I pry my eyes open with my fingers, letting the water pour straight into them, resenting the irony of a blind girl rendering me sightless.
Philip bursts back into the room. “Should I call an ambulance?” Muttering to himself, “I should’ve done that first. Stupid.”
“No. It’s better now. Just… give me a few minutes. I’ll be fine.”
Something small and rectangular presses into my palm, and I withdraw from the sink, blinking at the single serve UHT milk containers.
“Best I could do,” Philip says apologetically.
“You’re fine. I think I’m coming right.”
I stick my face back under the flow of water, keeping it there as the cold bites into my skin, growing calmer as the burning recedes.
“You don’t need to watch,” I say and maybe it’s my tight voice that sends him out of the room, packing up the community hall from our meeting.
The distant sounds of stacking chairs and clatter of cups is far less suffocating than him standing over me. I manage a few deep breaths into my singed lungs, stifling the noise as I cough them back out.
After ten or fifteen minutes, I withdraw, letting the water drip off me into the sink. A cold shower would be heaven, and they have the facilities, but I can’t risk Philip following through on his threat to call the cops.
Paper towels turn to sandpaper against my inflamed skin no matter how carefully I blot my face dry. The mirror shows bloodshot eyes, more crimson than white, surrounded by angry, swollen flesh.
“Are you sure I can’t call someone?” Philip hovers in the doorway. “This stuff’s illegal for a reason. We shouldn’t be cowed into silence when whoever attacked—”
I empty my face of expression, turning blank eyes towards him until he shifts uncomfortably, shoes squeaking on the bathroom tiles.
In a cold whisper, “I’m fine.”
“Okay, then.” His breath escapes in a relieved rush, already backing away. “If you’re sure.”
Coward. With someone who capitulates so easily running the bully support group, no wonder every member is a perpetual victim.
A chuckle escapes my raw throat.
Tonight, that includes me.
Outside, the cool night air feels good on my face. I’m near the corner when my foot bumps against the discarded pepper spray, and I pocket it on impulse. If Philip ever does phone, I don’t need police finding Ophelia’s fingerprints on the canister.
I reach my car and sit behind the wheel, waiting for clearer vision. Pockets of spray keep reigniting on my skin like tiny bee stings.
As the pain diminishes, I’m left with a strange sense of calm. A contradiction that puzzles me.
With any other attacker, there’s be a sense of urgency. To capture them, hurt them a dozen times more than they hurt me.
Ophelia surprised me again and all I have is sneaking admiration. I never saw that coming.
The hall lights flick off and Philip emerges, locking the door.
I hunch down in my seat until he drives away, then start my car, choosing the least populated route home. Traffic lights wear halos, and headlights turn into translucent streamers, floating in the air long after the cars pass.
Up in the hills, the steep roads are emptier. I pull into the garage just after ten, heading for the stairs and my ensuite shower.
“Damien?”
My hand clutches the railing, then I slowly turn, descending one stair. “Dad. I didn’t know you’d still be here.”
He strides closer, frowning. “What happened to you?”
“Had an altercation with a can of pepper spray. I really need to take a shower.”
