tit for tat -- ophelia maddox

<center>http://www.tomkobeer.com/images/liv24.jpg
Ophelia was a bride of God
A novice Carmelite
In sister cells
The cloister bells tolled on her wedding night

Ophelia was the rebel girl
A blue stocking suffragette
Who remedied society between her cigarettes

And Ophelia was the sweetheart
To a nation overnight
Curvaceous thighs
Vivacious eyes
Love was at first sight...
Love was at first sight...
Love...

Ophelia was a demigoddess in pre-war Babylon
So statuesque a silhouette in black satin evening gowns

Ophelia was the mistress to
A Vegas gambling man
Signora Ophelia Maraschina
Mafia courtesan

Ophelia was the circus queen
The female cannonball
Projected through five flaming hoops
To wild and shocked applause
To wild and shocked applause

Ophelia was a tempest cyclone
A goddamn hurricane
Your common sense, your best defense
They lay wasted, and in vain

For Ophelia'd know your every woe
And every pain you'd ever had
She'd sympathize and dry your eyes
Help you to forget...
And help you to forget
And help you to forget

Ophelia's mind went wandering
You'd wonder where she goes
Through secret doors down corridors
She wanders there alone
A l l a l o n e


[natalie.merchant]</center>

The museum had a disctinct scent that always enthrawled her as she drew a woven thread through the rooms with her feet. Doe's eyes stared up at the massive walls, small frame encompassed by massive framed canvas that exuded the finest of artwork -- passion, denial, a way for the artist to break away from the struggles he posessed daily. Thick brown hair spilled down her back in straightened tresses, the black ribbon still tying hair away from her face, though she'd shrugged the apron that was stark against the black slacks and black tailored shirt that tucked against abdomen neatly. She instinctively wove her way to a bench in the center of the Modern gallery, fingers pulling a small spiral notepad from her shoulderbag as it was dropped and kicked to rest beneath the bench. Eyes studied the painting before her, heart thumping wildly against her chest as just the very image was enough to drive her senses wild -- ink spilled onto the blank paper, as emotion tried its best to weave tangled verses before her.

<center>Mingling with your every scent
My air is not my own
To watch you with eyes like mine
I know I'm at hom--</center>

Fingers plucked the paper from the pad and balled it up quietly, tossing it into a nearby trashcan as she scrunched her nose. How could I possible emmulate you? Inward conversation was sharply interrupted by his quiet voice, as he moved to stand at her side, eyes focused on the same painting as hers.

"Magnificent, isn't it?"

"I don't think words could justify it."

"Much as they cannot justify you."

Eyes moved to glance up at him, wide and soft, lips parting slightly as she felt herself blush. Without saying anything, she turned back to the painting, fingers fiddling with the bottom right corner of the notepad, scrolling the pages lightly. He had a way about him that sent chills down her spine; there was something in his smile that made her feel warm and safe. She hadn't experienced love, though she'd experienced small crushes or slightly longing for another -- but nothing compared to what she felt by the very sound of his voice, or the look in his eye. She barely knew him, yet already she felt as though he were the back of her hand. A shadow that would constantly walk with her, shielding her from anything the outside world could harm her with. Though this was only a perception, only a persona, that was enough. The very idea of him was enough. Silence warmed over her as he moved to sit beside her, his spine straight against the back of the bench, fingers laced in his lap as he studied the masterpiece before them. She felt her skin tingle, his scent crawling through her veins like a slow drug, pulling her in for more.

"You say words cannot express this painting, yet you sit with empty paper and pen."

Shifting, she crossed her legs and glanced down at the blank page, feeling herself tingle as blood rushed to her cheeks. She felt rather vulnerable there beside him, and as an middle-aged woman made her way past the bench, she glanced at the couple and smiled -- though they were hardly a couple at all. Her mind raced with questions -- who was he? Why did he keep showing up? Why did he smell the way he did? How could someone that was such a stranger seem so much like at home? Eyes fell to her lap as she moved to close the pad, lips parting to speak before silenced cell phone flashed its small red light, mechanism otherwise idle while it sat in her lap. Glancing at the screen, she found that it infact was a text message, not a phone call. Flipping the face open, eyes scrolled and she immediately moved to grab her bag, standing quickly. A hushed whisper scraped through her lips, thrown over her shoulder as she hurried out from the museum.

"I have to go -- see you around."

Feet carried her quickly from the museum, her home only several blocks away. Shoes clicked against the pavement quietly as she walked silently, heart throbbing rapidly now for a different reason -- a pang of fear rising from the pit of her stomach, wondering if she was too late -- the text message constantly sprawled across the back of her mind, egging her on, echoing through her frame. A simple message that left no warrant of cause, yet sparked every sneaking suspicion that bubbled from her gut.

There's been an emergency concerning your father. Come home.

<font color="#C90202" size="1">[ October 03, 2005 12:53 PM: Message edited by: articulatory ]</font>

Heavy lids fell around hazel eyes that strained to push against any assumption of where it all went wrong. Shut inside her room like a thief, she stared at the opposite wall much as she had in the gallery, eyes staring into the ripples of paint that were beginning to peel away from otherwise smooth wall. Perched upon the edge of her bed, she sat quietly, hands resting at either side of slacked thighs that were heavy as lead -- rows of solid white sunk into pink flesh, teeth tugging nervously at her bottom lip. How can he be missing? Brain wove a weave of finely sewn thoughts, each strategically placed behind one another as she thought back to the last time she'd seen him. She noted the various servers that seemed so astute to his orders, shoulders squared as he rested back against the seat as fingers tugged over the brim of his hat. He spoke with a Southern drawl that was not of Camden -- proper, though quiet -- firm, yet gently capped over words of secrecy. Ophelia hadn't made any contact with him, though she noted her father's reaction when he walked in -- overly boisterous, making it clear to the staff that he was top priority.

Now, several days later, his visage haunted her like a freed spirit, calm and supple yet hidden behind shadows light could not penetrate. If asked to identify him from a row of people, the only distinguishing feature she'd remember was the curl of his lips -- a smile that tore at the right edge of thin lips, exposing yellowing teeth that showed his age. Or perhaps it was the crisp suit that she'd remember, the way his black silk tie was pressed firmly to his chest and held there, jacket remained closed throughout his silent meal. Perhaps it would be the flecks of gray that peeked from under his hat, clean-shaven face expressing no signs of age other than the small lines at the sides of his pale, blue eyes. She could remember certain details vividly on their own, but when put together, he was nothing but a shadow -- a headless horseman gallavanting through her nightmares.

So what?

What could he possibly have against her father, a man of integrity, a family man? What could he possibly need from a man who made his way to Camden with practically nothing, found fortune by way of his wife and opened a successful restaurant that is the center of dining in the small town? Why did he smile they way he did, tugging brim of his hat over his eyes, hiding himself from the obvious line of sight from her father? None of it made sense. Breastbone rose and fell as heart rattled against her chest, brain weaving further into her memory, searching for any clues that could link the two together. There was nothing -- no reason, no excuse -- she couldn't even find herself lying, making excused for the odd relationship between the two men. But the Southern accent? It confused her even more, as her father had once stated that he'd never been south of Maryland. And Maryland, in her book, was not considered south.

Upperbody moved to lay back against her mattress, legs dangling off the side of the bed as tips of toes dug into the carpet. Eyes stared up at the ceiling, tracing along the bumps of the uneven paint -- always focusing on the paint, every stroke, every touch-up. True, the house was old, and had survived many storms -- both literally and figuratively speaking. Tongue moved to wet natural lips, pink muscle skating along skin before teeth tugged it into her warm mouth, nibbling. And then, there was the kid. Fingers moved to rake through long tresses that feathered over the bed, eyes moving to concentrate on a single fleck in the ceiling. Could it really have been pure fate that had driven them together -- finding each other in the restaurant, and again in the museum? Or was it the simple fact that in a town this small, individuals were often plucked from a crowd, faces hardly ghosts as they would have been in a larger city? Could there have been some sort of correlation between the two men, in their similar suits, while features were so distinctively different from one another? She hadn't caught his name, or the man who spoke with a Southern drawl -- perhaps that was her first mistake.

For living in such a small town, it'd become speckled with black suits and ties, black pumps and pantyhose. Where were the vibrant colors amidst the land of the black and white?

<center>http://i12.photobucket.com/albums/a2...andidscarf.jpg</center>

News traveled fast. Friends called to find out if everything was alright, and she'd laugh it off, explaining that her father had just been "misplaced," not "lost." They valued her laugh, knowing she was probably right -- she was a believable girl and wouldn't have a reason to make up excused. Perfect came in the form of a package of friends, four of them showing up on her doorstep to steal her away into the small downtown. They'd had a knack for finding each other -- now spread out in their various places, they'd grown up together in the small town, even made it to college together. None of them were married, though love tended to flit from couple to couple, friends passing lovers to each other as easily as a pair of jeans. The high school drama was in the past, now they had fun and remenisced, wondering where their lives would lead them. It was something they didn't talk much about -- careers had been put on hold, not a single one of them ready to grow up. It was enough to float from job to job, enjoy each other's company, and stretch out childhood as long as one could.

The day was rather brisk, temperatures falling off the previous night, allowing innocent residents to pluck autumn wardrobe from boxes slid under silent beds. The breeze nipped at her nose softly, and the group made their way towards the museum, before turning down a block they hadn't gone done recently. It brought them to their old high school, and they moved to play in the parking lot, William toting a camera to snap candid shots here and there. Voices were loud and boisterous, her tinkling laugh sprawling through the air to grace anyone in earshot. Still, eyes would narrow on certain occasions, nostrils swearing they'd smelled his scent mingling with the autumn air. He has to be close... I know he is... Head shook lightly as she pushed the thought away, shivers spilling down her spine before she was interrupted by William.

"Ophelia! Come take a picture with Jacob!"

Feminine limbs charged towards the Jacob, flinging arms around his neck -- his arms caught her around slender waist and picked her up, spinning her around.

"Oh, stop this bullshit and pose, you're making me seasick."

"But we're young, innocent lovers!" Overly dramatic duo moved to kiss each other passionately, an obvious routine that sent giggles spilling from Ophelia's lips.

"Alright, alright, stop fucking around a pose, would you?"

"Such language! Tsk, William." Grinning at him, she moved to stand in front of Jacob, the two offering rather delicate grins. It was when she saw the outline of a man in the distance behind William that she felt herself freeze, expression frozen exactly how it was when the picture was taken.

"Ok, got it. Thanks, kids. --Ophelia? Are you o--"

"Shh. Don't turn around." Spoken through teeth pressed firmly together, wide smile still broad over her lips. "We have to go -- stay close to me, alright? Don't look around, just act natural. William, quietly make a joke." Her words were barely audible as they came from lacing tongue, lips moving so slightly even William could barely see them move.

"--So I said, get the hell out of town!"

They burst into laughter and she tugged on Jacob's arm, keeping him close. She didn't know who the outline was -- but it was ghostly. A phantom that would haunt her in her dreams that very night, his breath creeping through her veins like a silent addiction. Still, his scent crept over her -- pulling her into something she couldn't fight.

Like thick ornamented statues, the columns rose to met arching ceiling, its massive architecture encompassing the delicate bodies that were nestled within. Open arches in a cracking ceiling reached for the heavens, as if to push against itself as spirits cried out to find home, find eternity, frames shaking with the haunted feeling of meeting their Savior. Haunting sounds oozed through the church, voices with perfectly straight tones, major tones pushing against minors in a melody that spoke a language in itself regardless of the Latin words. Thick cherry wood made two columns of perfectly straight rows, planks empty save for two or three lost souls, praying silently to their Lord to find justification for the lives with which they could hardly find peace. Statues of biblical personas scattered amongst the columns, chipping and cracking as they showed their age, their faces still stark and soft -- Mary weeping for her Babe, Joseph cradling his Son. Cement enshrouded the statues in flowing material, is if soft whips of wind were milling about their tattered forms, God Himself pressing onward to bless His people with sacred testaments spoken through these winds, words that acted as a sepulcher of hope for those astray. Fallen angels hung from the ceilings, babes wrapped in loin clothes, cherubs with broken wings that yearned to flitter closer to Earth, not understanding the perfection of Heaven -- wanting more, desiring to fall, to become mortal, to serve their Savior with their innocent hearts and pure souls. Architecture slowly peeling, it made their haunting faces look distorted, as if they tried to smile down upon those in the church but could not -- lips twisted into shaded angles that cast an entirely different feeling.

Feet walked quietly against the velvet fabric of the floor, lowly-lit church causing irises to widen as eyes were forced to adjust to the lighting. Shoes could not be discerned against carpet, a gaunt angel floating amongst shadows as she made her way to the front of the church, staring up at the expansive stain glass window that acted as the entrance to a tomb of Heaven, colored glass splashing out a picture of the Risen Christ, chin tilting as eyes moved to capture the portraited Heavens that released light to spill down over the Savior. So small, so imperfect, she stood to praise her Savior, fingers moving to the small cross that hung about her neck, lips whispering memorized lines of what people of her faith were supposed to say to connect with the Lord. She paid homage to Mother Mary, soft hazels moving to greet the statue, noting its cracking, fingers yearning to reach out and touch her face as if she'd have some healing touch that would fix and meld any imperfections with her sweet visage. More and more, she felt like these statues, something broken inside that was beginning to peel away at her otherwise seamless visage -- tired eyes that needed caffeine in large quantities, smiles that while they came with ease, lingered a bit longer than they would have naturally.

She came here seeking peace, to find a tranquility that no one else could give her. Still, she couldn't find it -- she only saw the imperfections of this so-called spiritual haven -- the cracks, the peeling, it all reminded her it was a manmade building that was simply an attempt to offer mortals a piece of Heaven for their disposal. Feet moved her to kneel behind one of the pews, fingers lacing with one another as she propped her forearms on the pew in front of her, head tilting down as lids closed over burning eyes. Even the softest of whispers seemed to echo against barren structure, intermingling with the tones of the choir that sang from the loft above and behind her, their haunting voices plucking at heartstrings. Lips trembled as she softly whispered, fingers gripping each other in an attempt to steady nerves, form feeling meek and frail in contrast to the massive structure in which she kneeled. Swallowing hard, she moved to remove the cross from around her neck, entangling it within her fingers as they folding with one another to reposition back to their original state, chain dangling over the front of the pew that served as a support for her arms once again. The cross felt like it was burning into her skin, and tears filled her eyes as the trembling continued, knuckles turning a ghostly white as she gripped with all of her strength, pressing herself on to speak the lines that would lead to confessions of a string of events that would never shake from fragile form.

"Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, beatae Mariae semper Virgini, beato Michaeli Archangelo, beato Joanni Baptistae, sanctis Apostolis Petro et Paulo, omnibus Sanctis, et vobis, fratres (et tibi pater), quia peccavi nimis cogitatione, verbo et opere: mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa..."

<center>I need you like I need breath
It fills my lungs and kills me quietly
Until I'm lost, forsaken, misled

I need you like I need shelter
Stable ground for my wandering feet
Stable walls for my aching inside

I need you like I need myself
Need to find myself in ways I've never known
Need to kiss life in ways I've always tried

I need you but I can't find you
I need you but I can't see you
I need you but I can't taste you
And all that's left is to breathe.</center>


The sunlight spilled through frosted windows in a haunting sort of manor, creating a kind of misconception regarding the bitter chill outside. Fingers wiped across aproned thighs, tie plucked from around her waist as stark white material balled and tossed into a laundry bin in the back. She swore she could smell him, his scent obvious and nearly overwhelming -- yet every time she moved to see if he was there, eyes never found him. Brows furrowed to mirror her perplexed thinking, doe-like eyes trailing along the kitchen as if by some chance she'd find him.

The walk to the museum was short, though it didn't stop the tip of her nose from turning pink, eyes burning against a wind that whipped furiously around her. Brown hair flitted about her, jacket pulled tightly around small form as loosely curled fists shoved deep into the warm wombs of pockets. Scarlet scarf whipped about her neck, trailing behind her as frayed edges licked the frost-bitten air. Leaves of red and gold were a sign of autumn, though it might as well have been winter -- fingers aching as they gripped the metal door handle, pulling it open. The metal felt like ice to fingertips, otherwise warm palms moving quickly to her face to cause blood to warm and glow on tender cheeks. The museum was quiet for the most part, only a handful of people strayed through its corridors -- he was not one of them, as far as she could see. Still, his scent filled her nostrils, and she became anxious and eager to find him. Why do I keep feeling you, why do I need you the way I do... True, body moved faster than brain, as if a coquettish addiction had risen in her blood, remaining unsatisfied until their eyes met, their bodies met, their lips, their breath. He was like a drug she'd never had before, but already feigned -- and it was only going to get worse.


<center>I need you like I need art
To see its beauty painted, sculpted

I need you like I need the paintbrush
The paint, the canvas, the ability

I need you like the wall it hangs upon
My finest hour, my finest days

But I can't find you
I can't see you
I can't sleep to dream you
And all that's left is to breathe.</center>

<center>

we found your name across the chapel door
carved in cursive with a table fork
muddy hymnals
and some bootmarks where you'd been

the shaking preacher told the captain's man
the righteous suffer in a fallen land
and pulled the shade
to keep the crowd from peeking in

we found your children by the tavern door
with wooden buttons and an apple core
playing house
and telling everyone you'd drowned

the begging choir told the captain's man
we all assume the worst the best we can
and for a round or two
they'd gladly track you down

we found you sleeping by your lover's stone
a ream of paper and a telephone
a broken bow
across a long lost violin

your lover's angel told the captain's man
it never ends the way we had it planned
and kissed her palm
and placed it on your dreaming head


[iron&wine/muddy hymnal]</center>

Storms had ceased long ago, though nearly naked body remained swathed in sheets that made her practically float, a baroness slumbering in dank morning light that stretched its fingers across fair skin. A soft breeze whipped about the building, the faint rustle of leaves serving as her alarm clock. Frame rolled, forearm moving to rest over her eyes; she'd forgotten where she was, though his scent enwrapped her in ways she'd only dreamed of. Fingers moved to smooth hair away from her face, and she blinked sleep away from soft eyes, sitting up slowly to find the imagine welcoming her to the new day.

She walked to it, wrapping his sheets about her, holding them close to her chest. Natural lips parted as jaw fell slack, eyes wide as she stared at the painting before finding his note. Reading it, she trembled, looking back to the painting. There stood a woman she'd always known, a woman who'd somehow lost herself to the harsh seas of her spirit that carried her away from everything she knew. In her eyes, she saw a woman who'd created shelter for herself, braving a storm that was purely intrinsic -- the outside world reflecting nothing that resonated within. And somehow, though he barely knew her, he captured it in such a way that made it more realistic than she'd ever imagined.

-----

The tile of his kitchen felt cool beneath her feet, fingers struggling to button her wrinkled blouse quickly, as it'd been pulled from the duffle bag. Searching for a piece of paper and a pen, she scribbled quickly. The key was folded inside the note, to be left in his mailbox.


<center>Matthew,

Meet me at the church tonight at eleven. Bring nothing but your talent. You mesmerize me.

-Ophelia</center>

<font color="#C90202" size="1">[ January 22, 2006 05:08 PM: Message edited by: articulatory ]</font>

"How the hell did you get the key?"

"That's a little inappropriate, don't you think?"

"Ophelia, this is a rather serious accusation, don't you think?"

"I don't have to tell you anything."

"Jesus Christ, just say--"

"What is your problem? We didn't touch anything."

"We?"

"No. Me. I didn't touch anything."

"That's a lie, the sheets were off of the paintings."

"They were like that when I got down there."

"So you admit you went down there."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, Ophelia." The man rattled out a sigh and rubbed his forehead, snake-slit eyes dragging over to her. "Cough it up."

"When do you start playing good cop/bad cop?"

"You can be fined a lot of money, do you understand?"

"What for? It's a church, it--"

"You stole that key."

"I didn't steal anything."

"Look," he started, slinging a chair around for him to straddle, his forearms pressed to the back of his chair, his fingers folded amidst themselves. "Marcus is the one who called me. And given your father's relationship with him, I--"

"So you're on a first name basis?"

"I'll talk, you listen. As I was saying, I--"

"Excuse me, but I need to use the restroom."

"No."

"You can't keep me here, I haven't done anything."

"Again. You stole a key. You trespassed. You tampered with artwork that--"

"I want a lawyer."

"For Christ's sake, you--"

"Again, is that really appropriate? I mean, given the situation, I hardly find it appropriate to take Christ's name in vain."

"Are you finished?"

"With this? Yes."

"No. With running your mouth, so I can get a goddamn sentence out."

"Oh." Ophelia shifted in her seat and crossed her legs, draping her arms over her thighs, wrists crossing at the knee. "Fine."

"Marcus isn't going to press charges, if--"

"Because I did nothing wrong."

"If you 'fess up."

Ophelia smirked.

"What's so funny?"

"Well," she purred, letting the word elongate itself as it dripped off her lips. "It sheds a whole new light on confession, doesn't it?"