Page 29 of Breaking Ophelia
Back at the bed, I rip the sheets off and ball them up in the corner. I’ll burn them later, if I can find a match.
The room is cold, the air still and unmoved since the last time I shut the door. I want to scream, but I don’t. Instead, I go to the closet and tear through the drawers until I find the clothes the Board left for me. Everything’s white. White jeans, white t-shirt, white button-up, even a fucking white bra with the tags still on.They want me to look like a ghost. A blank. Something they can erase if I step out of line.
Fine. I’ll haunt them.
My hands shake as I dress, every motion a fight against my own skin. The zipper won’t close on the first try, the shirt buttons pop off when I tug too hard. I force them into place, refusing to let myself feel anything but the rage humming in my veins.
I don’t bother with makeup. I splash water on my face in the bathroom, scrubbing hard at the dark circles under my eyes, at the faint smudge of blood on my lip where I must have bitten through it in my sleep. The mirror throws my reflection back at me: pale, wild-eyed, jaw clenched so tight I feel my teeth grinding down to powder.
This is the face of someone who will not break.
I let the water run, staring down the sink until the steam fogs up the glass. I want to punch the mirror, but I need my hands steady.
Instead, I twist my hair into a knot at the base of my skull, tight enough to pull at the scalp, and stare myself down one last time.
You’re not prey, I tell the face in the mirror.You’re the knife.
My shoes are still by the door, cracked and scuffed from years of wear. I shove my feet into them, no socks. The cold stings, wakes me up the rest of the way.
I know they’ll be pissed that I didn’t wear the ugly white ones they gave me, but if they want to reduce me to a ghost, at least I’ll be wearing boots with heels high enough to curb stomp my way through hell.
Outside, the hallway is quiet so I walk quickly down the stairs, and towards the wing where I know the Feral Boys live. The usual swarm of rich kids is nowhere to be seen, but their shadows cling to the walls in the form of whispered threats and half-remembered slights. Head up, eyes locked dead ahead, I almost break into a run. The first person I see—a girl with a velvet choker and a ponytail so tight it makes her eyebrows arch—steps out of my way before I even reach her.
There’s something about the white clothes, the wildness in my eyes, that makes people want to cross to the other side of the corridor.
I like that.
At the end of the hallway, the windows flash with the rising sun, painting the floor in stripes. I walk through the light and pretend it’s a spotlight. That I’m on stage, and every step is another act in a play where the villain always wins.
I keep moving towards the kitchen. Eggs, toast and sickly-sweet syrup assault my nose, turning my stomach.
As much as I should eat, somehow my appetite has disappeared since being here,
I walk past the cafeteria and into the main hall, footsteps echoing off stone and wood. Every portrait along the wall seems to glare at me, the eyes of old men and dead wives following me as I pass. I flip them off, too, just to be sure.
At the end of the corridor, the stairs twist up toward the Upper East Wing, to the Feral Boys’ domain. I climb, two steps at a time, knees burning, until I reach the landing. There’s a door at the top, heavy oak, studded with iron. I don’t knock. I slam my fist into the wood so hard the frame rattles.
The door swings open.
Julian is the one who answers, his face a mask of amusement and something darker. He leans against the jamb, arms crossed, shirt unbuttoned just enough to show off the curve of his collarbone.
“Well, well,” he says, eyes raking over the white uniform. “You clean up nice.”
“Fuck off,” I bite out.
He grins, wolfish. “Caius! Your little ghost is here.”
A noise from deeper inside—the scrape of a chair, a laugh that’s not quite friendly.
He winks at me, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s sizing me up, trying to see if I’ll cower.
I bare my teeth instead.
“Let me through, Barbie,” I say. “You’re blocking the whole fucking hallway.”
His smile sharpens, but he moves aside with a dancer’s grace, bowing as I pass. “After you, princess.”
The den is bigger than I expected. An open suite, couches everywhere, a giant TV, a marble-topped bar with a half dozen empty bottles, and the stink of money covering every surface. The trophies on the wall are arranged in little shrines, most with names I don’t know, but I see “Montgomery” engraved in gold at least a dozen times.
