Page 58 of Breaking Ophelia
The woods open up to a rocky patch. I see the creek ahead, the water black and slow under the moon, ice already forming onthe banks. If I can make it, maybe I can use the current to lose my scent. Maybe I can hide under a shelf of stone and let him thunder past.
Or maybe I'm just buying myself another minute.
I should just drown myself.
I stumble down the slope. My feet slip on gravel, and I go down hard, this time landing on my tailbone. The shock travels up my spine and explodes in my skull. For a second I can't see, can't move, can't even breathe. All I can do is listen—to the sound of my own sobbing and the crunch of boots on the ridge above me.
He’s closer. So much closer.
My hands shake. The cut on my palm is worse than I thought, and for a second I just stare at it, at the way the skin flaps open, at the way my own blood glistens in the light.
The world goes soft, grey at the edges.
Get up. Get up.
I force myself to my feet and half-walk, half-crawl to the creek. The water is so cold it might as well be acid. I plunge both hands in, numb them out, watch the blood float away downstream. My heart thuds so loud I think he must hear it even over the running water.
I think about what comes next.
If he catches me, he’ll ruin me.
If I run, he’ll just ruin me slower.
I don’t know what’s worse.
I stare at the water again, watching my own face come undone in the current. I think of Caius—his mouth, his eyes, the way he never looks away even when I’m screaming at him. The way he talks to me like I’m the only person in the room, the only one who matters.
I want to kill him.
I want to kiss him until I can’t breathe.
I want him to die with my name in his mouth.
I splash the water on my face, scrubbing at the dirt and blood. The cold numbs everything, makes me feel clean for a second. I remember the hands of the nurse in the gym, the way they pressed into my hips, checked my pulse, measured the width of my pelvis like it was a doorway to something sacred and ugly. I remember the voice of the Board: “Suitable for breeding. Adequate for union.”
Is that what I am now? Just a vessel? Just a thing to be hunted and claimed and broken down until there’s nothing left but the right parts?
I look at my hands again. They’re trembling, not from fear, from need. From some awful, animal desire to belong to someone, even if it’s just for a minute.
I claw at the wound on my side, making it bleed again. I want him to see it, to know what it cost to chase me this far.
The water runs red and clear. I watch it until the color fades.
“Come on then,” I mutter. “Do it. Fucking finish it.”
The woods are quiet. The only sound is the river and the animal in my chest.
I press my palm to the wound, feel the heat of my own blood. My fingers slide under the edge of the torn dress, press against the bruise flowering over my hip. I wince, but I don’t stop. I want to remember this pain. I want it to matter.
The cold is fading now, replaced by a deep, slow ache. My heart hammers out a rhythm that feels like hope and horror all tangled up together.
I push to my feet, dress hanging off one shoulder, blood dripping from my hand. I don’t bother to look for him.
I know he’s there.
I know he’s waiting.
And I know, with a sick twist in my gut, that I want him to find me.
