Page 59 of Breaking Ophelia

I look up, scanning the opposite bank for anything that could hide me. There’s a dip under a fallen tree, a shadow where the moon doesn’t reach. I stagger across the water, soaking my feet and the hem of what’s left of my dress. My whole body goes pins-and-needles with the cold. I hunker down under the log and pull my knees to my chest, trying to steady my breathing, trying to disappear into the roots and the moss.

For a moment, there’s nothing. No sound but the water and the faint hiss of my own pulse.

Maybe I lost him.

Or maybe he wants me to think I did.

I press my hand to my mouth to stifle the sound of my breath. The world slows to a crawl.

That’s when I see it: a flicker of white, high on the ridge. His shirt, loose under his jacket, bright as bone in the night. He stands there, hands in his pockets, just watching.

He could have caught me already. He’s letting it build.

The suspense.

The humiliation makes my teeth ache. I want to scream at him, throw rocks, anything to show I’m not scared, but I know what he wants. He wants the break. He wants me to shatter on my own, so he can be the one to put the pieces back in whatever order he likes.

The cold creeps in, spreading from my feet up to my knees. My teeth start to chatter. I clamp my jaw shut, but the tremor is everywhere now: in my thighs, my chest, even the roots I’m hiding behind.

If I move, I’ll make noise. If I stay, I’ll freeze.

I make the call. I stand up. I don’t look at him. I limp-run parallel to the creek, deeper into the woods, not thinking about the direction, just the distance.

The trees thin out. It’s brighter here, the ground slick with dead leaves. I’m not fast anymore. My legs won’t do what I want. I feel the dull thud of each footfall up my shinbones, the way my ankle is now twice the size it was before.

Behind me, I hear him descend the ridge. He’s not running—just walking, measured, every step a countdown.

I know I can’t outrun him. I can’t outfight him. But I can do one thing: I can make sure he never forgets what it cost to catch me.

I keep running, slower now, the world getting fuzzy at the corners. The woods bend away from the creek, sloping up, every step an uphill battle. My breath is smoke in the air. I want to stop. I want to lie down and let the frost eat me from the inside out.

But I keep moving.

Because if I stop, he wins.

And if he wins, I lose everything.

The sky is lighter now, the first hint of dawn. The trees throw long shadows, like bars across the ground. I pick my way through the last stand of brush and collapse at the top of the hill.

My heart is a dead thing in my chest, barely beating. My hands are numb, my feet blocks of wood. I can’t feel my face.

But I can hear him.

He’s close. Closer than ever.

His voice, almost gentle: "You look cold, O. Want my jacket?"

I spit blood onto the leaves. "Eat shit, Caius."

He laughs. The sound is warm, alive, and I hate how much I want it to keep going.

He’s at the bottom of the hill, across the creek, not coming any closer. Just watching.

"Come down," he says, almost coaxing. "You’re done. Let me help you."

"Fuck you."

He smiles. "Oh, you will, it's just how, that's up to you."