“I’ll be right back,” she mumbled in a daze and opened the large pocket doors of the treating room. As she walked down the hallway and out the back door, Ophelia heard her grandmother hollering for her to come back and get her some sweet tea. Ophelia knew that she could wait. She let the screened door slam shut and inhaled the smell of pine trees and grass as she continued walking past the garden with the birdbath, past the first line of pines, and into the woods.
The crunch of dead leaves under her sneakers was so loud,louder than any other sound. It was all too much. Ophelia began running. She ground her teeth and nipped at the soft inner flesh of her cheek, continuing to run farther into the woods. An imaginary lump in her throat started to harden and swell. She was gasping for air as a memory consumed her.
It was5:20 a.m. on a Wednesday in December, and Ophelia arrived at the community center to unlock the door. This was part of her weekly routine, where she would meet up with neighbors to fold and sort clothes that would be passed out to the unhoused of New York City. Gregory, an older man who only wore khakis, always brought a thermos of coffee for the volunteer group in the morning, and the rest took turns grabbing bagels. They were all different ages, and it made her feel like part of the community.
She quickly became a dedicated regular. And after a month of volunteering, Brian, the program coordinator, gave her an extra set of keys to the basement so she could unlock the door in the mornings. She typically arrived first anyway since she lived a stone’s throw away from the center.
The center itself was grand, built with large limestone blocks and ornate pediments graced the old glass windows, but the volunteer work was in the dark basement with thin maroon carpet. She couldn’t explain it, but the basement always smelled like an elementary school cafeteria. She descended the outside stairs of the basement. Her cold hands hurt as she tried to turn the key in the lock. It wasn’t opening, as expected, in the December chill. She dropped her work bag on the ground, bracing herself for the trick Brian showed her. She lifted the handle and turned the key at the same time. Nothing. She got herself in position to try again, but with more force this time.
“Hey there, young lady. Need help?”
A man appeared at the top of the stairs. It was so early in the morning that the sun had not even risen yet. Ophelia could only make out the shape of him. Was he anew volunteer? Ophelia didn’t think she had ever met him before, but it was so dark in the stairwell.
“No thanks. It’s just the cold weather sticking the door.”
Ophelia didn’t turn back around. He took a step down into the stairwell. She froze. The air changed.
“Are you a new volunteer?” she asked. Her heart rate picked up, and the hairs on her arms raised, and her entire world narrowed to the man in front of her. She knew on a molecular, biological level that he was a predator. He meant harm.
“Sure am,” he said and casually strolled down the steps, reaching Ophelia on the landing.
He was no volunteer. He looked haggard. Not poverty-stricken but strung out. His jeans were dirty, and his gray hair was standing up like he had run his hands through it from stress.
Fear churned in her body. She carefully placed the key between her index and middle fingers and made a fist. He tracked the movement and smiled. Sweat broke out along her body, and her vision narrowed to the man. Everything else around her became static.
“Here, I’ll help,” he said as he closed the gap and reached for the key in her hand.
“No,” Ophelia breathed out as she sidestepped him, holding the keys close to her chest.
“Whoa, okay! No need to be so jumpy,” the man tsked.
Could she make it to the top of the stairs? Her bag was on the ground, which was now lying by his feet, and had her phone in it. Her volunteer friends would be there soon, in ten minutes. But that was too long.
“You need to wait out on the front steps. Brian, our program coordinator, will meet you there. He should be here any minute,” she said with a shaky voice.
He cocked his head. “But I’m not here to see Brian.” He took another step closer to her.
He was around six feet tall, lean with muscle, and looked to be fifty-ish years old. Ophelia could hurt him, maybe, but not win in a fight. She needed to run. She took one glance at the stairs and bolted.
Before she got one foot on the stairs, he grabbed the faux fur-lined hood ofher puffer coat and slammed her into the ground. The key fell from her hand. She was sprawled on her back.Scream, Ophelia, Scream. Someone will hear you.She couldn’t. She had no breath. It had been completely knocked out of her, and he was now on top of her with both hands pinning her chest to the ground. He hooked his feet onto her legs, effectively restraining her lower half.
No, no, no.
Ophelia’s eyes rounded in shock as a four-hundred-pound tiger walked out from the shadows and stood above her head, growling. The man didn’t flinch.Could he not see it?She wondered if her fall was causing her to imagine things, or maybe it was the adrenaline coursing through her veins. It didn’t matter, though. The sudden roar of the tiger fueled her. Her shock and fear morphed into pure rage. She became a feral animal, thrashing and clawing and growling.
“Stop moving, you witch,” the man snarled as he tried to regain control.
Ophelia leaned forward and bit his wrist, tearing his flesh with her teeth. She bucked her body, kicked her legs, and knocked her head against his. The tiger’s roar eventually fell silent, so that the only sound she could hear was her screaming rage. Energy surged through her as the man struggled to keep her down.
He reared back and punched her in the face, then kneed her in the ribs. Pain exploded throughout, but she refused to acknowledge it. She was yelling and twisting.
Minutes passed that felt like hours.
She eventually began to slow, but the tiger remained with her, standing watch. Exhaustion was on the periphery as her adrenaline began to fade. Doubts crept into her thoughts. Doubts that said this could be the end.No. NO. She changed strategy.
As her movements slowed, she cataloged the details of the monster. White male, gray scruff scattered across his jaw, a nose that indented to the right in the middle of the bridge, bushy eyebrows that were beginning to gray, and ice-blue eyes. A large ornate cross made of silver hung from his neck. He quickly took advantage of her momentary lull of energy and grabbed a short dagger from the back of his pocket. He pressed it to her throat. Ophelia’s hands gripped his forearms, keeping the dagger only an inch away from herthroat. As if in solemn prayer, he looked up and said, “I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God.”
Ophelia noted the odd phrase as well as the long, nasty arm hair peeking from underneath the dark gray sleeve of his nondescript hoodie and a dark mole in the shape of an oval on his neck. He was out of breath, too.
