Ophelia Study No. 1

Chapter Seventeen

 When I rose that morning, Emily was fast asleep on the couch, her hair matted and theatre makeup run down her face in smeary streaks. Her eyeliner managed to reach her jawline.

I combed a hand through her hair absently, only for a few seconds. I left the arm of the couch, retreating to the bathroom to take a shower.

My mother told me Emily wouldn't be going to school; that she'd been through enough. When I asked her what she'd say to the school to make the absence excused, my mom replied that she'd say Emily was ill. That wasn't far from the truth; Emily was deathly pale, even with the caked layers of orange Ben Nye foundation splotched across her cheeks. She had a fever as well; when I had touched her hair, heat radiated off of her and into my hand, warming the skin of my palm.

So I left, just as usual. I was hesitant to leave Emily, but my mom assured me that all she needed was some rest; that she would feel much better after some sleep. She had also told me, "Besides, you'll see her later this afternoon."

Neither of us saw it coming.

What happened after I left that house can only be assumed by me. Mom swears on her account on what must've happened, but I can't be entirely sure.

According to Mom, she'd gone about her daily chores, folding laundry in the den with Emily sleeping at her side. She remarked how peaceful Emily had looked, despite her disheveled state.

It was around 10:20 a.m. that my mom went to take a shower.

My mother is careful about everything she does. She wrote out a note for Emily in the event that Emily was to wake up while she was still bathing. The note was signed, "We love you, Emily." She'd set a can of soup beside the couch where Emily lay, in addition to a bottle of orange juice.

We can only guess when Emily woke up. Mom says that she got out of the shower around 10:40, went upstairs a bit prior to 10:45, and had returned downstairs by 11:00 a.m. That leaves a forty minute window for what Emily had done.

Mom returned downstairs, immediately noticing that Emily was absent from her sleeping spot on the couch. The covers were carefully made, and the can of soup and serving of juice lay untouched on the floor.

She checked the bathroom first. Seeing that it was empty, she went to my room next, to find that vacant as well.

She began to panic, and she spent a decent amount of time pacing around the house; she guesses anywhere from five to twenty minutes. Finally, she stumbled upon the note that Emily had left.

It only said "I love you. It's not your fault, and I'm safe." It was signed 'Emily' with ink smeared from where tears she wiped from her eyes ran down her fingers.

The note was crumpled around the sides, particularly at the bottom where she had signed it, as though someone had gripped it tightly, even slightly tearing the sheet in the process.

That's when my mother contacted the police.

The police told her they'd have to wait to put Emily on the missing persons list; Chicago was a city where parents regularly filed lost child reports, only to find the kid somewhere in the vast streets just hours later.

But Emily wasn't some kid who forgot to tell her parents they were having a sleepover. Emily was almost an adult, one that made the conscious decision to pack up her things and leave. She'd left hardly anything behind, but it wasn't like she had a lot at our house to begin with.

We didn't know what made her leave, or how long she'd been considering it. What we wanted to know was who pushed her away- her parents or us. We liked to think that we were a positive in her life at that time, but we really had no clue as to how she viewed us. She was polite enough, but that was just Emily. She could resent you and you'd never know it.

I liked to think that the play was a last straw. It made it easier to believe that leaving was what she truly wanted, and it was nice to think of her being in control. But at the same time, that meant that she had been more upset than she let on, and that in those short months I knew her, she was suffering.

We were anticipating her return in those first few days that she was gone. We kept everything just as she'd left it, not moving a single thing that she'd failed to take with her. Mom kept Emily in her prayers, and she told me to do the same. I started praying again just to plead to bring her back to us. I hadn't prayed in what felt like a long time, and it was just like me to do nothing about that until I needed something.

What I needed was Emily back. School was rough; everything seemed to be a reminder of her. Hearing her name called to no answer in class was the worst. Half of the time, I expected her to answer as usual. I even caught myself stealing hopeful, but foolish glances at her empty chair.

I began to find ugliness in everything that surrounded me. Everyone I had once tolerated rubbed me the wrong way, and all that I had found beautiful turned sour.

I'm sure that some of you reading are relieved that she had been a runaway instead of dying. While an untimely and poorly placed death would put me, the white male protagonist, through a great deal of agony, it's not what happened.

But to tell you the truth, I would almost prefer that she was dead. I mean, at least that way I could get some closure. I could lay awake in bed knowing her corpse was rotting underground, sick at the fact that I would never see her alive again. I'd lose sleep over whether or not there was an afterlife, and if there was one, if I was able to make it there and see her. I'd know that she'd go to heaven; she was almost too good for the world. As for myself, I'd wonder what changes I'd need to make to reach her.

But no, she just had to go and make herself a modern mystery. I still lay awake, but not to the thought of her rotting corpse. I lay there and toss and turn about what – and who – she might be doing. Hell, even my best guesses are vague ideas. And that's the positive side, at worst, they're nothing but the frantic thoughts of a scared boy who's lost someone dear to him.

That may sound dramatic, but in her disappearance, I truly did lose her. I grieved just as hard as anyone, and the void she carved inside me felt like a burning hole, one that could never be filled.

I didn't battle with the thought of God taking her and the unfairness of it all; I dealt with the possibility that she truly hated me. I'd almost have God resent me in her place; I never opened up to God like how I fell apart for that girl.

I missed her to pieces. I never knew what it felt like to physically ache from despair. I soon familiarized myself with that gnawing, sore feeling in my chest. There were times where I felt like I could just die from the loneliness, and all I wanted was for my passing to speed up.