Silence stretches between us.
The pause tips from anticipation into insult.
“What’s the problem?” My voice is sandpaper-rough, betraying me. “The appointment’s already made and I’m good for the money.”
She adjusts her bag then ducks under my arm, breaking free of my improvised cage. My head swims, disoriented by her sudden movement. Bewildered that she hasn’t accepted.
Ophelia might struggle with her vision, but I don’t.
The subtle shift in her posture, the quickening rise and fall of her chest—I saw it all. Her body responded when I gripped her throat, no matter how much she wishes otherwise.
“It’s not just the novelty.”
She retreats another step, fumbling in her bag. If she withdraws the cane she used before, that means she’s out of here. It’s the end.
My fingers clutch her shoulder, holding her in place. “You know, I find you oddly beautiful, and I can’t wait until your sweet—”
Her arm shoots upwards.
Liquid fire explodes in my eyes. Tears cascade down my cheeks, stinging like acid.
I inhale and my lungs ignite, triggering a violent coughing fit that folds me in half, ribs contracting painfully with each spasm. I stretch out my hands, seeking help.
“Stay the fuck away”—Ophelia’s voice cuts through my agony—“or next time, I’ll empty the entire can in your face.” The tap-tap, tap-tap of her cane punctuates her escape.
I wrench open my eyes, and they immediately snap closed again. My pulse thunders.
Can’t see. Can’tbreathe.
The pavement punches my knees, then my shoulder as I fall. No idea which way is up. I touch my face and it’s like shoving it onto a hot element.
Water. I need water.
Pain distorts every sense as I stagger upright, blindly groping the air, tripping over the curb.
Footsteps pound towards me. “Shit, Damien. Are you okay?”
Philip’s hand squeezes my forearm. “Where’s Ophelia?” His voice gets firmer, followed by the electronic tapping of a phone screen. “Don’t worry. I’m calling the police.”
“No!”
My panicked outburst echoes off the community centre walls, and I force a laugh. “Last time I ask an old lady to show me what’s in her hand.”
“Old lady?” His voice is full of doubt. “Damien, I—”
“Can you help me to the bathroom?”
“Oh, shit. Yes.” His arm goes around my shoulders. “Sorry. This way.”
A palm presses against my back, guiding me into a bathroom, directing my hand to the cold metal faucet and turning it on, the other against the porcelain basin. “Here you go. I’ll just… Shit!”
More frantic tapping.
“Milk. It says milk should help. Get your head under. I think… I’ll just be a sec.”
The door slams, footsteps pounding into the hall. I thrust my face under the cool stream, and the burning retreats to a persistent throb rather than the sharp knife-end pain.
It’s not enough. Fuck.
