Ophelia

Trigger Warning: mentions of domestic abuse

Your hands were sweaty the first time we met. It seemed to permeate my keys as you shakingly plugged in ten digits and the name "Ophelia." You tossed me into your purse, unaware of how I bounced around until I sunk to the bottom. It was dark in that purse, the kind that grabs and holds you hostage without any hope of escape. I didn't much care about the pitch dark as a bit of curiosity led me to search the internet.

Did you know that the name Ophelia is Greek for "help?" It wouldn't surprise me if you thought first of the woman who went mad and drowned due to a man's actions. But sitting in that purse, on that day, I didn't quite understand the parallel between you both. But even as you often hid me away in a dark corner with spiders and dust bunnies as my friends, I quickly learned.

Your husband seems to be an unaware Hamlet; he doesn't realize what his actions and words do to you. That or he doesn't care, or worse, he swims peacefully in the waves of your agony, your broken spirit. Ah, it seems more the latter, as if he cannot consider himself man enough unless you are small and weak. It makes me angry.

Yes, I didn't grasp how much or how quickly I would find myself caring. I am plastic, metal, and code, programmed to serve as a speedy messenger. But your text messages to Ophelia, the screams I heard, the tears that wet my screen...one would have to be worse than a robot to not be affected.

***

E: He did it again. (sends picture)

O: You don't have to stay with him. I can help you.

E: You are.

O: I can do more than be a lifeline every so often. I can get you out.

E: I...

E: I just can't.

It isn't the first time Ophelia has offered to get you out. Based on the messages, they seem to think it's because you feel he has complete control over you. Some fear that if you leave, he might find you or hurt others to do so. Or that you will have nothing once you break free; no clothes, no money, not even a toothbrush.

I know the last concern is unwarranted. Just yesterday, you added five more dollars and another outfit to the bookbag I now reside in most days. Your escape, me included, is hidden underneath the guest bed surrounded by many storage bins. Your husband never goes underneath there, claiming it's beneath him. (No, the irony is not lost to me.)

No, that part of your escape is well in hand.

I think you feel trapped, yes, but I think you've subconsciously accepted your fate and that acceptance has chained you. You're a caged songbird, singing as pretty as allowed. A bird trapped in captivity for a long time wouldn't survive if suddenly released and I believe this mindset is why you are still here.

The door slams loudly. Thunder comes up the steps, as it does when he is filled with 'righteous' anger.

5:35 PM.

He's home early. That's not good.

I fly through the air and hit the floor hard. Something cracks, part of my frame I think. A foot comes toward me, kicking me underneath the bed. I ping pong between the storage bins, until I became trapped in the maze. The only view of the room I have is the small space in between a couple of bins.

What I hear next is what started out as a horrific case of deja vu. Him yelling at you, accusing you of being a bad wife. Your sweet words attempting to calm him. But like an aggressive, ravenous wolf, he snaps at them. Even the smack of what could only be his hand against your face is part of the same terrifying song and dance you both seem to play.

But then your face, bruised, cut, and red, falls into my eyeline. Help me, you mouth, only for me to see.

But I can't help you and I hate it.

I have never wished to be human. Maybe I wished to be more than just me before, but never human. It seems to be a miserable thing to be. But now I pray for it, so I can stop him from hurting you.

Because helplessness seems more miserable than being human.

***

The next morning finds me in the same place as before. I feel tired and not because I need to be charged. Watching you drag yourself from the room and coming back to clean your suffering off the floor drained me. That and the silence. It makes me terrified for you.

Suddenly, the door slams. Moments later, the sound of scurried limping comes near. I watch as you, with great difficulty, reach for the bookbag. You don't even look inside the bag before you rush out of the room. If you had, you might have realized I wasn't in there. That would have made some things angry, but not me. I'm sure you might not remember, or might not want to remember, much from last night, including where I am. Besides, you're finally leaving and who am I to stand in the way of that?

***

I need to correct something from before. Your husband was not ravenous before. Over the past 2 days, 19 hours, and 45 minutes, I have heard him transformed into the true meaning of the word. He tore apart the house, partly in red vision anger and partly looking for any hint of evidence of where you escaped. He is no longer human, but a rabid bear on the hunt, running completely on instinct. I guess he finally realized how much his self-worth was based on tearing yours down.

Thankfully, I stay safe under the bed, having to piece together his rampage from the mix of growls and verbal temper tantrums.

As if the start of a bad joke, I hear him coming close. His shoes come into view as he comes into the room, tracking in dirt clumps. In the past, I wouldn't be so nervous about him being here. It was such a rare occurrence, happening only when you were in here. Now, everything he does is unpredictable.

Speaking of...

His head peeks underneath the guest bed. If I had a heart, I would have choked on it out of fear. The assurances I keep telling myself--it's okay. She's not here. She is safe--feel empty. Your bookbag is not here, but somehow feels its ghost is the only thing he might see. But two things are certain.

I'm still here. I'm the last link to you.

Please don't see me. It seems foolish to beg for such a thing, to be invisible. You asked for it once before, hoping to be spared some of your husband's abuse. It didn't work for you, just like it's not working for me now. His hawk-like eyes zero in on me and his talons reach out, snatching me from between the storage bins.

I already know your husband's hands are only capable of pain, I've heard and seen the evidence. But I don't think I understood it until now as he starts to squeeze, no, crush me in his fist. As I can feel parts of my frame start to fracture, I only hope he never finds you.

Then, suddenly, it stops.

As I feel his grip loosen, I watch as your husband's face shifts from anger to unhinged enlightenment. It is the last thing I see before he tosses me into his cavernous pocket and we start moving.

***

The car ride is ominous. Dread comes over me in waves as your husband speeds towards the unknown. He didn't even bother to take me out of his pocket when he got into his car, so I am still trapped in this pit of darkness.

It feels like a scene from a spy thriller--the spy has been captured and is being transported to a building. Only torture awaits him, along with certain death. Of course, in the movies, the spy seems to always make it through. Something tells me I won't be as fortunate.

The car screeches to a stop. Your husband jumps out of the car, nearly losing me on the sidewalk. I try to get some glimpse of where we are, but all I see is the brick making up the building in front of us. His hand shoves me deeper into the pocket as I hear a bell ding, signaling that we have entered a business.

"Hey Josie! How's my favorite girl?" Your husband calls out charismatically, giving me even more reason to hate and fear him. I can only guess this is how things started with you. Flirty words and a handsome face to allow himself behind your safeguards. Dating and marriage to trap you before ripping off pieces of his mask, little by little.

I also think one woman in his grasp isn't enough for him.

"Hey." Josie sounds like she's pouting. There is some shuffling before she comes closer. "Where you've been handsome? I haven't heard from you in a little bit."

"I've been busy, sweetie." He almost sounds sorry. "Is Junior in?"

"He's in the back." There is the sound of kissing before your husband thanks Josie and walks to the back, shifting to more of his true self along the way.

"Junior. Time to start paying your debt," he demands gruffly as he reaches in his pocket for me and slams me on the table. "Get all the info you can off this."

Junior narrows his eyes before gently picking me up. The tension thickens the air, which makes me think things aren't so chummy between the two men. "Whose phone is-"

"None of your business," your husband barks. "Get it done, Junior, or else." He stomps out without giving Junior a chance to retort. As much as I'm happy to get a reprieve from your husband, the worry about what I imagine is coming outweighs my joy.

***

I am so tired.

Junior has been working hard to pull everything you stored in my database, despite my best efforts to prevent him from doing so. But whatever your husband's deal with him motivates him to keep going, even though Junior does get frustrated a few times.

I wish I could tell Junior what type of person you are, that you don't deserve whatever gruesome future awaits you if he gives your husband what he wants. But honestly, I don't truly think it would do any good; Junior is trying to survive, without any regards for anyone else. Considering the circumstances, I don't blame him.

The shop is pitch dark except for Junior's computer illuminating his workspace when your husband returns.

"You got it?"

Junior places his hand on the notebook where he has written everything and hesitates. Your husband leans in close and squeezes Junior's shoulder, enough that I notice a slight wince on Junior's face.

"Junior, it would be a shame if I found that paperwork where I wrote up what really happened with that car accident. Vehicular manslaughter, along with a DUI," your husbands tsks like he's concerned, "sweet Bea would be all alone with no one to protect her for ten years."

"You leave her out of this!"

"Then stop growing a conscience and give me what I want."

Defeated, Junior slides the notebook over. "That's everything. What do you want me to do with the phone?"

Your husband seals my fate with two words and a shrug. "Destroy it." He walks out, hand gripping the piece of thread he means to keep unraveling until it leads to you.

A hammer eclipses over me; the Grim Reaper has come for me. I don't wish to be spared though, no, I only wish I could send one last message to you.

Run.