Ophiuchus

The Present

One

two

three

four

five

six

seven

Pages turn, pencils break, chairs scrape against the floor. The girl next to Camille, frantically scribbles down numbers that don't belong together. She doesn't have the answers, but Camille does.

Eight

nine

ten

eleven

twelve

thirteen

Camille has four minutes. Four minutes to get her act together and answer 36 questions on integral functions right. She hasn't even written her name on the paper, let alone pick up her pencil. The clock is ticking and from across the room, she watches as another person get up to turn in their exam.

Fourteen

fifteen

sixteen

Forty eight hours ago, Camille was studying her arse off for this test. She'd memorized every theorem and equation from cover to cover of the book. This was her last chance to prove to Herr Goering that she deserved to stay in calculus II, despite failing the last term. So why was she letting it all fall apart at her fingertips?

Seventeen

eighteen

Nineteen

The bell rings. Herr Goering doesn't hesitate to begin collecting tests by hand. He tears papers away from panicked students frantically scribbling down answers, ones that don't even make sense, just so that a single question doesn't go blank.

Herr Goering hates blank spaces. It's a symbol of irresponsibility and lack of motivation. Two of many things that the Herr despises utmost in the world. So it's no surprise when he stops at Camille's desk last. He leans over, without taking a single look at her paper and stares her dead in the eyes.

"This was your last chance Camille. And seeing that you let it pass you by, I don't see any reason to keep you in my class any longer."

She wished tears would prickle her eyes the way they did the night before. Goering wasn't a monster, but a man with little sympathy. Tears had worked in the past, otherwise she wouldn't have gotten this chance to disappoint him again. He returns to his desk, and very carefully Camille gets up from her chair and slings her bag over her shoulder. She leaves out the door without a word to the Herr and decides for herself that there wasn't any point in trying for things you truly didn't want.

Twenty.

The walk home was long and she wished she'd hitched a ride with Matthew. But lately, he didn't want her in his life, despite living right across the hall from her. Things were silent, tense and all sorts of painful. Dinner was always cold and the food tasted worse when there were so many words, both said and unsaid that hung heavily in the air.

She's not tired, but she drags her feet up the stairs anyways. She tosses her bag on the floor along with her clothes. She crawls under the covers of her bed despite the fact that it's broad daylight out. It's only 2:00, eight hours before she normally goes to sleep. But Camille's not trying to fall asleep, she's trying to forget. So she reaches for a bottle of pills from beside her bed and takes one. She stares at the ceiling watching the fan spin in circles round and round until her eyes grow heavy. Her eyelids close and her body sinks into the mattress.

When she wakes up again. It's sometime late into the night. The small clock beside her bed reads 1:24 am. The door creaks open and light quickly floods in and out of her room. Her body freezes up. Her muscles are tense and she feels as though she can't move, let alone breathe. The covers peel away from her stiff body and someone warm and soft crawls in next to her.

He smells of vodka but he hasn't been drinking. He leans his head against her shoulder and wraps an arm around her. She's shaking like a wet dog shivering in the cold. She feels tense and for a moment he wonders if he's pushed her so far away he's made her afraid of him.

"It's just me Cam, not some weird perv off the street."

It's not a pervert she's afraid of.

"What are you doing?" she asks

"Needed a place to sleep." He replies.

He had his own room and his own bed, one that was bigger than hers. She knows he didn't come here because he needed a place to sleep, he's making excuses.

For a while they lay there in silence. She listens to Matthew's steady breathing, watching his chest rise and fall. His eyes are closed, but he isn't sleeping- he's pretending. She decides to play along and carefully slides his arm back to him and her shoulder from beneath his head. She shifts onto her side and stares at the wall. She runs her fingernail across, listening for that eerie sound of fingernails on a chalkboard.

"I'm sorry."

She lets the words ruminate with him for a while. When he doesn't say anything back, she wonders if maybe he really had fallen asleep.

"You've got nothing to be sorry about." He says softly.

She shifts onto her side to face him. There's a pang of guilt in her chest. She knows he's only saying that to make her feel better.

"No. I should be sorry. I didn't stick up for you when you needed it most."

"Camille-"

"I just sat there like a fool and let you take every bullet that came your way."

"Look, in all honesty." Matthew says sitting up. "I wish you had stuck up for me. But this isn't your battle, it's mine. You're caught in the middle, and you can't go anywhere. I know that already."

He lays back down. They scoot close enough to each other so that their heads meet. Matthew lays a comforting hand on her arm.

"You were the first person I'd told. And the only person that had and continued to love me all the more. I like to think that's what's worth more."

Camille stares back at him for a while. When their eyes meet, the ocean meets the earth.

He pulled her closer to him. So close, that she could feel his ribs against her own. He buries his face into her neck. Suddenly, it's wet. Her breath hitches in her throat and she feels a wetness staining her cheeks.

Camille strokes his hair. She wraps her arms around him, shielding him like she wished she had before. She closes her eyes and for a second, she pretends that everything will be okay.