Page 6 of Breaking Ophelia
At the entrance to the North Tower, I stop and look up. The archway is engraved with the Westpoint motto, but the letters are so worn I can only make out a few: “VICT—” and “NOT.” Victory or nothing. A bitter, stupid kind of poetry. I set my trunk down and run a thumb along the brass plate bolted to the door.
This wing is mostly unused, you can tell by the fact there’s not much traffic here and the dust bunnies are free to roam.
I may be the only student in this section right now, which is really fucking creepy.
Inside, the stairwell spirals up and up, the walls covered with hand-drawn graffiti—Latin phrases, tally marks, the occasional threat or promise. The hallway smells like must. The lighting is motion-activated, so it snaps on in sections as I walk. My boots echo loud in the ominous silence.
The doors in the hall are all closed. Some have wreaths or ribbons; a few have warning stickers or little name plaques. Mine is just a blank rectangle of wood with a tarnished doorknob. I unlock it and step inside. The room is small and bare, but clean. Bed, desk, empty shelves, a window with a view of the fog.
I like it better than I want to.
For a second, I lean my head against the door and let my body sag. It’s allowed, here, in private. I listen to the silence until my heart slows. Then I square up and get to work. I unpack, folding each item of clothing along the creases my mother taught me, filling the wardrobe with as much order as I can.
I catch my reflection in the window, a warped double-image: inside and outside, observer and observed. My face looks softer in the glass.
More tired.
Below, in the courtyard, the black-blazer boys gather around the panther statue, laughing and shoving each other. One tilts his head up, just for a second, and I duck out of sight. My hand clamps the windowsill so hard the paint chips off.
Someone slips a note under my door while I’m staring at the sky. I find it folded in a triangle, ink smudged but legible: “Board meeting tomorrow, room 2A. Don’t be late.”
My hands shake again, but this time I let them. Better to spend the fear now, in secret, than let it build up for the morning. I rip the note into perfect shreds, then flush them, piece by piece.
I’m signed up for classes, but that’s not really why I’m here.
No, I know why I’m here.
A debt payment.
Sold to the highest bidder to pay off what my father owes.
Pennies on the dollar, but enough to save his ass.
When I crawl into bed, the sheets are so cold I feel them sinking into my bones. I stare at the ceiling and count the lines in the plaster until I lose track of time. The last thing I think before I sleep is: If this place wants to eat me alive, it better start with something softer than bone.
I wake to the sound of bells and the taste of dragon breath. The morning is not so much a new day as a rebranding; Westpoint coats the halls in citrus cleaner, but underneath it still smells like old sweat and the ghosts of rich kids. I wash, I dress, I pin my hair so the worst of it stays out of my eyes.
The walk to the main wing is worse in daylight. What you thought were cracks in the marble are actually veins of gold, running through the floors like disease. The portraits glare harder, the panther emblems seem sharper.
The stained-glass windows along the corridor aren’t just for show. Each panel tells a story, and none of them end well.There’s always a runner in white, a hunter in black, a flash of red somewhere near the end.
I guess some places get their reputation the old-fashioned way.
My boots squeak, just a little. Enough to announce me before I round each corner. The girls cluster in small packs, odd numbers, spaced so you can’t squeeze through without brushing up against one of them. Their perfume hits first and it half chokes me as I try hold my breath. Then come the whispers, a current just below hearing, designed to erode you over time.
“Look, it’s her.”
“I heard she’s on scholarship—no, worse, it’s a debt transfer.”
“Her father gambled away everything.”
“She’s not even pretty.”
They don’t expect me to fight back. That’s the trick. If you stop, if you let it get to you, you lose. So I move, steady and slow, like I can’t hear a word.
A girl in pink silk blocks the end of the hall. She’s perfect in a way that says money is her birthright: hair straight and glossy, teeth like fucking chiclets, nails long enough to gouge your eyes out. She bends at the waist and lets a linen napkin drift out of her hand. It flutters to the floor at my feet, a pale challenge.
I step over it. Never break eye contact. Not with her, not with the friends at her flanks. The trick is to act like the floor was made for you. I keep my chin high and my jaw set, even though it aches from clenching. I don’t flinch when her friend hisses, “Trash,” loud enough for me to hear.
