OPHELIA: Chapter 2

Blurb

Elizabeth Lockwick wants one thing… to ensure Ophelia remains dead.

For years she’s weaved a life seen through rose-coloured glasses in idyllic Vermont with her husband Sebastian Lockwick, an alluring man with a broken moral compass, whose intent lies in protecting his wife. However, apart from her unorthodox understanding of Sebastian’s dark and gritty hidden nature, she finds herself slipping away from her sanity in maintaining this picturesque life.

After receiving a gruesome gift from an unknown sender threatening to expose her, she finds herself haunted and possibly hunted by her buried past.

In order to make things right for herself and ensure that her secret is hidden, she reluctantly travels back to her sleepy small hometown in Wisconsin. A town where young girls seem to be mysteriously disappearing. There, she reunites with the dysfunctional Pierre-Louis’, a French-American family who sheltered her in their manor in her time of need.

With time slipping away, she struggles with her guilt and a dangerous affair and realizes that perhaps Ophelia wasn’t dead after all these years.

Elizabeth suddenly finds herself caught in a game of cat and mouse, unsure of which she really is this time and who she can trust.

Leave a comment/ feedback/ thoughts on this chapter for more.

Chapter 2

Elle me rappelait un tendre jaune

Comme le soleil après une tempête

Elle était les deux, si je suis honnête.

Une jolie contradiction sur cette terre,

Comme le soleil et la neige entrelacés.

Elle était le genre de fille qui mettait

les roses entre les pages de vieux livres,

et trouvait la beauté dans le plus simple,

le plus salissant des endroits.

Son rire et son parfum persistent,

Sa peau une douceur naturelle.

Et ce, meme si elle était brisée.

Elle me rappelle un art tacite,

Une mosaïque surnaturelle.

She reminded me of soft yellow 

like the sun after a storm.

She was both if I’m honest,

a beautiful contradiction upon this earth, 

like the sun and snow intertwined.

She was the kind of girl who tucked roses 

between the pages of old books 

and found beauty in the softest, messiest of places. 

Her laugh and scent lingers, her skin a natural sweet,

and even though she was broken,

she reminded me of art unspoken.

An unearthly mosaic.

The words were like soft kisses upon her lips as she read them. He’d always been so wonderful at poetry. Elizabeth caressed her fingertips over the leather-bound notepad. Her mind often runs to him when he’s not around. It felt like forever. Yet, this book she’d secretly stolen from him always had a way of keeping his presence near, holding her soul in place and heart intact. 

A knock at her front door startled her back to reality. She shifted off the sofa and made her way through the empty hall of her void, husbandless, house towards the door. Behind, stood a cheery young woman with bright eyes and amber hair, freckles covering her face as she smiled to portray her crooked teeth.

“Hello!” she beamed, “I hope I’m not a bother but I was having a little stroll and just thought I’d get myself acquainted with the neighbours. My husband Frank and I just moved in a week ago. I’m Sally Manson by the way!”

“Oh, hello, Sally. I’m Elizabeth. Elizabeth Lockwick.” She returned a gentle smile and extended her hand.

Sally’s face lit up even more and her voice thrilled a little, “Oh you’re the Lockwicks I’ve been hearing so much about!”

“Depends on what you’re hearing,” Elizabeth smiled, “Why don’t you come in?”

“No no, I truly don’t wish to be a bother.”

“You aren’t, truly.” Elizabeth insisted, “Besides, I’d like the company. It gets a bit lonely here sometimes.”

Sally’s eyes lit up as she walked along the marbled hallway, admiring the paintings that hung upon the wall. “I’ve painted some of these, tried to recreate Van Gogh and Monet. Although most of these are prints. After I visited the Musée du Louvre, I fell in love with the pieces. Do you paint?” Elizabeth asked.

“No, I’ve tried but I don’t think I’m very good at it.”

“Art isn’t about being good at it. Art is about freeing yourself from the bondage of humanity. Allowing yourself to accept the blessings of expression. It’s about creating from the madness within.”

The sound of a timer suddenly went off.  “I was baking.” Elizabeth sincerely apologized and ushered Sally to the sofa, “I’ll be right back.” After two trips to the kitchen, she returned with two bottles. “Wasn’t sure if you were a red or white girl so I bought both.”

“You shouldn’t have.”
“As I said, it’s not often I get visitors.”

The wine fell smoothly into the thin glass and she couldn’t help but smile as it did. Sally spoke of her family and job and how long the process took to move into their house nearby, her terrible mother-in-law, and the way her muffins always fell flat no matter what she did. She reminded Elizabeth of sunshine floating on a single cloud, and quite frankly she liked her company. It truly was refreshing.

“You said you’d been hearing a lot of my husband and I, what was the nature of the gossip?”

“Oh yes,” she laughed as she sipped the merlot and stuck her eager fingers into her third slice of chocolate cake. Forks clearly were not a thing for Sally Manson and she admired that. “Your husband seems to be quite well known.”

“For good things, I hope. He works in the aviation field, as a part-time HR recruitment officer as well as the acting manager of TIZCU, an industrial company. He likes to keep his work private, however. We’ve been living here for three years now and I must admit the community is very observant. We usually keep to ourselves.”

 “Well, you mustn’t because I think you’re a darling,” Sally praised, and Elizabeth smiled at the kind words. “And what about you? I work in retail and my husband is a psychologist.”

“Design. That’s my field. I love to create things. It’s my passion.”

Sally’s eyes swept across the walls while Elizabeth spoke and admired the fine architect of the high ceiling, still paying attention to her words. Her gaze halted at the series of paintings above the grand piano.

“That- is a self-portrait of Eugène Delacroix. Next to it is his painting The Death of Sardanapalus. I absolutely love it.”

Sally slipped out of her seat to take a closer look at the painter, “It’s strange. Usually, persons would hang the painter’s paintings, yet you have him as well.”

“Some painters are beautiful lost souls, like Van Gogh himself. Some painters are more art than their paintings. I like to regard that.”

Elizabeth was about to ask if she wanted a refill when she saw Sally had been induced on a painting that hung sadly on the grey wall. “I painted that,” she said as she neared the foggy image, “It’s an old memory.” She remembered how cold the evenings would be back in Wisconsin even whilst the sun still shone. The peaks of the old manor silhouetted the image just like her memory. It was a big ugly thing, that manor. A place where people were too ignorant of the difference between blood and ketchup. A house that was supposed to be home but felt like an asylum. It never felt like her home, no matter how much she tried. She thought maybe if she painted it, she could trap it. Trap those memories. Stain them and lock them away in oil and a canvas, so that they wouldn’t spill into her soul again.

“It seems so sad.”

Elizabeth hadn’t responded. Her eyes remained fixed upon the painting.

“I’m sorry, I’m a sad drunk,” Sally abruptly laughed and motioned to her wine. “Anything I say or see gets me emotional. Let’s talk about good things. Food, puppies, ex-boyfriends.”

“And why are ex-boyfriends such a good thing?” Elizabeth asked as she took back her seat on the sofa.

“Oh, come on, we all have awkward uncomfortable stories. And then after a few years we look back and laugh and question what made us give those losers a chance. Right? My ex-boyfriends were all horrible. I remember one time I went on a date with a guy who I met online and he kept boasting about how handsome and tall he was compared to me. When I met him, he was probably three feet shorter, with pants tighter than mine, trying to read the palms of my hand to foresee my future.”

Elizabeth couldn’t help but laugh and poured herself a second glass, “My ex-boyfriend was a person I’d never thought could hurt me but unfortunately he did. He was more of a boy than a man if I must say so myself, broke up with me through a text message because he didn’t have the balls to face me and tell me himself, told me every day for an entire year about how much he loved me but never showed it, all, while he encouraged his friends to both mentally and sexually, harass me. Not only stabbed me in the heart but also in the back when he used my mental health against me, assumed my depression was fake, and involved the police to threaten me under the pretext that I was a crazy obsessed girlfriend who couldn’t handle rejection. Such a waste of our officer’s time, I’m sure they had better things to do than believe his lies. The sad part of it is that, not even a few days prior, I told him to get over himself.” She scoffed at the memory. “So honestly, there’s nothing funny about my ex. He’s just a disrespectful human being, if even that much. Always looking for attention.” Elizabeth took a sip of wine and frowned, “Never. Never, let a man disrespect you.”

“I’m not sure what to say,” Sally remained speechless until she jumped from the sofa angrily, “Who the fuck would leave you?”

The sound of an alarm went off and Sally looked at her phone in a panic, “Oh my gosh, I forgot I was the one making dinner tonight! I got so carried away, I should really leave to prep. It was so nice meeting you, Elizabeth. If you’re not busy, maybe sometime we should catch up again?”

“I would like that,” she smiled in return as she watched her new neighbour in a fluster and a few trips skipping out the door. She was rather colourful.

The landline rang and Elizabeth frowned. This was the time every week it rang. She knew. Carefully answering, she listened to the sound of heavy breaths on the other end. Someone knew. The call disconnected as usual and her teeth clenched together, slamming the phone down. The glass of wine in her hand trembled in a temper as she felt herself shaking as well. She flung the glass across the room. It broke into a million pieces. She screamed in rage.

Leave a comment (chapter thoughts) below if you want more chapters! ♡

Your feedback and engagement really helps the blog & motivates me to keep posting more FREE content for you guys!

Connect with me on Instagram to receive more updates: @celinekmahadeo

SAVE THIS PIN

A Little More About Our Blog?

The Catalog by Celine is a Fashion & Fiction Blog for anyone who loves fashion, beauty, & books. We aim at inspiring you to look and feel like the best version of yourself. Empowering and providing you with our latest fashion finds, inspo, tips, as well as helping you source the perfect novel.

Enjoying this book? Be sure to also take a peek at my other completed novels as well:

Click the link below to Read:

Fatal Alliances by Celine Mahadeo

Damned by Celine Mahadeo

The Saint Have Fallen by Celine Mahadeo

Trailer Blurb for The Saints Have Fallen: