the line goes dead, which makes me want to get to my feet in a panic, but something unseen holds me in place; that's when I pray and thank our Creator for the gift of life and love; for his safety.
Mid-prayer the door opens and I feel him . Dante emerges like an angel of death, the blinding light behind his imposing silhouette making him appear as something belonging to a world foreign to ours.
I don't move a muscle as he looks with abyssal eyes straight into my soul, his hand making the sign of the cross as he inspects the place.
He cuts straight through the pews, kneeling to my right and resting his elbows on the wooden frontal once he reaches me. I blink once, transfixed as if seeing him for the very first time.
In a barely occupied chapel, I lift my gaze and find life's essence in him. Living there, I become a lover who has never known love before him, seeking him like a fatherless daughter, with a soul that begs him to dwell in me like a childless mother.
It's as simple and transcendental as that, and it floors me even though I've been bowing for what seems like hours, because when it comes to him, my soul does.
In this quiet moment between lucidity and worship, I fully realize that what I had felt until this point was me falling in love with him. That I had known with certainty for some time.
But this, this is love – the highest power having its own religion and altar; each soul walking this earth being a follower weather he’s professing it in the valleys or rioting in hiding.
God, how did I drag my soul in this world without knowing the taste of completion? Could this be the reason why I have been barely living in it? So I wouldn’t know this loss? So I could survive its absence?
I look at him, fascinated by a faint scar between his tear duct and the bridge of his nose, wishing I could sink myself with all that I am in him; for just a second, to abandon everything and submerge myself in his waters.
Drunk on my own brand of opium, I raise my hand and touch his ink covered cheek, a lone tear falling on mine for the life we could’ve shared together and yet lost, more than a decade ago.
"I remember your hair falling in your eyes before they took you away," I whisper, trembling fingers tracing his lips.
"I love you too," he says with years of emotion in his eyes, taking my hand and brushing his lips over the abused palm, now filled with the imprint of the rosary beads.
He loves me. Me. I – I am loved. By him, the one I love.
Unable to contain it any longer, I collapse into his arms, and he takes me in as always, holding me close as I cry for all the years of anguish and loneliness; for losing my little brother, for both of my parents, my grandmother, the countless deaths I had guided through the dark while holding my own hand. For him, for us, for what we could’ve had…
"Shh, mia cara, we are together now. God is my witness; I will make it my life’s duty to give you a home where you will only know safety, where I will love you like no one else can. Peace, I will give you a peace that no afterlife can promise," he assures me so very tenderly, brushing his fingers over my tear-streaked face.
"My love, my only love, my…"I shiver over his lips, shedding bitter tears for the lost people we were forced by life to become, for our souls that yearned for the other when our separate worlds burned before our eyes. All alone, in pieces, hungry.
"I know, I know, but I found you. I will always find you, no matter how far you hide, what shackles you, how deep the waters are – you will always be mine and I will always be yours," he promises, pressing his forehead to mine.
"I love you," I utter the most powerful words my lips have ever spoken, before kissing him with a feather touch. His eyes simmer with tears of his own, clenching his jaw as if in pain.
"So many winters have passed, yet I would do it all again, just for the sound of these words falling from your lips," he murmurs, hiding me into his chest.
We stay like that, sprawled on the floor, hanging on the anchor embodied by the other until we reach the shore, rejoicing because we are finally together in spite of it all.
"I want to rip him to shreds for even looking at you. If he dared to touch you, I –"
"It’s in the past. This horrid ordeal will pass, like everything eventually does," I say softly, running my fingers through his curls.
"You are now aware that I lost you once and found you over a decade later, only to almost fail you at the hands of that rotten excuse of a man. I can't even conceive the thought of that monster getting close enough to smell you, to…" he swallows, shaking his head.
"He is long gone. Don’t let him take this moment away from us. Today I feel alive, only because of you. Do you have any idea how remarkable that is?" I ask with wonder.
"Tesoro, all I know is that every step I take is with you in mind. I would die for you, but ultimately, dying is easy and it can be a hero’s most sacrificial act or a coward’s way out. For you, I would live and suffer gladly every second of my existence on this damned earth." he declares brimming with passion and a fluent sadness I could read with my eyes closed.
"I want you to see yourself beyond the pain, to heal. For us to live a life defined by what our love will shape us into, rather than what has been done to us," I say, closing my eyes against his forehead.
"We will do it all, together," he vows.
"Tell me something," I pause for a moment, trying to find the strength to ask the question that's been eating at me since earlier. "You just told me you were eighteen when we met and that you were arrested for being an accessory to robbery. When you recounted that horrid day, you mentioned that you were under house arrest. Was it because of me?" I ask, unspeakable guilt drowning my heart at the implications.
"Yes, but it was never because of you, tesoro," he whispers, closing his eyes as if in pain as he shakes his head.
"But…but if you were free, you could’ve been in the car with them before those people –" I choke out, shaking with overwhelming remorse.
"Ophelia, listen to me," he demands softly. "Whether I was there or not, they wouldn't stop at nothing. I saw it in their eyes; they were out for blood, no matter the risk or fallout."
"Don’t you believe in the butterfly effect?" I ask, as he wipes away my tears and licks them off his inked fingers.
"I believe in you, in us, in inevitability," he says stoically, full of acceptance and understanding.
"I feel at fault all the same," I say, hiding my face into his neck.
"Then I will spend a lifetime making you feel the opposite," he says, cupping my head. "I’ll take care of us."
"Tell me what happened after."
"I looked for you the second when they let me go. But the grave I’ve found you at was unmarked and the people wouldn’t talk, no matter how much I tried to bribe or threatened them. I was so haunted by this need to not give you up, while the one to find you consumed me to the point of insomnia. And so the years went by and you remained my secret ghost that I could never part with. That’s why I call you 'mia ombra'," he says with abounding emotion – melting me, shaping me.
I can't conceive the torment he must have went through knowing that we exist under the same moon, but that we are merely bodies drifting on the opposite shores of an immaterial ocean.
"I remember that day. My brother had been buried there, but his grave kept being vandalized. Partly because some people fail to understand that mental illness is not a choice and as a consequence of my grandmother’s reputation of being a witch who practiced black magic. They thought the grave site was a bad omen, perhaps even cursed. So they kept destroying the flowers I planted and wrote repulsive things on the headstone of a seven year old boy. We had to remove his body and place it in an unmarked location. That day I was saying goodbye, sobbing my soul out because even in death they didn’t leave him alone. The woman you’ve seen was my cousin’s mother, telling me I was making a scene as always. That was the last time I set foot in that cemetery."
"That’s why you don’t like being called a witch. Brings back the pain of being cast out and judged since the ignorant throw stones at what they fear and cannot understand."
He knows me so well.
"For centuries they had tried to kill us all, Dante. Burned us at the stake, flooded our lungs along with our identities until we forgot our names and past. That's what history has given us just for trying to treat a cold with herbs," I pause, numb and tired. "I no longer fear, but I would rather have peace than be assigned a term that defines in trenchant lines who I am and the pain we have all suffered because of it. The few of us they failed to pluck out are treated by the very same people like pests during the day and saving graces when the night comes."
"Mia cara, come ardi, come risplendi. Senza di te il mio cuore non batte, ," he says passionately and how I wish I was fluent in his mother tongue even though my heart understands the emotion behind every word that ever left his mouth.
He reads the question in my eyes and whispers their meaning in my ear, making me shake with want as he pours down my being his longing, his desire.
"There isn’t a life where I wouldn’t feel you from the distance; find you no matter the cost or sacrifice and make you feel," he says between kisses down the pulsing column of my neck.
And so it is.
"la mia vita" it. (endearment) my life.
"Coup de foudre," fr. a sudden unforeseen event, in particular an instance of love at first sight.
"Mia cara, come ardi, come risplendi. Senza di te il mio cuore non batte" it. My darling, how you burn, how you radiate. Without you my heart does not beat.