ophelia wylder {d6} done

Have you ever wondered what it'd feel like to die? That moment when you're passing from one life to the next. People say it's supposed to be completely peaceful, a moment of clarity. They say that an angel is supposed to take you away, but I don't believe them. I've always thought that it'd be more chaotic, your whole life flashing before your eyes, even things you didn't think you'd remember. There's also moments of what your life would've been like, if you made a different choice or chose a different path. I think that you'd also get a quick peek at how everyone was reacting to your death, and then everyone you know is suddenly in front of you. It doesn't matter if they're dead or alive, a complete stranger or your best, they'd all be standing in front of you just waiting. You'd be able to say whatever you want to them, and they couldn't respond. There's so many things that I'd love to so many people here on earth right now, but I know I can't. So I just hold my tongue because if I don't there's repercussions, there's always repercussions.



After you say what needed to be said you get to choose who takes you on to the next life, where that is I don't know. I'm not sure if there's really a heaven or hell like they teach us, probably nobody does. I believe that the good people and the bad people are separated though, that it all depends on what kind of life you live and that you're put with the same kind of people. At least, I hope that's what happens, there's some people I'm too terrified to come across while I'm alive, I can't picture how horrifying it'd be to meet them in the afterlife too. Maybe that's why people are so afraid of death because nobody really knows about it, and all the people who do are, well, dead. I like the unknown though, I like being able to ask questions and come up with my own solutions. I think I've seen it too much too. My father, my two sisters, I watched them all die. Not too far apart either, it's almost made me immune. Or maybe I'm not afraid because I've wished it upon myself. I willed myself to die on those dark nights in my room that nobody else knows about, a secret that I'm forced to carry to my grave. Maybe that's why I'm not scared of death, but why I'm terrified of living.

* * *

At one point there was a time where everything was perfect and wonderful. A time that seemed as if nothing could go wrong. My father was bringing in more money than ever and we were all eating well. So well that most of us began to look a little plump, a rarity for our family. It was a happy time, one that seemed like it could last for ages, but of course it didn't. We were all beginning to finally adjust to our new lifestyle when tragedy struck. One night we were all gathered around the dining room table, our forks and knives already in hand and our napkins tucked in the front of our shirts. My dad begins to walk towards us, the meal of the night in hand, when all of the sudden he collapses. We all go silent as the thump of his body hits the floor and the tinkling of shattered glass fills the room. The scraping of my mom's chair legs across the floor is the next sound to be heard. The sobs of my mother break the unforgiving silence of the room as we all begin to realize what's going on. My three brothers hopped out of their chairs to go and help Mom while my two younger sisters just sat there, looks of horror on their face. They were old enough to understand, but not old enough to do anything to help. I practically fly out of my seat and make my way towards the front door. Once I'm in the street I begin looking for help as the cool rain splatters my skin. I start to run towards the Square, becoming desperate. I'm screaming now, but still no one comes out to help the poor girl in the rain. Sobs rack my body and my knees give out under me, forcing me to fall onto the soaked street. The hot tears roll down off my face and onto the pavement. I watch as they're washed away by the storm.

The doctors say he had a heart attack, which means that there was still a chance he could have been saved. But when he fell he had hit his head hard off the floor, which sealed his fate. It was devastating, my family was in pieces. My mom would just sit there and cry, I never realized how much she actually loved him until after he was gone. The rest of us just stared in silence, not speaking, not moving. It was about two weeks later when Mom finally went back to work and we all began to live our lives again, but nothing was the same. The slight amount of extra weight we put on was diminishing quickly from the lack of food were receiving. There were seven of us, and Mom's pay was not enough to buy the proper amount of food.Lucia and Annabelle were the worst, they were only seven, and in about a month they were both just skin and bones. We always gave them the most food, but it didn't seem to make a difference. It killed me inside, watching them deteriorate to nothing, knowing that I could do nothing to save them. I was only 11, what was I supposed to do? After about two more weeks they were gone. I sat with them for their last few minutes on Earth. They were struggling and I knew it was almost time. I got up, made my way over to them and planted a kiss on each of their little foreheads. "I'll see you guys soon, okay?" A small smile spread across both of their thin dried out lips as the last wisp of air was drawn from their bodies.

* * *

My mom knew that she could not sit around and watch the rest of her children waist away like they did. Her only option was to get remarried so that there was another source of income. It was different, I wasn't sure how to feel about it. A different man than the one you're used to living with was nerve wracking, I never knew what his motives were or what he was planning to do next. The way my mom looked at him, it was nothing like the way she used to look at Dad. The sparkle wasn't in her eyes, her face was almost emotionless, it just wasn't the same. She loved him, I don't think my mom would be willing to marry anyone she didn't love, but it wasn't the same kind of love she felt for Dad. It wasn't a shock when she gathered us all into a room to tell us that she was ending the marriage. The sense of relief that radiated off her body was almost comforting, but the fear that settled inside me made me want to be sick. It was happening again, we were all going to starve, the end was approaching for us all. It was a shock to everyone when Mom had found a replacement in less that two months. That marriage didn't last either, so she found another replacement. And when that one ended she found another, and then another, and another... This went on for the span of my teen years until we reached lucky number seven. Yep, my Mom ended up remarrying seven times, each one lasting no more than a year and a few months, some even less. There ended up being too many husbands so anymore, I just number them. I think after number three it started becoming more of a game for her, seeing who could provide her the most or who could last the longest. She got so caught up with her twisted fantasy that she forgot about us. I ended up becoming the mother figure for my younger brothers and sister, they became my life, my soul. I did anything they asked without a seconds hesitation. Mom's husbands were just kind of there, some of them had no impact on me what-so-ever, but some of them altered my life forever.

* * * 

Each and every one of them had their own quirks, and while all of them were strange, some of them were stranger than the others. Husband Number One was surprisingly alright, and from the view of and average District 6 citizen, he would have been considered pretty normal, unlike many of my mother's other loves. He was a widower, so he could easily sympathize with Mom, that's why I think they connected so easily. Everyone always says that opposites attract, but I think that people who are similar have a better chance at lasting, they have some common ground. He had a son too, but he was in his 20's and had already moved out and was married. At least he knew how to take care of us and he knew how to be a small part in our lives, that's more than any of the other ones. The only peculiar thing he did was collect books, but not just any books, only books about aerodynamics, and he wouldn't let any other books in the house. I had to hide all of mine under the bed so he wouldn't catch me, and I was only able to read at night. Besides that he was pretty normal.


Number Three, Number Four, Number Five, and Number Six we're probably the strangest. Number Three was never really in the house, he was constantly working. He always said that work was his life, and if he wasn't constantly working he would die. He made the most money, so Mom kept him around for quite a while. She eventually got annoyed that he wasn't ever around and we left. Number Four was always around, he never actually went to work, but he had a huge family inheritance, so he was worth my mother's time. The odd thing about him was that he always needed to pet things. When he first met us, he petted all of us. He said it was so he could become acquainted to us properly.He would even pet his food before he ate. I think my mom finally became creeped out enough, so we left again. Number Five had an even balance between both home and work, but he was a talker. He was constantly talking, all the time. It could be the morning, it could be night, when he was eating, when he was showering, even when he was sleeping he would talk. It drove all of us insane, so Mom let us pack and leave again. Number Six was just strange all around, plus he smelt bad. He like to collect owl themed things, books, little toys, statues, everything. Those eyes, staring at you all the time was just creepy. So we packed up our things and we were just gone. Now Number Two didn't really have a quirk, it was more of an obsession. On the outside he appeared to be completely normal, but he managed to hurt me, and I still have the scars to prove it.

* * * 

The melodious twinkling of chimes can be heard from my window as the cool autumn breeze chills the night air. A sigh escapes my body as I sit on the edge of my bed, taking in my surroundings. Even though I've been living here for almost three months, something still isn't right, this place just doesn't feel like home. I walk over to book shelf Joe built for me, since he knew how much I loved to read. My hand automatically moves toward my favorite book, not even second guessing what one I wanted out of my meager collection. The story wasn't even that good, but my father had bought it for me. I spread out on my bed and open to my last marked page. Most of the corners are crinkled and bent from marking my spot so many times. In the middle of the first line I hear footsteps, and look up just as Number Two walked past my door, already dressed in his sleepwear, clearly ready for bed. "Night Joe," I call out as he makes his way towards his room. He stops and backtracks until he is standing in the frame of my door. "Can I ask you something Ophelia?" He says, his eyes looking almost sad. "Yeah sure," I say, straightening myself up and moving to the edge of my bed to sit. He walks in and closes the door behind him. My eyebrows move to the top of my forehead and my palms start to become sweaty as he sits down next to me on my bed. Something isn't right. "What do you love the most in the world," His voice is so soft, so soothing, everyone says that it can put a baby to sleep. "My family of course," I say, shaking my head and laughing a little. He should know that better than anyone. A smile creeps up onto the side of his face. "Well," he says very matter-of-factly, "If you tell anyone what I'm about to do, I'll kill them."



A gasp escapes my mouth as his hands collide with my shoulders, forcing me back onto the bed. My face twists into a grimace of pain as I hear my skull crack of the headboard of my bed. My hand automatically flies to the back of my head to check if there's blood. "Wh- what are you doing?!" I ask, my voice rising with panic as I frantically try to push him off of me. He ignores my pleas and straddles me so I can no longer struggle, I am now stuck there, helpless. "You know," he says and he begins to run his fingers through my dark brown hair. "I've always loved your hair, it's so soft and silky, but it's a little short for my tastes."His hands moved away from my hair and began to caress my face. "Your complexion is so beautiful too, so perfectly pale. Your jawline is a little weird though, very square and broad for a girl," What was he going to talk about next? How my lips are uneven too? I close my eyes, unable to bear seeing his hands on my face. "Hey now, open you're eyes. They're such a pretty light brown, I love seeing them." My body shudders in fear, but he must have thought it was out of pleasure. He begins to unbutton my shirt. I begin to squirm, but his weight is too much for my weak frame. "Stop. Please. Don't!" My voice gradually increasing as he refuses to listen. The blood rushes to my face as his hand finds itself upon my cheek. The stinging is almost unbearable and I know there will be a bruise there in the morning, bruises show up so easily on my skin. A whimpering noise I didn't know I was capable of making escapes my lips. "You're so much prettier when you're quiet," He growls, touching my face where he had hit me. I flinch as his cold, calloused fingers touch my face. He pulls back his hand as if he is going to hit me again, but he manages to restrain himself. His hands unbuttoning the rest of my shirt is the last thing I remember before passing out.

* * * 

I woke up that next morning and knew what had happened, nobody had to tell me. I began to cry, the tears rolled down my face, hot and wet. I couldn't stop, sometimes I still cry at night, remembering the horrors of that whole marriage. Of course with my awful luck it was the one that lasted the longest. My mom had asked me where the bruise on my face came from, I couldn't take any chances by telling her the truth, so I lied. I told her that I was playing with my brother's and it got a little rough, she believed me of course. She was in the honeymoon stage where she could see nothing wrong with her new husband. I was thirteen, a thirteen year old girl stolen of her innocence. I was never the same, scared to speak, scared to live. I was afraid something would slip out that would give everything away and then my family would be gone. Boys scared me after that, I would avoid them as much as possible, sitting as far away as I could. I'd flinch every time they'd accidentally bump into me, and if one tried holding a conversation, I'd just stare. I didn't know what to say, afraid of the repercussions if I said the wrong thing. My friends disappeared as I talked less and less. I was a bright talkitive girl who turned into the weird quiet girl who only thought about dark scary things, like death. Things have gotten a little better, I can actually talk to guys now, but I'n still scared to let them touch me. My chances of ever finding the guy of my dreams, ever getting married have been ruined by a sick bastard with no life. I was terrified to live my life. People say living is taking chances and doing things that make you happy while not caring what other people are going to say. So, have you ever wondered what it feels like to live?





Codeword: Odair