Page 90 of Breaking Ophelia
We cut a line straight down the center of the path, students peeling away from us like they know whatever we’re running from is infectious. Maybe it is. Maybe being marked makes you radioactive.
Caius keeps hold of my hand, fingers crushing mine so hard I lose circulation. I wonder if he even knows he’s doing it. He walks faster and I half jog to keep up with him.
People are whispering. I can’t hear the words, but the shapes of them are obvious: “Board’s favorite,” “hunted,” “crazy bitch,” “Montgomery.” I eat the words.
It doesn’t matter anymore. We’re breaking out.
A group of juniors huddles under a tree, their faces upturned. One of them, the pretty girl with the lisp and high cheekbones,stares at me and mouths the word “whore.” I don’t break stride. I don’t even blink. I wish I could tell her that it doesn’t hurt, but I’d be lying.
The further we get from the dorms, the less human it all feels. Like the world has emptied itself out, just so it can watch us leave.
Caius is sweating. Not from the heat, but from whatever is pressing the weight of the world on his shoulders. I glance at him, study the way his jaw locks, the pulse at the side of his neck. He’s running on fumes, but he won’t slow down. I think about telling him to rest, but the words die in my mouth. This is how you stay alive—by acting like you can’t fucking die.
We pass the chapel. I hate this building more than the others; religion has no place here. A shadowed figure is waiting in the shadow of the arched door, hands in his pockets, head low.
As we get closer, I see who it is.
My father. He’s smaller than I remember, or maybe just shrunken by the last few days. There’s a bruise on his cheek, a fresh one, blooming purple down to the jaw. The tie around his neck is wrinkled, knotted too tight.
He steps out when we’re almost even, blocking half the path.
I stop first. Caius stops a beat after, like his body has to be reminded not to keep moving forward.
“Ophelia,” my father says. The sound of it is brittle, ready to shatter if I touch it.
“Don’t,” I answer, not even looking at him.
He tries anyway. “I didn’t know—about any of this. I thought—"
Caius cuts him off. “Of course you did, you fuck. You signed her life to The Academy and now you’re here. Why? They sent you to scare her?” His voice is low, his fist clenched, body tense.
My father doesn’t look at him. He looks at me. “They’re going to kill you, O. You and him, both. If you don’t go back, if you don’t finish it…”
I don’t recognize his voice. He sounds like he’s rehearsing lines from a script he never studied. I should feel something. I should care. But the only thing I feel is the way my hand aches from Caius’s grip.
My father looks at the fading bruises on my skin, his eyes skittering away after a second. “They told me what they did. What they made him do.” He takes a step forward, then stops himself. “You don’t have to run. I can fix this. I’ll make it better.”
Caius shifts, putting himself between us, like I’m in danger from the man who never once protected me. He says, “There is no fixing it. You know that, or you wouldn’t be here.”
My father’s shoulders slump. His eyes dart to the chapel door, then back to me. “They think I raised you to be a disobedient little bitch. They’re threatening to kill me, too. I need you to listen. Please.”
“Why?” I say. “So I can make it easier for them to bury me?”
He flinches, but only for a second. “No. I—" He looks up at Caius, then at the security camera pointed at the quad, and I see it. The fear. Not for me, but for himself. “Please, O. Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
“I hope they do kill you,” I say, calm as ever. “Would save me the trouble.”
He opens his mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. He just stands there, face blank, as if he’s already been erased.
Caius turns, tugs me forward. “We’re done here,” he says.
My father doesn’t follow.
At the far end of the quad, two security guards appear, black uniforms sharp against the green. Their hands hover at their belts, radios at the ready.
I feel the tension spike in Caius’s arm. “Just keep walking,” he whispers. “Eyes front, chin up.”
The guards angle to intercept, but they’re too slow. We hit the parking lot, feet crunching gravel, and the only sound is our own breathing. My chest hurts, but I don’t let it show.
