Chapter 33: You have to be kidding me.
I poured a generous amount of the fine, beige powder into the water. Using a clean spoon from the drawer, I stirred vigorously. The powder dissolved, turning the water a cloudy, unappetizing tan.
Once the mixture was smooth and homogenous, a perfect, allergen-laden potion. I carefully unscrewed the cap of the new spray bottle. I funneled the liquid in, making sure it poured in a thin stream to avoid spilling. I then screwed the cap back on tightly afterwards and gave the bottle a few experimental pumps. A fine, even mist sprayed out, catching the light.
'Perfect.'
I then embarked on a meticulous cleanup. I washed the measuring cup and spoon, dried them, and returned them to their exact places. I wiped down the marble island with a damp cloth, erasing any trace of powder or water droplets.
To make sure they couldn't trace anything back to me, I acted like a ghost in the kitchen. The only evidence of my plot was the now-full spray bottle, its contents innocuous-looking.
Holding the bottle, I turned my gaze to the dark wooden door of Ophelia's room. My smirk returned, wider now.
"Looks like old habits die hard…" I muttered to myself, creeping across the living room. A crucial detail bolstered my confidence, despite her fierce warning and her general aura of 'stay away,' she hadn't actually locked her door. It was a classic Ophelia move from childhood, issuing a dramatic ultimatum but forgetting the practical follow-through. Some things, it seemed, never changed.
I placed my hand on the handle, took a deep breath, and turned.
The door swung open without a sound.
"Hehehehe… this is going to be fun." The giggle was barely a whisper as I slipped inside, closing the door softly behind me.
I was immediately enveloped in gloom. The heavy blackout curtains were drawn, allowing only thin blades of afternoon light to slice through the gaps, illuminating swirling motes of dust in the air. As my eyes adjusted, the room revealed itself.
"Wow… This really isn't your average woman's bedroom...."
If I had to say, it looked more like an early 90s tv. The walls were a deep charcoal grey, not black, but it absorbed the light like a black hole. The bedding was black linen. The desk, a stark modern piece, was white, as were the bookshelves filled with a mix of thick art books, graphic novels with minimalist covers, and what looked like scientific journals.
The only splashes of color came from a few meticulously framed prints on the walls, which were stylized anatomical drawings, a haunting black-and-white photograph of a forest, a poster for some obscure European synth band. It was neat, obsessively tidy. Every book was aligned, every figurine on a shelf (strange, abstract shapes in matte black ceramic) was positioned with geometric precision that I began wondering if she had ADHD. In layman's terms it looked like the room of someone who demanded absolute control over their environment. The sheer, grim tidiness was more unsettling than any mess could have been.
I took a few cautious steps inward, the plush black carpet muffling my footfalls. My eyes scanned for the perfect targets, the pillow, the throw blanket draped over a sleek reading chair, the collar of a black leather jacket hanging on the back of the desk chair.
Then something else caught my eye. A flash of color that was utterly, violently out of place in this chromatic prison.
On the center of the immaculately made black bed, lying in a careless, almost theatrical sprawl, was a single piece of lingerie.
It was actually a lace. Deep crimson. Delicate, expensive-looking, and blatantly, undeniably intimate.
I blinked, frozen in my tracks. My brain, which had been humming along on a single track of mischievous intent, stuttered to a halt.
"The heck is this doing here?"
The question was aloud, a breath of pure confusion. It was so glaringly vivid that I had no coherent words coming out of my mouth. I walked over to the bed and picked it up with both tips of my left and right fingers.
But all of the sudden, A cold, creeping sensation began to crawl up my spine, pricking at the nape of my neck. 'Wait… The room is completely clean. Impeccable no doubt.'
' So why would this be left out? And right in the middle of the bed, like a centerpiece?' It felt staged.
' Deliberate... almost like...' my voice trailed off at the end as the cold sensation on my back increased.
" Like bait." I finally muttered out.
The chill that washed over me then had nothing to do with the room's temperature. It was the chill of a trap snapping shut.
Click.
The sound was soft and metallic. I turned my head to see the door lock twisting only they weren't being opened but... Closed.
Simultaneously, the overhead lights blazed on, banishing the gloomy shadows in an instant. The room was suddenly, harshly illuminated, every severe line and tidy surface thrown into sharp relief.
Followed by the unmistakable pop-hiss of a smartphone camera.
A split second later, from the corner of my eye, from the direction of the door, the light quickly receded.
My heart stopped. Time seemed to slow down to the point of being mistaken as, thick as syrup.
Before my eyes, There, leaning against the now-closed door, was Ophelia. A cold, triumphant grin was carved into her beautiful, pale face. It wasn't the angry scowl from the hallway or the contemptuous smirk from earlier. This was the grin of a predator who had watched its prey walk directly into a snare.
In her hand, held aloft with casual victory, was her smartphone. The screen was lit, undoubtedly displaying a crystal-clear photograph.
The photograph of me, standing in the middle of her obsessively tidy goth bedroom, holding her crimson lace lingerie in my hand, a look of shocked guilt undoubtedly plastered on my face.
The spray bottle of peanut mixture hung, forgotten and utterly useless, at my side.