Ophelia, Alive Read online

  She takes a deep breath, and says, “Because you’re not asking them of yourself, Phelia.”

  I sigh and I push myself to my feet. My shorts are tangled in my crotch. I tug at them, and the seams are like sawteeth, and I almost fall, but I catch myself on my desk.

  “You still have that rosary?” she says.

  I shake my head no, and I look at the floor so I don’t have to look in her eyes, and I tell her, “Sara took it.”

  “She took it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you let her?”

  “I—I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I didn’t even have the chance to stop her. She was just going on about how I shouldn’t let imaginary things comfort me, because that’s even worse than being depressed in the first place, and then she just pulled it off of me and threw it somewhere. She was trying to help—”

  “‘Help’?”

  “You don’t understand,” I tell her. “That’s just how she does things. Love consumes, destroys. That’s just Sara.”

  And she says, “She’s wrong, Phelia,” but her voice is so shaky small I can barely hear it. She chokes, clears her throat, and says—“I’m gonna find a way to show you how wrong she is.” And then she’s out the door, slamming it, and I’m left alone, just hanging, half-assedly, on my desk.

  I’ve done everything that’s required—

  Stayed in school, studied hard, gotten hired—

  But I’m starting to doubt

  Just how things can work out

  When my job, sis, and I are all—

  Ugh, enough with the damn limericks.

  Get over it. Stop trying to force everything into rhythm and rhyme. It doesn’t work that way. Nothing works that way, because nothing works, and God, I smell like death. I haven’t showered in a week, and suddenly all I can think about are the dozens of lives I have smeared all over me, the blood on my hands and the skin under my nails.

  I have to get clean. I have to get clean now.

  I grab the bucket of body wash and shampoo from the floor of my closet, ignoring the dried splotch of blood underneath it, and run for the bathroom down the hall, where I duck into a shower stall and thank God it’s deserted in here. I strip off my tank top and jerk the shorts off my legs and I twist the handle for hot water to blast myself in the face, just hoping to get the stink off of me.

  I scrub my arms and my chest with the soap, but the water up here’s super-hard, and it beads on your skin and refuses to run off and go down the drain, and the stink won’t come off me, because what can wash water away? It’s stuck to my arms with the sweat and the blood (is the blood really there, or am I going nuts?), and I think about when I was young and my mom used to talk about cleaning the bathroom or cleaning my bedroom or whatever else. And I’d think that that meant that the things in this world were all either just clean or just dirty, but later I realized that when I would clean things the dirt didn’t just disappear, it just stayed where I left it, inside of the sponge or the rag or the mop, and no matter how hard I would scrub there was always some left. And even the gunk I would flush down the drain was still somewhere, it wouldn’t just straight disappear, it was somewhere out there, even ended up (maybe) in fertilizer that they would spray on my food. And I started to think Maybe ‘clean’ doesn’t really exist. Maybe I’ve never seen something ‘clean.’ Maybe I never will. And was I ever clean? Will I ever be clean?

  Breathe.

  It’s like I was thinking yesterday, about how I still believe in these ideals—clean and dirty, right and wrong—even though everything in my experience tells me not to, that nothing exists in those sorts of binaries. I keep thinking about what Kate was saying about how I have a better moral compass than she does, but obviously that’s not true, since I’ve killed more than a dozen people now. I wonder, can I be a serial killer and still have a good moral compass? Like, if I murder a dozen people, but I know it was wrong, is that better? Does that make me a better person than a murderer who thinks it was a good decision?

  I have to laugh at that thought, because at the moment I don’t have much to laugh at beyond absurd moral quandaries. When I stop laughing, though, I’m sure I hear something. A footstep, a cough—a human noise. Obviously it’s not weird that there’s someone out in the bathroom, because there are a lot of girls on this floor, but it is strange that the sound stopped the second I did.

  No, I’m imagining things again. So glad I’m finally off this stuff. Once my system clears of it completely, then everything will make sense.

  I grab my shampoo and massage it into my hair. It’s that Herbal Essences stuff they brought back from the ‘90s, the stuff that apparently makes women orgasm in the commercials, but in the real world it just sort of foams in your hair. And in the hard water, if actually barely foams at all—it just sort of trickles down the back of my neck and makes the little hairs stand on end. I’m starting to shiver when I notice the outline behind the curtain.

  There really is someone out there.

  It wouldn’t be weird if it was someone just washing her hands or peeing or fixing her makeup, but this girl is just...standing on the other side of the curtain.

  I want to pull it back, peek around it, see what she’s doing, but that would just be too weird. I can’t make myself do it. So for the moment, she’s just an outline in the frosted curtain, gray and blurry, like a yeti, and the breathing is strangely familiar. Like the sort of breathing I used to lie awake at night listening to.

  Oh my God.

  I’m backing away, as fast as I can, and wedging myself in the shower’s back corner, and I’m naked and the water’s turned cold. I can’t explain the fear, can’t tell you what I’ m thinking, except No no no no no. And I feel her eyes on me, through the curtain somehow, tracking up and down me, saying, Yes, I remember.

  I bury my head in the corner and let the water drip down my face, thinking God, that’s so cold, and I shut my eyes tight, praying Just go away. There’s a rattling, a tugging, a rustling. More breathing. My head in the corner, cold water on my skin, and I wait too long to open my eyes.

  And she’s gone.

  The gray shadow, the yeti, isn’t there now. Just a blank, grayish curtain that looks the same as before, and my tank top and shorts hanging right where I left them, still mostly dry. I shiver in the corner till the hot water returns and oozes through the ice on my back, taking forever to restart my heart and force the blood through my veins, like a thousand tiny bugs trying to squeeze through the spout of a ketchup bottle.

  I stand under the warm water for a hundred and seventeen breaths, holding the shower handle for balance, counting hairs as they flatten against my skin, thinking What’s wrong with me? Thinking that I must have imagined the whole thing, that if someone came in, she was just here to pee, that the breathing sounded exactly like—

  But that doesn’t make any sense at all. Even if she were alive, why would she be coming here to scare me in the shower? That’s stupid, stop imagining things.

  I just need to get out of this creepy bathroom and go back to my room and turn on all the lights and pile myself under blankets until I feel nothing but warm. I even have a can of soup that’s been sitting on my desk since the beginning of the school year, and maybe I can finally open it up and microwave it and have a boring stay-at-home party by myself where I watch TV until I pass out.

  By the time my hand finds its way back to the knob and the water turns off with a kerchunk and the last few drips are somehow louder in the silence than the rushing water was, I’ve managed to bury all thoughts of Sara, and the only thought on my mind is to hide in my bed and pretend this day never happened. I’m just now realizing that I forgot to bring a towel or a change of clothes, so I awkwardly shake the water off myself, and then slide back into my gross wifebeater and boxers. Then I pick up my bucket and head for the door, tracking puddles behind me on the grimy tile.

  I stop dead in my tracks.

  Ten steps down the hall, at the door to my room, in a black coa
t and hat, there’s a cop, standing there, knocking hard on my door, looking down at his watch, and My God, I guess everything’s over. I duck back inside the girls’ room door, press my back against the wall, counting breaths, thinking What do I do?

  The tile on the wall is a hideous puke shade of yellow that sucks all the heat out of me while I shake and I make myself breathe. He’s still standing there at my door, like he’s planning to camp out awhile. He’s a young guy, short hair and a five-o’clock shadow. Looks nervous, determined. He’s shaking a little; he leans on the wall, elbow out, looking down at his wristwatch again and again. And honestly, he doesn’t look all that scary. Just kind of alone. He’s here now for me, and I know that he is, and maybe (I’m thinking) I ought to go turn myself in. Would that be so bad? I have nothing to lose, anyway; maybe I should just tell him the truth, let him cuff me, and take me away. Because I can’t just keep running forever, can’t pretend that I haven’t done all of the things that I’ve done. He looks nice enough. He probably won’t even be that big a jerk about this. The worst that could happen is that he’ll arrest me and take me downtown, maybe question me some. And maybe he’s not even here to arrest me at all. It might be they don’t even know it was me, maybe he’s just come by here to feel around, that sort of thing. And as long as he doesn’t see my disaster of a room, maybe he won’t even be suspicious. He’ll ask me some questions, and then he’ll go, and if he needs me to come with him, I will.

  It won’t be so bad.

  It even feels good, I’m telling myself, it feels good to come clean, it feels good to get all of that stuff off my chest, like a big, giant weight that I’ll drop at this (chiseled) guy’s feet. I take a deep breath, tell myself, This is it. You’re not ready, not prepared, basically in your underwear, but this is it and you’re going to do it. I look at him and think to myself how hopelessly dorky cop uniforms look, always at least ten years out of style, with unflattering lines and terrible fabrics, leather jackets that should match but don’t, clip-on ties and fake buttons. I wonder about the stereotype how women are supposed to love a man in uniform, and I’m thinking Which women are those? The ones who are okay with dorks as long as they’re powerful dorks, or maybe the ones who think their calling in life is to teach tasteless men how to dress? The ones (I guess) who yearn to get the man out of the uniform—not for sex, but so that they can put him in something that actually looks good, like a tux or a well-tailored suit or a pair of ripped jeans and a vintage tee. This one actually isn’t too bad, looks like he might clean up pretty well, all things considered. A shave and a little less hair gel, and maybe learn how to stand without fidgeting so much, and he’d be pretty cute. I’m glad that it’s him I’ll be turning myself in to, and not some cynical old dude who’s just here to collect a few final paychecks before retirement, or some chick officer who thinks she has to be a bitch to get respect. He looks kind of nice, really. Probably has a great smile that’ll take the edge off of surrendering to the long arm of the law. Maybe he’ll even thank me for being honest, or being a good citizen, or whatever. This won’t be so bad. It’s the right thing. I can do this. Check your pocket. (What?) Check your pocket. A voice behind me, one I almost remember, telling me to Check your pocket. I know that voice, and I know that hot breath on my neck, and I know the smothering heat of the fat man, and he’s saying Check your pocket in my ear. I say Why are you here? but he says, Check your pocket. Just do it. My hand (trembling) lifts from the cold tile wall and it slides its way over my thigh and then into my shorts’ tiny pocket. It wraps around something that’s plastic and hard, and it’s rattling, barely concealed this whole time, and it’s pills. It’s her pills, Sara’s pills, in my pocket, the pocket inside of these shorts that I slept in, and they’ve been inside of them rattling against my right thigh this whole time. Right? I guess. That makes sense. Doesn’t it? Anyway, they’re there now, and his huge hands are squeezing my arms and his stale coffee breath’s in my ear, and he’s telling me It doesn’t have to be over. I say, What do you mean? but I know what he means. I hold up the bottle in thick, buzzing light, and it dances like flame and it shines like stained glass. And the yellowy tile’s lighting up with its glow and the rattle of little white pills shakes in rhythm with my cold, trembling hand. And the fat man who smells like sweat tightens his grip on my arm, and he twists it behind me, says Time to fight back. Then the other one’s here; it’s the hipster I’ve seen in the flannel and boots with the beard, and he’s twisting my other arm, won’t let me move, and the pills rattle loud in my ear where he’s holding my hand, scraping flesh against flesh. I tell them I won’t, that I’m done, that I’m free, but they say, No, you’re not. Then the blond girl is here with her Ugg boots; they’re crushing my toes, and they’re grinding them hard in the muck on the floor. Her lips are so close that I’m tasting her gloss, and she says, You don’t have to give in. You don’t have to quit now. That man in the jacket, he’ll put you in cuffs, and he’ll lock you away. You don’t give in to that. You fight back. Her fingers hook under the straps of my shirt, and her teeth flash like Sara’s and say, You just need strength to do it. I choke on my breath till my nose drips with fumes, and I start thinking Maybe she’s right. I see that as long as I’m taking the pills that I’m safe, that I’m strong. They’re filled with a power that beats from the walls and caresses my throat and my shoulders and chest and my hips and my knees, and the chills go for miles. My throat itches for chalk and my guts squirm with acid; the ear-rattle tickles and tickles. Hold my breath, tell them No, that It all leads to nothing, an endless black hole, but they won’t let me speak. (If it all leads to nothing, then why do you want it so bad?) I choke with her hands on my throat and their hands on my arms and the pills in my ear and I say, You’re not real! but they pull on my arms and my legs and my hair and my teeth and say, Prove it. Their hands burn my skin and they tell me You know that you want it, and finally I break from the inside and tell them I do. The tears burn my eyes and my (strong?) arms collapse at my sides, and I choke on the thin, acrid air, and they’re gone. I’m alone, but they’re right, I can see that they’re right, that as long as I’m strong there’s no reason to give myself up. That no one can touch me or lock me away when I’m stronger than all of them. Freedom is violence and violence is pills. They rattle in orange, saying Let me inside, and I tell them Okay, and I untwist the lid. It clicks and it clacks with a childproof heartbeat, and I tip it over, pour pills in my hand, maybe five (six?) of them. Can’t really tell. So hard to count pills while I’m shaking with power and watching (transfixed) while my hand starts to rise toward my mouth, and it dumps them inside and they’re burning my tongue, and it starts to convulse as they slide down my throat. One by one they burn down, and they stick to my insides and light up my blood with a thousand quick sparks. There’s a girl in the mirror. She looks just like I do, with eyes that are hungry. Her bones are alive, and her veins look so sweet. She winks at me (gently), we both say Let’s go, and we stalk down the hall, and she’s long and she’s lean, made of spindles and spikes and of teeth and of claws and she’s me. And the cop in the hall, standing there at the door, he’s so tiny and helpless. He screams, and my claws are a mile that twists through the air filled with sticky, sweet sweat, till all ten wrap around him and push him inside of my room. His eyes flash with fear and his hands reach for something, wave helpless like seaweed till I bite them both off with invincible teeth, and the blood flows like honey between them. His throat bursts wide open with the twist of a tooth, and he gurgles and chokes, as I chew on his flesh. Now he’s dead at my feet, just a pile of bones and of skin and of meat, and the scent is of berries and peaches and lime, but I can’t back away. I can’t run. There’s a small voice inside, in the back of my head, that says Run, you should run now, it’s over, he’s dead, but the hunger won’t stop, and I can’t stop the feeding. More and more in my mouth, more and more of his flesh, of his skin, of his blood, and of bones, and I eat and I eat, but the hunger goes on. It goes on till there’s
nothing but hunger, a pit, a black hole, crying loud for more meat. So I swallow and chew till I drown in the blood, and I’m swirling and sinking and gasping and waking and swirling and sinking and gasping and waking, and—

  “Phelia?”

  There’s a voice, down the hall. It’s a voice that I know. It’s Kate, and she’s there down the hall, and she’s seeing me here now, with flesh in my teeth and the bones in my hands and the blood on my feet (on my face, on my arms, on my legs). And she sees everything.

  Oh God, what can I do?

  “Ophelia!”

  And she’s yelling at me, but there’s nothing to say. I’m alone in the light with a pile of evidence, blood on my hands, and a buzz in my head saying Shit, now you’ve done it. A young guy’s dead face staring up at my knees from the floor. And she’s there, down the hall, with her mouth hanging open, yelling things like my name and Oh God, and there’s nothing to do and there’s nothing to say, and there’s nothing but light piling up on the blood and the skin and the bones and the face. God, that face, once a face, now a mask, now a rubber expression with glass eyes and fish lips that bubble with blood, and I’m standing here thinking of what I can tell her, but no, that’s just stupid, there’s nothing to say, just get out while you can, just get out, God, get moving! Just run!

  I look back at her face one more time, and her mouth’s hanging open in cold disbelief and her eyes shine with night and her freckles are pale and I tell her “I—didn’t—”

  But there’s no end to that sentence. Nothing but lies.

  So I run.

  wed. jan. 19.

  12:58 am.

  alone. cold

  I run until I don’t know where I am.

  In this town, where I grew up, that takes a lot of effort—to find somewhere where I’m really lost, where I don’t know where I am or what I’m doing—but I have experience with that. I’m a veteran of secret passages and hiding places and shaking in the dark praying no one will find me. I can blend into shadows till I’m nothing but air. And now I don’t really remember the running, but I think I’ve been running forever because I’m so, so tired, and I finally fall down.