OPHELIA

  THE MOMENT IN WHICH I set foot into the enclosed four walls said to be my home, though only by name, I feel my chest tighten.

  My father glares at me angrily, though his scowl is nothing compared to that of his second wife. Her face is not painted with anger — for she has none, instead, the hatred she harbours for me burns far longer and hotter than any fleeting feud ever could. Rage fades, her malice does not. Her face is sharp like she's just tasted something sour, lips pursed tightly to form a thin line and eyes narrowed like that of a snake assessing where best to strike.

  This woman has always hated me, even as a child, and over the years in turn I'd grown to hate her too.

  She hates me because I look like my mother, the woman who even in death, has always held a place as my father's favourite wife and the only woman he'd ever truly loved. My mother had also been her sister, which is where I had always believed the bitterness to have originally manifested itself. Much in the same way it weaves itself between my siblings and I in this very moment.

  My father's second wife is a jealous, spiteful, wicked wench of a woman, and I cannot help but silently thank the Gods for Palla, for without her guidance my sisters may have been raised in the image of their mother. God forbid.

  She stands to the right of my father, at the apex of the marble hall, arms firmly folded across her chest. His first wife stands to the left. She's old, face wisened by time and sun, only a few years younger than father himself, but she was also sterile. Her womb bore no fruit, no matter how she pined nor prayed. That had been the reason for my father to take so many wives, more than was traditional for a man of his status.

  He had wed four in total and been blessed with just as many children. Two from his second wife, Ascella and Andromeda, only one from his third, me, and then a final son from his fourth, our dear brother Orin.

  His first had only birthed once, many years ago, but it came out dead and deformed and nearly killed her in the process. The will of the Gods, they said, a sign that she was born for another purpose than to produce heirs.

  Father's fourth wife stands just as solemn as the other two, yet not quite as stern. She still has a youthful glow about her. My father does not greet us. " — Where is Andromeda?"

  As if on cue my eldest sister appears alongside the nursemaid, Pala. We stand side by side in age order before our father, as if we are fruits to be stocked and sold, the ripest first as to save from spoil. Pala stands in the corner in her pale robe, the colour of barley. Her gaze averted to the floor.

  I can feel the eyes of my father's second wife boring into me. She hates that I may stand beside her daughters as if we are one and the same. In her mind even though we all look as if we were born of the same womb, favoured with father's dark features, I will always be the odd one out.

  Or maybe she glares because I remind her of her sister, the same amber eyes she'd once despised above all else reincarnated within me.

  For a long moment, we are all silent, and I wonder just what father will say. What can he say? There is no poorly strung sentence in this whole world that will make me hate him any less than I do in this moment.

  My father is a coward.

  I cannot hide my scowl, nor do I try. Growing up Ascella teased that I was her favourite book to read, always open and ready for interpretation. Father must notice as his face suddenly mirrors my own, "You are displeased, Ophelia?"

  "Not at all." I say. The lie is obvious.

  "She is ungrateful." Father's second wife revels in being able to point out my unwillingness. She only does this to highlight the contrast between my sisters and I. They who sit back in silence as their entire lives are arranged for them, and me who fights for freedom every step of the way.

  "I am not." I snap. My father sighs, as if tired. "You cannot think of yourself Ophelia, you must think of the family — of the benefits such an alliance could bring to our name."

  House Onassis. The house of the mighty, made rich by their exports and I can't help but suppress a smile at the thought, imagine the scandal if high-society realised that father had misplaced money and cheated his way to the top. Though our home may look proud and inlaid with gold, nothing within these walls is ever as it seems. The bronze statues are hollow. The books all gifted. The maids all working to repay some dept. Our house runs off lies and treasury, but the river of deceit was fast running dry. There was only so long men would work off stale bread and the promise of wages. A strategic marriage was the only way to save us now.

  "Then who must I wed?" I practically bristle. It enrages me so that he speaks of marriage but in that same breath does not dare speak the name of my betrothed. I know it's because he thinks I'll refuse, that I will not approve. I won't. The thought only makes a growing feeling of angst gnaw at the pit of my stomach. How monstrous must the man be?

  He purses his lips. "I do not know."

  Somehow this is the most terrifying answer of all. "What do you mean you do not know?"
I look to Pala for help but she won't look at me either. I know she would never dare speak over her master or his wives but even a glance would have been comforting.

  "It is for the Gods to decide." My sister's mother takes pleasure in her sentiment, making little effort to conceal the smirk that curls her tongue.

" — But I don't understand?" I look around, no one will meet my eye. Even my sisters stare down in shame.

— And then I realise.

  The reaping. The Spartan reaping begins in exactly seven days time. The angst inside me no longer gnaws, by now it claws, it tears away at me with knife-like claws. It shreds my insides and dances in the belly of my destruction. "No..." That is all I can say, but the word is breathy and weak. " — No... You can't — I won't!"

  "You can and you will." His wife spits. "For once in your life try to think of someone other than yourself."

  " — Mother that's not fair!"

  " — Silence Ascella!" Father booms, slamming his first down upon the arm of his chair. He called it his throne, and it sits atop the apex of the hall much like a throne would. But it is not a throne, it is a chair, because my father is not a king, nor will he ever be.

  "The Spartan King is a beastly man, his men more so!" I shout, feeling braver than ever with the support of my sister. "If he is to choose our partner then it will be one of his savages! — The type of men who beat their wives and feed their infant daughters to wolves!"

  "Then best pray for sons." I have to clench my fists to stop from throwing myself at my sister's mother. Does she not realise that my fate is also her daughter's? — Or does she simply not care? Either answer would not surprise me.

  " — That's enough!" The sharp baritone of my father's voice commands respect, "You will do as I say and you will not question. The three of you will travel to Sparta in three days time, and will hear no more of this."

  This time I do not argue. I hang my head, mirroring the downwards gaze of my submissive sisters, but inside my thoughts are more rebellious than they have ever been.

***
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