𝑆𝐴𝑉𝐼𝑁𝐺 𝐷𝑅𝐴𝐶𝑂 𝑀𝐴𝐿𝐹𝑂𝑌

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟖 - 𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐬𝐛𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤

The song started again and in Maria Callas' first scream, Ophelia jumped up letting out a squeak. She was expecting the room to be completely empty and quiet, so she was startled.

"I was wondering when you'd turn up!" I said, drying my damp hands on a towel and throwing it on the bed. I was shouting. The opera singer was doing her best at ignoring me.

Ophelia was breathless and her eyes were opening wider and wider as I approached her. In her panic and distress, she had tightened up and was now standing in my way to the record player. I set two fingers on her shoulder, pushed her aside casually and put the volume down. Now that I wouldn't have to shout to get heard, I turned to face her.

"How-" she started.

"Blaise said you were looking for me," I interrupted. Now that I was the one who was catching her red-handed, I allowed myself to smirk and enjoy my triumph. She inspected me from head to toe, which made me self-aware for a quick second. To my pleasant surprise, I had left my black shirt unbuttoned. Fate was smiling at me.

"He said you'd be downstairs for dinner," said Ophelia uncomfortably.

"He did, didn't he?" I said absentmindedly, closing the door behind her. Now she was officially trapped in here if she wasn't before.

"I came to ask for my book back-"

"-or rather, sneak in and look for it. Otherwise, why wouldn't you knock?"

Ophelia could have easily turned this against me. She could have said that she was doing exactly what I did, if not with even more grounds. But she seemed disoriented and why shouldn't I take advantage of that?

"I wouldn't blame you, though. You learned from the best," I continued.

I straightened my collar and walked to my nightstand, where I kept my steel cufflinks in a black, velvet box. I, then, turned around and approached her, still clipping the silver on my sleeve without raising it. It was essential that she didn't know what I was hiding under these black sleeves. I noticed she was following my moves; she didn't want to look me in the eye.

"Do you think you'll get away with sneaking in here?"

"You did."

"No, I didn't. I didn't get away with it. I had to pay by losing a friend."

She swallowed on a dry throat, which only diverged my gaze from her eyes. I was now focused on her neck – that long neck – and then her chin – marked with her little white scar – and then her lips – the nude flowers that remained slightly open to draw consistently heavy breaths as I was getting closer.

"You seem surprised that this was the price to pay for reading my letters. I could have gotten you expelled."

But the easiest way to dodge her arguments was to avoid them and look casual doing it, so I opened my trunk and pulled out a bottle of whiskey and a brand new pack of cigs. As I ripped out the plastic wrappings, I began her degrading punishment: indifference.

"And to think that you had the audacity to call me a hypocrite every five minutes for one month straight? Are you even serious? I wonder, do you even act on the morals that you so feverishly proclaim to love?" I pulled the cork from the bottle. "The difference between you and me is that I never claimed to be a saint." I filled the cups slowly. "You, on the other hand, can act like you have wings attached to your back like the angels in some of your favourite paintings." I approached, locking my eyes on hers. "But in reality, you're no more than a little devil." And with this, I offered her one cup. "Drink."

"No, thank you," she said stubbornly.

"Suit yourself."

I emptied both cups myself and left them on the table nearby one by one. I looked at her mistily, already light-headed – in heart if not in head.