Page 41 of Oblivion
The body lying in front of me, on the metallic table, wasn’t Ophelia. I knew deep inside my heart that I might shatter once I finally came here, but I knew with no doubt that this wasn’t her.
The face of the female in front of me was unrecognizable from the fire, but I knew Ophelia. I knew every curve of her body, every line of her face, and this person in front of me, whoever she was, wasn’t my Ophelia. I thought relief would course through me once I realized that it wasn’t her, but instead, a new wave of anger slammed through me, destroying everything in its path.
She was so adamant on getting away from me that she would fake her own death?
Didn’t she think of me or the people she knew who would mourn her passing? Didn’t she think that just hearing about her death would shake my entire world?
I stepped closer to the woman lying on the table, trying to figure out what sorts of horror she went through to end up in this place. To end up as a puppet for a fucked-up person who obviously didn’t know when to stop running.
Ophelia would obviously stop at nothing to hide her tracks, to protect herself, never once thinking about the people she was leaving behind. She didn’t care about me. She didn’t care about the people who loved her, and this was only additional proof.
To think that I mourned her, that I cried for a wicked bitch.
Looking down at the arms of the woman, it was obvious that she had no tattoos unlike Ophelia. Did she really think she would be able to fool us all? Maybe the authorities believed this story, but not me. The woman in front of me was frail, too skinny to be Ophelia.
She didn’t have a broken snake tattoo around her forearm. She didn’t hide monsters on her skin. She was just another victim of a woman who had no boundaries. Ophelia pushed and pushed and pushed, and unless I stopped her, she would keep pushing until she burned the world around us.
“Are you okay, Mr. Knoxx?” the policeman standing in front of me asked. I had no idea what to say.
I wasn’t okay, not even remotely. Ophelia lied—again. She made me believe that I’d lost her, that I couldn’t breathe at all, while she was probably laughing God knows where, enjoying shattering me once again.
This was all a game for her, and I was a fool for believing Atlas’s words that she was different, that she had changed.
Monsters could never change who they really were, and Ophelia was just another wolf hiding in plain sight, taking and taking until there was nothing left.
“Mr. Knoxx?”
“I’m fine,” I murmured, my eyes lingering on the destroyed face of the woman in front of me. “It’s just a lot to take in,” I lied.
“Is it her?” he asked, expectantly looking at me. “Is it Ophelia?”
I wanted to tell him the truth. I wanted her to be chased not only by me, but by the police as well, but I lied.
“Yes,” I murmured. “It’s her.”
I wasn’t going to allow any of them to get close to her. I wasn’t going to tell them she was actually alive, because then I wouldn’t be able to get her myself. She would have no idea I would be coming.
She had no idea what I had in store for her, and she would regret ever running away from me.
This I could promise.
“I would like to pay for the funeral once you’re done examining her,” I said, looking straight at him.
Whoever this woman was didn’t deserve to die like this. She didn’t deserve to die alone and scared, getting used as a puppet by a psychopath that Ophelia was.
“Could you let us know, please?” I asked him, faking the sadness as much as I could. Anger was what lived inside of me now, and I couldn’t wait to get the fuck out of here and break something. “We’ll be in touch,” I said as I started walking away from him, and straight through the door, leading to the hallway where Atlas and Indigo waited for me.
Both of them stood up at the same time, their concern for me misplaced, because there was nothing they should worry about.
“It isn’t her,” I said, walking past them, heading toward the exit.
“What?” Atlas exclaimed.
“What do you mean it isn’t her?” Indigo asked at the same time. “It has to be her. They confirmed—”
“She played with us,” I grunted, my sole focus on getting home and getting hammered. Fuck the medication. I needed alcohol if I was going to survive this. “She faked her own death to get away from me,” I murmured, while the two of them followed.
We went through the hallway, passing through the exit door, and straight out into the cold, night air.
