Ophelia

by D. S. Ryelle

  David put his arm around Ophelia’s waist as the doctor open the relevant door and rolled out the slab. The woman gave a soft cry and buried her head in her bodyguard’s shoulder.

  “For the record, Ms. Osborn: do you recognize this man?”

  After a moment, she turned back. “Yes, Dr Carpenter. That is my younger brother, Harold Ambrose Osborn.”

  He nodded. “Very good. I’ll give you a few moments to say goodbye. Mr. Westbrooke?”

  David hesitated, but Ophelia assured him that she would be fine and he crept uneasily toward the door.

  “Mo dheartháir! Mo stór!”

  The heir to the Osborn line kissed her brother one last time.

  ~*~

  “Dr. Carpenter said that they would call the funeral home that served your father.”

  Unsure of how long they’d be in the morgue, Ophelia’s driver had agreed to wait in the parking structure. It was an unusually chilly May morning, but Ophelia did not seem to be in any hurry to return to the limousine. David spoke again after a moment.

  “Are you going to work today?”

  Ophelia shook her head. “When we get back to the car, I will call Dr Welker and inform him that he is the new president of Osborn Scientific. He will run the company until I finish my bereavement.”

  They had just entered the ramp when a man in his early thirties brushed roughly past Ophelia and headed for David.

  “Give me your wallet!”

  “You do not want to do that,” Ophelia said.

  “Shut up, bitch!” grunted the mugger, keeping his back to her. “I said, give me your wallet!”

  He didn’t realize he’d made a mistake in ignoring her until he felt the muzzle between his shoulder blades.

  “Drop whatever you have on you,” Ophelia ordered. “Every knife, every firearm, every bag of drugs and bit of money. Every item that I have to remove from you personally will be replaced by a bullet.”

  The mugger took a great, shuddering breath and made eye contact with his former victim. “What is it?”

  David moved to one side and tried to hide his surprise as he caught a glimpse of the gun.

  “I think it’s a Smith and Wesson nine millimeter…maybe a compact M&P.”

  “One bullet for each thing I forget?” the man repeated.

  Ophelia smirked. “Precisely.”

  He waited a beat, then fled at the same time she fired, so that the bullet only grazed his side.

  “I would not have missed if I had not been out of practice,” she called to her bodyguard over the sound of retreating footsteps. As the sound died away, her voice became rueful. “Alas, I have not been to the range since I fired Andrew.”

  Some of the color began to return to David’s face as he joined her. “Please tell me you have a permit for that!”

  “Of course,” Ophelia replied. “I took the relevant class as soon as I established Carnegie Hill as my address.”

  Although David would never admit it to anyone afterward, his “daughter” had scared the shit out of him. It had been so long since he had taught her to shoot that he had nearly forgotten how natural she was with a gun.

  “I don’t think I want to know where that came from,” he said at last, giving her red sundress a once-over.

  “No…I do not believe you do.”

  Ophelia stowed the gun in her clutch and took her bodyguard’s arm. “Let us go. Wahim is waiting.”

  Seventeen

  Eleven days later

  “Edmund Chrysler.”

  Ophelia gave the psychiatrist a brisk handshake and took the seat opposite. There was no need to introduce herself—if he read the New York Times or the Daily Bugle, he probably knew half her life story.

  “Your admission to the Shady Rest Institute is completely voluntary?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “There hasn’t been any coercion? Not even the merest suggestion that you should take such a measure?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Why are you committing yourself, Mrs. Miraz?”

  “I use my maiden name; please call me Ms. Osborn.”

  Dr. Chrysler made a note of this, then looked up expectantly.

  “I have been having nightmares since my father died.”

  “When was this?”

  “November 2002,” she replied. “The nightmares have increased since my arrival in this country. Occasionally, I have visions—”

  “‘This country’?” the doctor echoed. “I was under the impression that Dr. Osborn was American.”

  “My father was born in Connecticut and lived in the United States his entire life. I was born in Manhattan, but moved to Ireland at age five when my parents divorced. I had not quite reached the age of fourteen when I accepted an apprenticeship at Real World Designs and moved to Australia to attend university. I returned to this country five years ago, upon the death of my father.”

  Chrysler took notes faster than anyone Ophelia had ever seen.

  “What happens in these nightmares?”

  “My father appears to me and frequently gives me instructions.”

  “And in the visions?”

  “The same thing; sometimes clarifying what had occurred in my dreams.”

  “Have you had any other problems other than visions and nightmares?”

  “I lost consciousness after one of the visions,” Ophelia replied. “I have also been experiencing large gaps in my memory for the last few months.”

  “What sort of gaps?”

  “More like a complete loss of time,” she explained. “Dr Welker believes that I have dissociative identity disorder.”

  “Dr. Welker is your psychologist?”

  “Richard Welker is the chief administrator of the Ophelia R. Osborn Laboratory Complex in New Rochelle.”

  “Why are you accepting the diagnosis of a gentleman under your employ who is not a mental health professional?”

  ~*~

  “Were you aware that several vials of the human performance serum disappeared after your father’s death?” asked Dr Welker.

  “I was unaware of the existence of the human performance enhancers until I had been with the company for several weeks,” I admitted.

  My husband, my bodyguard and I met in the parlour of my home upon my release from the hospital to discuss my plans for the future; eventually, the reason for committing myself came up.

  “Few people knew of the serum’s existence,” Richard replied. “Since your brother was never granted the necessary clearance to enter the laboratories, I suspect that Harry bribed someone to steal the serum.”

  “How did you find out about it?” Eduardo inquired.

  “When I was named chief administrator, I was granted each lab’s secrets.”

  “Why do you suspect Harry?” asked David.

  “As I understand, Mr Osborn was also having visions.” Dr Welker glanced at me and I nodded.

  “How does this correlate with Ophelia’s loss of time?” my bodyguard pressed.

  “Once I became aware of the serum, I reviewed Dr Osborn’s notes and interviewed everyone who worked on the project or had any sort of interaction with him in the months leading up to his death. It took me nine weeks to track down Dr Osborn’s former assistant, Ms Simkins; she admitted that Dr Osborn had appeared to lose time on several different occasions. She said his most notable losses were the night his laboratory assistant, Dr Stromm, was murdered and the afternoon every member of the final OsCorp board of directors was killed.”

  “You believe my father took the serum.”

  “I believe you took the serum. What did your father say to you before you started developing blank spots?”

  “I…I…oh, Goddess!”

  My husband impulsively drew me into his embrace.

  “I…was not thinking,” I confessed. “Athair had given my brother and me an extremely important message. Harry…Harry said that he was too afraid to do something. I challenged his manhood and…and I drank something.”

&nb
sp; Richard paled. “You drank the serum?”

  ~*~

  “I have never heard of chemically-induced dissociative identity disorder,” Dr. Chrysler declared at the end of her recollection.

  “Nor have I.”

  “When your other personality was in control, did you have problems with destroying things?”

  “I do not know,” Ophelia confessed, reaching for a throw pillow. She squeezed it before continuing. “I was in the hospital a few weeks before my brother died, but neither Eduardo nor David would tell me what happened. Even the medical staff would say nothing more than that I had been unconscious for three days.”

  “Do you suspect that you did something terrible during the time preceding your loss of consciousness?”

  “I do,” the woman replied. “When I awoke, David was bruised in several places and I counted at least nine stitches; his left arm was in a sling. I do not recall those injuries being present before that blank period and he refused to tell me what caused them.”

  Dr. Chrysler was silent for quite a long time.

  “I remember seeing your father in the Times for his scientific work, but I don’t remember any of the deaths you mentioned.”

  “If the story did not concern a new contract or a merger, it usually appeared in the Daily Bugle. Perhaps they thought my father was a magnet for scandal.”

  ~*~

  “They agreed to admit me.”

  Eduardo blanched, but David’s expression was grave, as if he had been expecting this outcome.

  “Only for a few weeks, though, right?” the younger gentleman demanded.

  Ophelia shook her head. “Dr Chrysler said that the minimum stay is usually five months, but since I am reporting nightmares, visions, dissociative identity disorder and possible schizophrenia, it could be eight months or longer. Especially if my…condition…does not easily respond to treatment.

  “Tomorrow morning, the two of you will come back to complete any necessary paperwork. Dr Chrysler hopes that Michael Laurier and Dr Welker will come by in the afternoon so that we may sign the temporary transfer of ownership,” she continued. “Beginning next week, you may only see me during visiting hours; however, dependent on the outcome of my physical and mental work-up, I may not be permitted visitors for at least three weeks.”

  “Physical work-up?” Eduardo sounded faint.

  Ophelia put her arm around her husband’s shoulder and—with the aid of a friendly receptionist—found him some water and got him into a private room off the atrium. Once David had closed the door, Ophelia sat down beside her husband and took his hand.

  “Do you remember the discussion we had with Dr Welker after I was released from the hospital?”

  “About you coming here?”

  “And about Athair having dissociative identity disorder?”

  He nodded.

  “Do you remember that I said I had drunk the serum he created?”

  “You said you drank something…and then you started crying.”

  “It was the human performance enhancers. Dr Stromm, Norman’s partner on the project, said that psychosis was a major side effect…Dr Welker said that dissociative identity disorder was likely an aspect of the psychosis.”

  “You were having visions of your father before you drank the serum!”

  “I am trying to tell you that Dr Chrysler and his colleagues have to perform a thorough examination and run a series of tests in order to determine what effect—if any—the serum had on my body. Severe biological changes could drastically alter Dr Chrysler’s treatment plan.”

  “You need to tell him the truth, Ophelia,” her bodyguard interjected.

  “You didn’t actually take the serum?” Eduardo asked hopefully.

  She shook her head and laid her left hand on top of his own. “Mi amor, I have been keeping a secret from you for many years. I hope that in time, you will find it in your heart to forgive me.”

  His eyes closed. “Please don’t tell me that you killed someone.”

  Ophelia waited until Eduardo had opened his eyes and was meeting his gaze before she said, “I am not human.”

  Her husband dropped her hand and nearly flew off the couch.

  “Not human in the traditional sense, anyway,” David amended.

  Eduardo eyed her warily before returning to his seat.

  “Shortly after taking control of Osborn Scientific, I discovered ‘Project Rose’.” Ophelia took a deep breath. “My father was experimenting with genetic engineering prior to my conception. I was the result of Project Rose.”

  “You’re…you’re…” Eduardo sat back and closed his eyes.

  “I have had neither the time nor the information to analyse the experiments that came after Project Rose, but I believe that I am the precursor to the human performance enhancers. I believe my father developed them because after working with my genetics, he realized that the performance enhancers would be less time consuming.”

  “Once implanted, the egg would have to take…and then there was the risk of miscarriage,” David mused. “Not to mention having to wait for many years before the results would come to light.”

  “What is different about you?” asked Eduardo.

  “I do not look twenty-eight…and I do not know how much further I will age,” Ophelia explained. “I am more agile than the average woman, smarter, faster…and an excellent markswoman, too, thanks to David.”

  “You’re also very strong,” her bodyguard pointed out. “I have you to thank for these stitches and my broken arm. There was…a fight…before you lost consciousness.”

  “Your differences will make it difficult to treat you?”

  Ophelia, reeling slightly from the revelation that she had wounded her bodyguard, took several minutes to answer her husband’s question.

  “It is the serum,” she explained. “Dr Chrysler said that they will put me into an intensive treatment program…therapy for my psychological issues will begin when it is clear that I will survive.”

  Startled, Eduardo leapt to his feet. “You’re not staying here!”

  “Wonderful,” Ophelia said dryly as David blocked the door. “I am glad to see that you are acting like the man I married.”

  “You are in a mental health facility, for the love of the Goddess! You shouldn’t be talking about survival rates!”

  “Neither my athair nor my deartháir lived more than a few months after taking the serum. No one knows the actual life expectancy because the project ended after Dr Stromm was murdered.” Ophelia watched her husband carefully, but made no move to bring him back to the couch. “Athair was extremely angry after I drank the serum. I sent you to the guest room for several nights because I could not sleep—his visits were frequent and his mindset livid. I could have died within seconds of drinking the serum due to inappropriate utilization or because it wreaked havoc on my genetics!”

  “I will not allow you to commit yourself!”

  “Am I supposed to live a tortured life simply because mi esposo cannot bear the idea that I may come to harm in seeking wellness?”

  Eduardo moved closer to David, but did not reply.

  “Are you willing to take the risk that your wife might kill someone the next time she changes personalities?” David’s voice was frosty. “If not this time, then the time after?”

  “What am I to do when the visions, the nightmares and the personality changes become too much? When you made your grand pronouncement, did you consider the fact that without treatment, I may be driven to suicide?”

  Eduardo inched closer to the door and the bodyguard rounded on him.

  “If I have to take Ophelia to the emergency room after a suicide attempt, you will never see her again.”

  Eighteen

  Several weeks later

  “Ophelia?” David gently turned her away from the window. “What’s going on?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve asked if I’ve seen Eduardo since you were admitted. You’ve asked about
Osborn Scientific and how often Dr. Welker stops by with an update. The only thing you haven’t discussed is how you’re being treated.”

  She didn’t reply.

  “I’m going to stay here until I get an answer, mo chroí,” David said at length. “Even if I have to negotiate with the administration to let me stay beyond visiting hours.”

  “I’m being raped,” Ophelia whispered.

  He moved to the couch and gathered her into his arms. “How long has this been going on?”

  “I was ‘visited’ four times in the first week, three times in the second and twice this week.”

  “What did Dr. Chrysler say?”

  “We cannot cater to the whims of our patients,” Edmund snapped. “We most often find that delusions of rape are nothing more than a part of the larger illness.”

  “Have you put cameras or staff members in her room to make sure that nothing is going on?” David demanded.

  “That would be a violation of Ms. Osborn’s privacy.”

  “Even if I were to sign off on it?” Ophelia asked.

  “We don’t have the equipment needed to establish a ‘stakeout’—”

  “Perhaps you don’t realize the severity of the situation,” David interrupted. “Ophelia, please share your story with Dr. Chrysler.”

  ~*~

  Shady Rest’s “rehabilitation levels” were the first thing Sara Dodge explained to me when we started my tour of the facility; so it surprised me that first and second level patients received first water closet privileges before bed. But after I waded through the woman staring at the far wall and the girl gabbling at the dustbin in French, I understood—at my level, everyone was still running roughshod. I washed up, returned to my room and had begun to undress when I heard male voices in the hall.

  A husky man ploughed into me, nearly knocking me into the steel desk bolted into the wall. Before I recovered my wits, a second man snatched me off the floor and dropped me into bed, heedless of the fact that my nightgown was up over my knees. I tried to sit up but the first man held me down so that the second could cuff me into bed.