Ophelia Study No. 1

Chapter Eleven

She was in denial as much as one could be. She initially insisted that the entire incident was an accident, but everyone at the hospital, and everyone at school, and everyone in the cemetery, corpses included, knew that no one takes an entire bottle of antidepressants by mistake.

She had gotten a hold of the prescription medication through a dealer at our school whose name she wouldn't disclose. I have a good idea as to who it was, and my only opinion about it is that I hope that the dealer didn't know her intentions.

The faint idea crossed my mind that she had openly stated she was going to kill herself to her provider. Ideally, the provider was defiant, or at least reluctant, to give her any sort of drugs, but with the coaxing of dollar bills and perhaps even a dash of feminine charm, she had eased the meds out of him. How easily that apothecary must've been swayed, but aren't we all? All it took was sex and cash to get them to practically send a girl to her execution. They had the final vote, and they chose wrong, likely knowing that they had. I wonder to this day if they had ever thought of her again. I'm sure they did months later when the news stories surfaced; everyone did. They thought about her for a full week, an eternity in our fleeting conscious. It was that week when Emily Kimura was on everyone's mind and not just my own. That week, and the days succeeding her suicide attempt.

No matter how private she wanted to keep it, the word was out by nine a.m. the next morning. She was still recovering in her hospital bed that day, and despite my pleading to stay with her, I was forced to return to school. So as everyone gossiped and laughed and grimaced, she wasn't even there to defend herself. I did the best I could, having stepped in on a few of the nastier conversations.

It was that one day that everyone at East Valley High had their PHD in psychology, staff and students alike. Everyone had their own hypothesis as to why Emily had tried to take her own life. The most popular opinion was that she couldn't adapt to the new school. Others said she was getting bullied, while some doubted if there was even anything wrong. I heard a lot of horrible things that day, one being, "No death certificate, no problem."

I remember rushing straight over to the hospital after school, and I don't mean rushing as in walking at a brisk pace, no, but literally sprinting the quarter mile there. It had been just as cold as ever, so by the time I got to the hospital, my lungs were singed and my throat was coated in battery acid. But it didn't really matter; what mattered was that Emily was hurting. Just as she was falling apart, I was ready to pick up the pieces and put her back together.

She looked as beautiful as ever, even with the slight discoloring that came with the overdose. She had deep purple moons under her eyes, and I could only imagine what had kept her up the night before. As gorgeous as she was, she looked frail. Even in all her glory, she looked like one more night could take it all away from her. She was a star, and just like all the others, she was going to burn out long before her time. And when it happened, no one would really know what to think of it.

She had smiled at me wearily, her forehead creased with sorrow. She didn't say anything; whatever she could manage to piece together wouldn't serve as an explanation. Luckily for me, that wasn't what I wanted. I didn't want to know why, I wanted to know how to stop it. I laid with her all night, and we talked for hours. We were back in our honeymoon stage, as if she'd really died and was a ghost, and this was a new relationship with a whole new being. I was the happiest I'd been in a while, and I could only hope the same for her.

She fell asleep wrapped up in my arms, and there was a moment where she stirred in her sleep, kicking one of her feet slightly. It was that moment that I had a paternal instinct, a sort of overbearing protectiveness over Emily and everything she touched. I had seen her at rock bottom, and I never wanted that to happen again. I would've done anything to make her happy, whatever to keep her sane. When the thought of losing her crossed my mind, stoic little me burst into tears. I couldn't fathom the idea of her not being around. It was weird to think that there was a time when I couldn't stand her. The faint nagging thought that I had inadvertently caused this, that my past cruelty had driven her here, made me clutch onto Emily like she was all I had. And if you told me that she was all I had, I would've believed you.

I have always had a range of two emotions, being a black and white person. I am blind to the color grey, and in this blindness, I have an emotion spectrum of only two sides, one side being pure hatred and loathing, and the other being intense passion and adoration. I had been at both extremes with Emily, and I had to say, loving her, while it wasn't easier, was a whole lot more enjoyable than hating her, as well as more rewarding. It had been a long time since I viewed myself as a good person, and with that girl sleeping beside me, I was reminded that maybe I wasn't so bad after all.

I wanted to tell her everything. I wanted my guts on the floor and my heart in her hand. I had fucked with her cardiovascular system, so it only seemed fair that she had her turn. Of course, knowing her, I'd give her my heart with the instructions to destroy it, and she'd set it down and leave it be. She was just that kind of a person; she could always walk away. And I loved it about her, the fact that she could take my former ugliness and return it with only affection and longing. I finally understood, I finally knew that she just wanted someone, anyone to be there for her, and that she had been looking for that in me. Well, she could certainly have that, and I wanted to tell her. There was so much I could've said, but she wasn't awake to hear it. I laid there for quite some time debating waking her, but whenever I came close, her tranquility, paired with her under the eye circles, would guilt me out of it. She deserved literally everything that ever was, but unfortunately, all I could give her was one night's sleep.

I didn't do any sleeping of myself that night, who could've? I kept one eye on Emily and the other on the clock, dreading the hour that I had to leave her. That time came, and out I went, making sure to give her a kiss on the forehead before trudging outside, back into reality. I was familiarized with reality to the point that I didn't want her exposed to it. It was, and still is, a harsh world, and she was too good for it. She deserved everything and nothing at the same time. She should've had mountains moved for her, stars named for her, and galaxies put in her hands. But all she got was cigarettes, suicide attempts, and me. The empathy I had for her was crippling.