Ophelia Capulet: Haunted-A Piece of Fiction

Content Warning: Traumatic flashes, PTSD, References to Abuse

He was rich. Respectable. Handsome. Obsessed with me, a boring book worm who had led a quiet, sheltered, boring life.

I thought I was in love. I thought it made sense that it was hard.

He sent me gifts. I didn't wonder where they came from or how he knew where I lived. I was flattered.

A collection of Fairy Tales.

A passage from Bluebeard highlighted.

He bought the collection, at no small expense, at the bookstore I worked at.

I didn't wonder why he was there. We had only met once, and he lived a state away. But I was-he was handsome.

I drunk dialed him. After I blacked out he took me back to his place.

Not my apartment. Not a hospital. His place.

He undressed me. Put me in his bed. Slept beside me.

Suggested the most possessive relationship. Practically indentured servitude for sex.

I thought for love. He became my Bluebeard, complete with a secret closet of torment.

I tried to break it off after a consensual but violent night claimed my innocence.

I don't remember if I was joking. Or if I told myself I was after.

But he was in my apartment when I came home.

I told him no.

He tied me up and threatened me.

I told him no.

I told him no.

The smell of leather. The creak. Blindness. The crack of a riding crop.

Pain.

So much pain.

Tears.

Haunting blue eyes.

A ghost.

I told him no.

I thought I was love.

He was supposed to be my prince charming.

But he was Bluebeard.

How did he know where I worked?

How did he know where I lived?

How did he find me?

I told him no.

He hurt me. He hit me.

But he was handsome. So handsome.

So charismatic around others. Only my dear Rosaline suspected. My dearest friend.

I never told her.
I never told anyone.

I didn't think I could.
They wouldn't have believed me.

He was respectable. Handsome. Rich. Charismatic.

A monster.

I told him no.

He hurt me.

The smell of leather.

The crack of a crop.

Pain.

Those burning blue eyes.

The crack.

I woke up screaming from the nightmare in a cold sweat. Outside thunder cracked and I realized what had brought it on. The door creaked open, and I jumped, a hand sliding under my pillow.

"Ophelia, sweetheart, are you all right?"

Micah Collins. A big, broad, black lady who defied so many other stereotypes. She had had a massive financial windfall and bought a boarding house for lost souls who drifted through town.

Lost souls like me.

She stepped inside in her nightgown, concern across her face as she watched me. A ghost of a girl, frail and faded, skin pale, almost the picture of Snow White. It took me a minute to remember to nod.

"Bad dream," I whispered, not even sure I made sound as I tried to strop trembling.
"Seems like you get a lot of those."

She wasn't wrong.

I smiled as best I could. She sighed, and smiled softly back, but maternal concern was still on her face.

"You know I'm always around. If you ever need to talk to me."

"Of course." I didn't know how. But I appreciated the offer. If I talked about what I went through, did that make it real?

As Micah shut the door, a tiny mew caught my ear. I turned and smiled softly, Rosie peering up at me from beside the bed.

It wasn't a fancy room. I hadn't wanted one. It was reasonably sized with a full bed. A dresser. A desk. A chair. A closet.

And a litter box under the day bed.

I carefully scooped up the kitten, smiling meekly as she purred and nuzzled me. Rosie calmed me down, especially after nightmares. I had found her when I first got off the bus and arrived in Respite, Texas. Like me, she was soaked to the bone, cold, alone, and starving. Unlike me, she had put on weight and looked as chubby as a kitten was supposed to. Food didn't sit well. I ate, I had to to survive, but I had lost so much. The lightning flashed and I caught a look of myself in the mirror. Cheeks hollowed.

I'm still haunted.

I wake up, I smell him, I feel him, I hear him. I hear songs on the radio and I remember hearing them with him. I see him in every crowd, over my shoulder, in the shadows. After a shower I think I see him in the mirror, but its just my own blue eyes.

I haven't escaped him. Not yet. But he hasn't found me again either.

Not yet.