Love, Olivia

Empty

Olivia was confused the next day at school; she hadn't heard a single word from Olivia all day yesterday and not even a good morning text today. Maybe something was wrong. She met Ryan at the doors and they chatted as they walked in together.

"I haven't heard from Olivia since before school ended yesterday," Ophelia told him.

"Why don't you ask her about it today?"

"I plan on it," she stated and then heard the telltale click on high heels. Olivia's lips pouted in red lipstick and two suggestively placed cherries were printed on her shirt.

"Hey, why haven't you called me?" Ophelia asked but Ryan grabbed her arm and pulled her back. She then noticed Emily smirking behind Olivia and their gaggle of girls behind them like geese, flanking them in a v-shape.

"Why are you with them?" She began but Olivia's face was as unmoving as a stone statue and she ripped Ophelia's poetry book from her arms.

"No!" She lunged forward but Ryan held her back.

Olivia licked her top lip slowly, almost as if she was amused. She opened the book and read a title. "The Gallery," she drawled and tore out the page. It fluttered to the ground like a dead leaf.
"Wonderwall." She ripped out the page. "Fantasy," she snickered and the girls behind her laughed as if on cue. "Her Vision Board," Olivia began.

"No! Not that one, please! It's about my mom!"

Olivia's eyes glinted as she heartlessly tore it out and threw the book back at Ophelia. Her knees began to crumble but Ryan caught her and helped her down slowly. Tears trickled slowly down her face as she gathered up the torn out poems.

"Why?" She cried.

"If I see you in the street, bitch, your ass is dead!" Olivia snapped.

"You're a fucking cunt, you know that?" Ryan said, jumping to Ophelia's defense.

She threw up her hands as she backed away. "I do what I fucking want!" She called.  Olivia strut past a small group of band kids and thrust a slip of paper in their hand with a wide smile on her mouth. "Vote Olivia for Prom Queen!"

Ophelia leaned into Ryan's chest and cried. He wrapped his arms around her and hushed her, brushing her hair from her eyes.

"Hey," a quiet voice said. They looked up to see Veila holding out a poem. "You missed one."
Ophelia sniffed and took it, fitting it back into her book.

"Thank you," she said tearfully.

Veila nodded and sat wordlessly next to them in silent support. After a few minutes of getting the tears out, they slowly stopped and her face fell, eyes dead as the growing feeling of numbness took over and she sank into it.

Over the course of the next couple weeks, classmates and teachers alike watched as the quiet but confident version of Ophelia they knew fell away to reveal a skeleton of a girl. Dark circles were stamped under eyes like half of the dark side of the moon. Her hair was messy and she slumped in her seat, rarely smiling and talking even less.
  The concern for her grew when her depression became more evident through her poetry.
Instead of standing like usual, she'd take a deep breath, as if speaking was too much to bear and read aloud, "The Gallery."
Everybody shuffled in their seats quietly and she glared at the noise.

"I feel like my mind is an abstract painting I have paid good money to gaze at
And attempt to understand
But the longer I look
The more confused I become.
The colors bleed together
The shapes no longer have edges
The shadows underneath the paint slip out and slicken the image with its presence
Changing it until it is no longer the same picture
Instead it is a black ball of yarn desperately tangled and no matter how hard you try
You can't find where the string begins
This is my depression."

Their fingers snapped and one by one they went through their own poems and one by one they left the room after the bell rang. Ophelia was on her way out when Ms. Heather called her to wait a moment.

"Ophelia, I can't say I know what you're going through but," she began but Ophelia cut her off.

"Then don't," she said.

Ms. Heather ignored her interruption. "I'm concerned for you and I think you need to talk about what you're feeling."

"No thanks," she mumbled.

"Not with me," Ms. Heather said and looked towards the door.

There was Ophelia's dad, leaning on the doorway. "Hey, kiddo," he said. "Let's go home."

Ophelia shot daggers at her poetry teacher for the betrayal but followed her father out to the car.

"Sure you don't want to talk about it?" He asked gently. 

She stayed silent.

"Ophelia, something's wrong. And we've always been so good about talking to each other. C'mon, give me something to go on."

Ophelia sighed and said, "I don't care anymore, Dad. I just don't."

"What do you mean you don't care? You don't care about what?" He asked in concern. "Just help me understand," he tried.

She looked at him, eyes glazed over and bored. He recognized the emptiness and it made him shift in his seat. The boredom he saw there was a dangerous thing.

"I think you should talk to someone."

"No!" She snapped.

"Ophelia, you need help."

"For what?" She spat. "For being sad? For being fucked up over a girl I barely dated? For being fucked up enough that I still miss her?"

"There's nothing wrong with a broken heart," her father said.

"Yeah? What about being broken up over an abuser? Because that's what she does, Dad, every day. It is emotional abuse that I can't take any more but I'm still stupid enough to miss her."

The car rolled to a stop on the side of the road and Ophelia took her chance, unbuckling and slamming the door behind her.

"Ophelia, get in the car!"

She kept walking.

"Ophelia?" He grabbed her arm and whipped her around. She tried to tear herself from his grip but he held on tighter.

"Stop fighting me," he said. "Ophelia, stop it!"

He held her tightly in his arms as she finally relaxed and her shoulders shook in heavy chested sobs. Cars passed and the sun offered to help but the wind blew to dry her tears and there they stayed, a heart wrenching display of a hurting family.