Ophelia Study No. 1

Chapter Six

   I don't know why I had kept dating her. Whether it was out of sympathy, or complete gluttony, I still don't know. What I do know is that I would never do anything to harm her intentionally, and whenever I did hurt her, it wasn't on purpose. She wasn't my world, but she also wasn't my hell. She was simply purgatory. There was a stage in the relationship where I was utterly ambivalent to every aspect of her, and I was surprised that she wasn't able to figure it out. Maybe even she was just trying to get what she wanted out of the relationship, and she was willing to ignore whatever stood in her way. Out of sight, out of mind, as they say.

What did I want from her? Take a minute and consider the context. I was an eighteen year old virgin, a high school senior that had barely been so much as kissed. I wasn't aching for love, I was aching for sex. It hadn't started that way, but that's inevitably what it turned into. Looking back, I wish I'd gotten it over with and dumped her, breaking her heart for a mere few days, and found the drunkest girl at the party to fulfil my little fantasies with. That was all I needed, one good fuck.

And for a long time, she wouldn't give it to me. I did see her change though, I watched her almost go backwards, not from adolescence to infancy, but from maturity to helplessness. Besides a number of changes, her grades dropped, but she wouldn't tell me. It's not all her fault though; I was sneaking over to her house at least four times a week at ungodly hours.

I'd throw pebbles at her window, just like in the eighties movies. The small rocks were loud enough to wake up her, but not so loud as to wake up her old man. She'd show up at the window, all smiles and bedhead. Motioning to the front door, she'd creep down the steps, letting me in through the kitchen glass door since it was the quietest one in the house.

We'd go back up to her bedroom, where she'd shove her stuffed animals off the mattress to clear a spot for me. I would almost always end up smoking a cigarette; no matter how many times she'd ask me not to, insisting that her father would smell it.

It was on one of these nights that Emily smoked for the first time.

I can't tell you what the date was, but I do know that it was a Thursday morning, around three a.m. to be precise. I know these details because earlier that day I had been stressing out over my Algebra test, and still was, so I'd been smoking a lot that night, almost to the point of sickness.

It was after my third or fourth cigarette that she'd asked, "Those... those don't taste good, do they?"

"It grows on you." I'd gazed over at her, taking a long drag. Blowing the smoke out of the left corner of my mouth, I'd leaned forward, extending my hand holding the cigarette. "Want to try it?"

She'd hesitated. "I... gee, I don't know. My dad-"

"Your old man's fast asleep," I reminded. She'd been white as a ghost, and I couldn't help but laugh. I cupped a hand around her jaw, making her eyes meet mine. "Don't be a good girl for once. Step away from that and see how you like it."

She chuckled, rolling her eyes and muttering, "All right, I won't be a good girl." She'd taken it from me, trying to play it off as though her entire hand wasn't trembling. Bringing the shaking cigarette to her lips, she'd looked at me with those doe eyes, almost for reassurance. I stone walled her, showing no emotion. If she wanted to be happy, if she wanted things to change, smoking wasn't the solution, but it was a starting point.

She inhaled slowly, holding the smoke for only a few seconds before coughing it all out, clouds of smoke sputtering from between her lips. She looked even paler than she had a minute ago, and I was considering taking the cigarette from her when she planted it back into her mouth. As it quivered, ashes dropped off onto the bed, smudging her lilac sheets to a shabby pinkish grey.

She had released her next mouthful with much more grace, the smoke swirling over her head and tracing her features. She'd smiled, admitting, "I kind of like it." She handed it back, her fingers pinched tightly around it. "It was a little weird though."

"You get used to it," I'd responded.

She'd grinned again, her lips slightly pursed as they upturned. She'd leaned forward slowly, closing her eyes. Anticipating what was about to happen, I kept mine open, being the one to make sure we didn't bang heads as she moved in for the kiss.

Her lips were soft, much softer than they'd looked. They were almost buttery, god help me. Mine were chapped to the point of being bloody half the time, and I became self-conscious for no real reason besides that.

Bringing a hand through her hair, tangling it only slightly, I tried my hardest to relax, to be in the moment. Here I was, getting what I was shooting for, that first kiss. She'd smoked a cigarette for me, little National Honor's Society Emily Kimura. The least I could do was pay attention while kissing her.

But I couldn't for the life of me. I was barely able to notice that my eyes were open; I was so out of it. I can't even remember a single thing I had thought about while kissing her, that beautiful girl. I never really appreciated her until she was gone, and that's something that haunts me to this day.

The kissing evolved into open mouthed, and I don't recall how long that lasted and was probably never capable of doing so in the first place. The only thing I'm sure of is that I left out the clanging front door for the first time. Emily was becoming careless.