The Traitor's Stain (wattys 2019)

Chapter Thirty-Two: New York, New York

Ophelia had heard stories about what it was like to watch something horrible happen. She'd heard of men who acted without their mind's consent, heard stories about people who'd watched something happen to them as if they were viewing it from outside their body, heard of people who felt time slow down to the most horrible of crawls. She felt all of those the moment Otetiani pulled the trigger of his gun.

The flash from the muzzle was blinding, and in the seconds after, she was thrust into a sort of darkness she'd never imagined, before. Everything became cold, dark. The very air around her seemed to vibrate, rattling her right through to her bones. To her very soul, even. She felt lost, and more scared than she'd ever been in her entire life.

Most of all, she felt hopeless. She knew full well that, even if she wanted to, she wouldn't be able to help them. Gunshot wounds... people didn't heal from those. They were maimed if they were lucky. If not... if not...

Her instructions from Abraham and Hercules came back to her. It was the only thing in her mind, in that moment: if something happens, run.

Run...

Run...

Run!

Ophelia turned and ran as fast as she could down the alleyway, praying that she'd be able to find her way back to Robert's.

Another thing she'd heard stories about, but had never experienced, herself: people blacking out, losing all memory of what they'd done. Going from one moment to a moment hours later without knowing how you got there. She remembered leaving the alleyway and running down the street, and she remembered arriving at Robert's home. She didn't remember when it started to rain, didn't remember what she'd done to get mud all over her skirts or her hands. All she remembered was the fear. The fear that cut deeper than any knife. The fear that chilled her to the bone more than the rain that pelted her as she ran.

Robert's home was dark when she arrived at the street, but it might as well have been glowing with all the glory of heaven. She forced her legs to go faster until she arrived at Robert's door.

Ophelia pounded on the door. "Robert? Robert, please!"

Within about a minute, the door opened, revealing Robert on the other side.

"Ophelia, what-" he began, but she didn't hear what he said: she shoved her way into the house and collapsed.

And just like that, the physical affects hit her like a brick wall. Her body shook, her breathing came in shuddering gasps, her legs ached. Most of all, she felt sick. Absolutely sick to her stomach.

"Ophelia, what happened?" Robert asked as he shut the door. "Where's Abraham and Hercules?"

She didn't say anything. She didn't know what to say. What had happened? She still wasn't even sure, herself.

"I don't know," she whispered. She could feel tears brewing in her eyes. "I don't know what happened. I heard a gun, and I just... I just..."

Robert knelt down beside her and put a hand on her shoulder.

"Ophelia..." his voice was softer, now. "Let's get you cleaned up, okay? You're going to catch your death in those wet clothes."

She nodded as he helped her up. "A-alright."

He walked her to the stairs.

"Do you think... do you think they're okay?" Ophelia asked.

Robert didn't say anything for a moment. "I don't know. I wish I did."

"I wish I did, too."

***

John Andre had assumed that he wouldn't have to deal with Otetiani and his self-given mission when he left the house, that night. And so, he did what he could to enjoy the night as much as possible: he drank with his comrades, danced with women; eventually, he was even able to put the whole incident behind him, go back to having the enjoyable night he'd been planning on having.