Page 76 of Breaking Ophelia
She doesn’t, so I do.
“Are you hungry?”
She shakes her head. “No. But I need to pee.”
I stand, offer her my hand. She ignores it, swings her legs off the bed and stands on her own.
She makes it three steps before her knees buckle.
I catch her before she hits the ground, lift her back to the mattress.
Her body is limp, but her eyes are furious.
“Stop it,” she says.
“Stop what?”
“Stop pretending to care.”
I shrug, let her go.
She tries to stand again, slower this time, one hand braced on the headboard.
She makes it to the bathroom.
I hear the lock click.
I sit on the bed, wait for her to return.
She takes her time. I imagine her running her hand over every surface for sharp edges, for weaknesses, for a way out. I want her to try. I want her to see how futile it is.
When she comes out, she’s still wearing my t-shirt, only it looks a fuck load better on her than it ever did on me. It hangs past her knees, sleeves bunched at the elbows. Her legs are bare, but the bandages make her look armored.
She sits on the opposite side of the bed, knees up, arms around them.
She stares at me, eyes glassy.
“What now?” she asks.
I grin.
“Now we play house.”
She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t get up.
The silence is comfortable.
I reach for her hand, and this time, she lets me take it.
Her fingers are small, cold.
She doesn’t say anything for a while.
“Can you get me more coffee?”
I nod, grabbing her cup and pouring her more.
After the third refill, she sets the cup down and pins me with a look. Not the frightened kind from last night, or the curious one from before, but something new, hardened.
