BY ASHLEY ANDREWS
Copyright is held by the author.
TEARS STREAKED down Ophelia’s face. Something rose from her chest into her throat, fear, anxiety, regret; she wasn’t sure. It was too late, though. She could see that now. Nothing could be done to make this situation better. The lights of the car rushed toward her, and she screamed. Then everything went dark.
* * *
Ends are easy. There’s only one direction for it to go. Beginnings, now that’s the hard part. She couldn’t even remember how everything began. Or when everything started. Had the toxicity of their relationship always been present? Had it been there since the first moments spent lingering in the hallway? Or was it something that lay dormant, lurking underneath, hidden, but always waiting for the perfect justified time to strike?
“What’s on your mind, dear?” John asked.
Ophelia’s eyes snapped to the man seated across from her in their booth. They sat in this very booth every Thursday night. It had started as a fun thing to look forward to each week, but at some point, it had turned into something stale and predictable. She almost laughed at the idea of John being predictable. He was a man of pattern. He stuck to his schedule like a lifeline. Something she began doing for the same reason.
“Oh, nothing,” she said.
She caught John’s forehead furrow a moment before their waiter approached the booth. The man cleared his throat, and John looked at him with a slight grimace. She knew he hated to be interrupted. She rubbed the back of her head and found it still tender.
“Good to see you, John,” the waiter said. She couldn’t think of his name at the moment. Her head hurt thinking about it.
“Busy night tonight for the restaurant.” John nodded toward the growing crowd at the front door. A band was setting up right next to their booth, and for once, Ophelia hoped they were long gone before they got fully set up and into their setlist.
“Yes, sir. This one is a crowd favourite. They were here last week. We missed you, understandably, of course, but I hope you enjoy the music tonight.”
“Thank you, Steve.” John’s face turned pale, and Ophelia wanted to ask what they were talking about, but she knew she needed to wait until they were alone again.
“The usual?” the waiter, Steve, asked.
John nodded.
She watched as Steve walked away without so much as glancing her way. She was used to them taking whatever John said as truth and often not even asking her what she wanted, but this was new. Even stranger is that Ophelia couldn’t remember ever missing a Thursday date. As she struggled to remember last Thursday, a shooting pain went through Ophelia’s head. She brought her hand up to the back of her head. This time, her hand came away wet.
John raised his eyebrows at her in warning.
She was probably making a scene. She stood to excuse herself to the bathroom, but John held a hand up and pointed to her vacated seat. She sat back down.
“I was just going to wash my hand,” she explained.
“You washed your hands before we came in, dear.”
“Yes, but there’s a bit of something on them now that I need to clean up.”
“No, there’s not.”
She raised her hands to show him, only to find her hands clean, as he had said. She shifted in her seat to sit on them. Her head burned, but she wasn’t going to say anything about it now. He always made her feel like whatever was happening to her wasn’t a concern, or sometimes real at all. A hypochondriac he had called her, to their friends, their families, their therapist, basically anyone that would listen. Gaslighting was more like it.
Steve approached their booth with a glass of iced tea and a tumbler filled with an all too familiar amber liquid. She raised an eyebrow at John, and he held her gaze, challenging her to say something about him drinking. She used to. She used to complain a lot about his drinking. He knew that he was even worse when drunk, but he never seemed to care.
She often wondered if it was more or less an excuse to be who he truly was. To be just as evil as he wanted, with the perfect excuse to ensure she forgave him. After all, a man can’t control his impulses when under the influence of fine alcohol. Chill bumps rose on her arms, thinking of all the things she had forgiven in the past. She chewed on her lip as she watched Steve walk away to wait on another table.
He hadn’t asked what she wanted, nor had he even brought her water to quench her thirst. Now that she thought about it, she found her throat was painfully dry. The amp kicked on next to their booth with a bit of feedback. Ophelia jumped, pulling her hands out from under her. She worked them together in her lap and then set her jaw.
Tonight was the night. It was clear that nothing could be done to make this situation better. She had imagined having this conversation a thousand times before, but tonight she would force the words past her lips, no matter what. They were in a public space. Surely John wouldn’t do anything to raise eyebrows here. Then she could text her sister to come to pick her up.
“John, we need to talk.”
Something rose from her chest into her throat, fear, anxiety, regret; she wasn’t sure. It was too late, though. She could see now that she couldn’t give him another chance.
He gazed at her over the top of his tumbler. He set his drink down and folded his arms on the table. This was in control John. That John was predictable, and with that predictability came security. Only, she didn’t want security now. Ophelia didn’t want a reasonable John. She didn’t need to second guess herself any more than she had over the past two years.
The band sprang to life next to them, and the crowd clapped. John’s eyes never left hers. She cleared her throat. “I can’t do this anymore,” she said.
“Nothing more to do, my dear.”
“John,” she said. Tears sprang from her eyes. “This isn’t working anymore.”
He looked over at the band and watched as the crowd began to form in front of the small stage.
“I’m not happy. I haven’t been for a while.”
His eyes stayed on the band with no indication that he heard what she said at all. Ophelia looked around the room. At least ten people stood in front of the stage now, directly beside their booth. The sound within the restaurant rose every moment the band strummed on. She felt an odd disconnect from everyone around her. It wouldn’t be the first time that she felt like she didn’t belong around John’s crowd, but their Thursday dates had become a constant in her life. Somewhere she could relax and pretend they were an ordinary couple.
She looked back at John. He stared at the couples on the dance floor but said nothing. He didn’t tap his foot to the music, or hum along, or even nod when people made eye contact with him. She wondered if he felt the same strange disconnect.
“John,” she said.
He didn’t move nor look her way.
“John.”
Again, no response.
“John!” She slammed her hands down on the table. Glasses and plates rattled, and the saltshaker fell to the floor. When had the food arrived? John placed his hands palms down on the table to steady it.
Steve approached the table and gave John a strange look. “Everything OK, sir?”
John nodded, a melancholy look on his face. Ophelia thought back to how many times she had seen him look sad. She couldn’t think of a single one, not even the first time he hit her. She had expected remorse then. Instead, she saw something terrifying on his face. She should have left then. That’s what they always say. I should have left the first time it happened. There was no way to know that there would be more after the first, though. Is it even the first if it doesn’t happen again? Perhaps it makes it more of an isolated event. A mistake, but nothing more.
Only, it hadn’t been just the once. It hadn’t been an isolated event, and he had never acted like it was a mistake. Tears streamed down Ophelia’s face.
“I’m leaving, John.”
He looked at her now, a dead look in his eyes as he met hers. Chill bumps spread up her neck.
“I can’t do this anymore. It’s not good for me, and you can’t say that you’re happy anymore.” She popped her knuckles. “Say something.”
He held her gaze.
“It’s not good for me. You’re not good for me,” Ophelia said.
John turned his head back to the band and the people that danced by their table. People clapped along to the beat of the song. Pain once again shot through Ophelia’s head. She raised her hand, unable to stop the impulse. She knew she’d pay for it later, for embarrassing him. Only, she wouldn’t. She knew she wouldn’t have to worry about John anymore. She was ending things now.
She grimaced as her hand touched the back of her head. This time, it came away bloodied and with clots and globs of dirt and grass. Had she forgotten to take a shower before they came? No wonder he was so mad at her, and the waiter refused to meet her eye.
“John,” she tried, but her voice came out far too light. The room was too loud, and he hadn’t heard her.
Suddenly John stood from the booth. He looked around the room and then glanced back at her. He met her eyes. Was there something like remorse in them? She couldn’t tell.
He walked over to the counter to pay their bill. She stood to follow him but stumbled. She steadied herself against the side of the booth.
“Poor thing,” a woman near her said. Ophelia looked over at the woman. Confusion clouded her mind. The woman stared at John, not Ophelia, with a look of pity on her face.
Ophelia stumbled over to the counter. Her head was throbbing now, and she could hear the patter of blood against the floor with each step she took. She leaned against the counter. John would be furious with her for drinking so much. But she hadn’t drunk anything that night. She hadn’t even eaten.
Steve handed John his receipt. “We’re sorry to hear about Ophelia.”
“Excuse me?” she said. She stood straighter, and the pain in her head dulled compared to the spike of adrenaline she felt at the sound of her name.
“Truly tragic,” Steve added.
John nodded his head. He folded his receipt into a tiny square and deposited it into his pocket.
“What are you talking about?” Ophelia asked. The waiter looked straight ahead at John. She was on the verge of screaming now. “What is he talking about?”
“Thanks for a great night, as always,” John said.
“John! What is he talking about?” she yelled, her voice shrill. The windows shook from the impact of her words or from the band that still played despite everything. Blood on the floor, a woman struggling to stand by the counter, yet patrons danced in front of the band as if it were their last night on earth.
She followed John outside and watched as he climbed into the car. He started the car, the lights shone in her eyes, and he met her gaze over the dash.
And she remembered.
***
Ashley Andrews is a novelist, poet, and flash fiction writer with a BFA in Creative Writing. Her writing has been featured in Moonstone Arts Center, Beyond Words, Bookends Review, and more. She smiles when she’s uncomfortable, notoriously talks during movies, and her ninth Christmas shares a VHS tape with The Blair Witch Project. The Blair Witch Project is listed first.
