OPHELIA
Early morning lightstabs through gaps in the curtains when my Saturday alarm shrieks me awake. The iPad lies under my pillow, but the alarm rings itself out while fatigue pins my arm in place.
Seconds bleed into minutes while I stare at nothing. My abdomen throbs, deep pulses announcing my period arrived overnight, but I don’t reach for the Panadol in my drawer. I deserve the pain.
It’s only my fear of Bryan’s hovering concern that drives me into the shower. He’s scheduled for overtime this weekend and the thought of him worried, staying home with his concerned eyes following my every move? Just… no.
Hot water rains down as I lean one-handed against the tile wall, steam enveloping me. Even the most intimate parts of my body are wrong today, already tender when I insert my menstrual cup. Drops of crimson swirl around my feet and down the drain.
“Ophelia?” Bryan’s voice carries through the bathroom door. “Your pills, hon.”
My pills.
End it.
I let the thought sit, wallowing in its relief, then blink it away.
Not yet.
The bottle’s my escape, my only guaranteed control, and I want to get the timing right. But just knowing Icouldfuels me through the tedium of breakfast and out the other side.
Once Bryan’s car engine fades into silence I trudge upstairs, unlock the bottom drawer, and feel behind the fake panel for the bottle.
Nothing but empty space.
My fingers scrabble, but all I feel is smooth wood.
I yank out the whole drawer, upending its contents, and I’m on the floor, knees scraping on carpet, pushing the mess of socks and pantyhose wider. Breath coming in short bursts. No bottle. No pills.
Then my hand brushes over a folded corner.
A sticky note.
It takes three tries before my numb fingers open the message.Meet me in the admin office first thing Monday if you want them back.
For a heartbeat, my mind refuses to process the words, and I crumple the note in my fist, then flatten it, rereading each line. No signature but there’s only one person it could be.
Rage courses through my body. Damien’s been in my room.
Not only been in my room but he’s touched my things and searched through my private drawers, even getting past the lock. Pressure builds in my head, and my hands tighten into fists, fingernails digging into my palms.
How fuckingdarehe?
I jump to my feet, pacing the floor, my inertia replaced with manic energy. Damien will use this new knowledge against me, probably for something sexual, that’s been his angle so far. I need options to defend myself.
A dull blade stabs my abdomen, and I press my hand there, frowning. My period should buy me time. A few days… and then?
But I can worry aboutthenlater. Right now, I just need a plan that gets me through Monday.
My thoughts keep churning until my jaw hardens. Damien can deny his relationship with Chelsea all he likes, gossip insists they’re still an item. According to the latest, she’s plugged him into her network, providing everything from essays to MDMA.
Although she might look tough, the thing with Craig wormed under her skin, showing me her ego’s fragile. If Damien pushes me into his ‘sex as payment’ scheme, I could video something. Send her evidence.
Seeing the truth will put her into a tailspin.
I grab my phone. The side button’s still set for one-touch recording, a trick that worked once and can again.
A plan. Not perfect, but doable.
