Page 20 of Breaking Ophelia
A man so vile, bringing me to my knees.Fuck. That.
By the time I emerge from the library, it’s late, the corridors thinned of student life. Only a few ghosts drift past: a pair of girls in the uniforms that cost more than my dad’s car, a janitor pretending not to notice my swollen face or the way my walk is just slightly off. My insides ache, and my hand shakes when I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
Dinner is long over, but maybe I can find some left-overs in the kitchen later. I just need to get somewhere quiet.
Somewheresafe.
I find my room dark and colder than before. The window is cracked, a slip of moonlight bleeding through the blinds. Someone’s left another note, slid under the door with the same care you’d use to feed a wild animal. I crouch to pick it up. The envelope is unmarked but the seal is heavy wax, blue with a sigil that means nothing to me except the certainty that it’s bad news.
I rip it open.
Summons, it says. Board council, 10:00 sharp. 2A. Academy review.
Great. My first day isn’t even over, and already I’m on trial.
I lay down on my bed. The ceiling has started to feel like a lid, and I stare up at it until the lines blur and my eyes burn. Everytime I try to close them, I see his face: the sneer, the flash of hunger, the moment he realized I wasn’t breaking for him.
The alarm blares at nine. I dress in the least-wrinkled shirt I own, one I ironed with a flat iron because that’s all I could afford to bring. I brush my teeth until my gums bleed and tie my hair in a knot at the nape, the way my mom used to before she bailed. I don’t look in the mirror. I already know what I’ll see.
I head to the West Wing early. The walk is just as long as the first time, each stretch a gauntlet of rich kids drinking bougie beer and pretending not to see me. The only ones who notice are the ones who want to—either because they enjoy a good public shaming, or because they smell new blood.
The door to the upper floor is locked, but a student in a fitted suit is waiting by the entrance. He says nothing, just hands me a second envelope and points to a bench. He stares at the wall the whole time, like he’s been trained not to look me in the eyes.
I sit. My leg starts bouncing. My shoes look like shit next to the marble.
At 10:00 sharp, the doors open, and he leads me in. It’s almost entirely empty. At the far end, four people sit waiting.
I catalog them before I even sit down:
First: Dr. Abelard. Silver hair, straight posture, a stare that says he’d rather be dissecting me than speaking to me.
Second: Ms. Valence, thin-lipped, eyes that squint with practiced calculation, skin so tight over her bones I wonder if she’s had it replaced with some kind of plastic wrap.
Third and fourth: Two others in dark suits, shadows thick around their faces, hands folded like they’re hiding claws.
No one asks me to sit, but the student points to the chair at the farthest end. I take it. The seat is hard as stone, and when I grip the arms, my fingers vanish in the carved grooves.
Dr. Abelard clears his throat. “Ms. Morrow. Thank you for your punctuality this time.”
His voice has all the warmth of a dental drill.
Ms. Valence leans forward, her thin, bony fingers tapping the table in a rhythm I can’t quite place. “We are pleased to see you are adapting to our traditions, even if the adjustment period is… strenuous.”
A file sits on the table in front of them, leather-bound, with my name etched in gold on the spine. Abelard opens it with the flourish of a magician revealing a card trick. He flicks through the pages, pausing on one.
“Your prior academic record is… interesting.” His eyes don’t lift from the page. “High marks in the sciences, but repeated citations for insubordination and minor theft.”
I clench my jaw. “Theft?”
Ms. Valence smiles, a slash of pink in her corpse-white face. “A laboratory pipette. A frog from biology. A test answer key.”
I almost laugh. “All returned, in good condition.”
This is not the correct answer, judging by Abelard’s frown.
The first of the two shadows finally speaks. His voice is lower, a rasp, each word weighed and judged before it leaves his lips. “You understand, Ms. Morrow, that our institution is not like the others you may have attended. Here, tradition is law. Deviations are… discouraged.”
“Understood.”
