Chapter 120: Shadows Over the City

A week later, Ophelia had gradually lost confidence. Every attempt she made to reach these children had been met with rejection. When kindness was perceived as weakness, she stopped considering whether she could awaken them and instead focused only on surviving her time as a substitute teacher in peace.

But even this final shred of dignity was stripped away by the children, who only grew more brazen. Halfway through class, they would leave in groups, eventually leaving her in a classroom with students who cared nothing for her existence. She would recite Diderot's dramatic theories to the empty air, waiting until the final bell rang so she could flee the room like a fugitive.

When Ophelia arrived at the office and had just set down her briefcase, a woman of bloated, buttery girth stormed toward her.

"Are you the bitch who recommended my child be suspended? Why?" The woman gave Ophelia no chance to react; every word she spat out seemed to make the flesh on her face quiver.

"I'm sorry, may I ask—" Ophelia took a step back, but she soon spotted the girl standing behind the woman—the same girl who had slut-shamed her during class. Unable to bear the humiliation any longer, Ophelia had made her one and only stand.

Mr. Harrison, the teacher responsible for parent communications, was sweating profusely beside the woman. He tried to speak, but she didn't care; she was like a rampaging beast, spewing venom.

"Because you're just a racist bitch who can't teach her a damn thing!" The woman waved her thick arm angrily and pointed at the girl with dreadlocks behind her. "If you teachers only know how to shirk responsibility, what are you here for? Look at her! Do you want to be stuck at home with her all day?"

Ophelia remained silent. She knew that anything she said would be futile. Many people didn't care about solving problems; they only wanted an outlet for their unchecked rage.

Not until Mr. Harrison rescinded the girl’s suspension did the woman leave, still cursing. The girl waited until her mother and Mr. Harrison were gone before standing arrogantly in front of Ophelia. "If you ever say another word against me in class, I’ll have every black guy in this neighborhood rape you."

Ophelia said nothing. She stared calmly at the girl, whose lips were smeared with thick lipstick and whose clothes were deliberately shredded for attention. She recalled the words her mentor had told her on the day she received her teaching certificate: *Every child has the right to an education; we must never give up on any of them.*

"I come to this office every day and watch you waste yourselves. No ambition, no hope. It’s getting worse. It’s so easy to look away; it takes courage to care." Ophelia spoke softly, then lifted her head to gaze at the empty office. By the time she finished, the girl had already slammed the door behind her.

"Miss Ophelia, I’m afraid I have some regrettable news. Because a parent has filed a complaint with the board of education, we may have to reconsider your suitability for the substitute position."

"And my pay...?"

"I’m sorry, we can only pay you half."

Ophelia walked home, gripped by a sudden, inexplicable sense of disgust. It felt as if you had believed in Christ your entire life, only to discover on your deathbed that the winner of the war eons ago was actually Satan, and the figure sitting high on the throne in the clouds was merely the devil in disguise.

As she packed her things to leave the school, she saw the bald man leaning against the chain-link fence again. His eyes remained empty. This time, Ophelia walked straight past him.

Back home, she closed her eyes and pushed the door open with force. Her mother, lost in her own fractured psyche, ignored the vomit on the floor and stubbornly locked herself in the bathroom.

"Mom, it’s me." Since she could no longer afford the nursing home fees last month, she had brought her mother home. Since then, this dialogue had repeated itself almost every day.

"I know it’s you. Don’t try to make me come out! Get away! I’m calling my mother. Don't you dare touch me again, you disgusting piece of shit..."

"It’s me, Ophelia."

"Is that you, Ophelia? Have you come to take me?" The bathroom door was pushed open by a trembling hand. Though she was only fifty, the owner of that hand looked aged beyond recognition.

Ophelia knew her mother had been looking in the mirror again. Whenever she saw the woman who bore no resemblance to the image in her mind—the wrinkled forehead, the dry, lusterless, sallow skin—she would collapse into a faint, and upon waking, would fear everything.

Ophelia patted her mother's back, coaxing her onto the sofa like a child. As she mopped the floor, she recounted her day to her mother. Only when she had finished did her mother, sitting on the sofa, speak timidly, like a small child.

"I’m sorry, I... I think I wet the bed."

By the time Ophelia had cleaned everything, her mother had fallen asleep on the floor, drool trickling from the corner of her mouth. Ophelia turned off the lights, trying to soothe her heart in the darkness where even the moonlight could not reach.

The world had never shown her a shred of mercy. Even though her parents were still alive, she had grown up in foster care. Love and being loved existed only in her fairy tales. Yet, she did not hate this indifferent world. It was precisely because she lived in darkness that she longed so fiercely for the light.

People always assumed stories would have a happy ending, but few considered how to navigate the jagged paths along the journey. Ophelia faced a cold, hard fact: her sponsor had ceased funding after she graduated, and her substitute teacher’s salary was barely enough for the barest necessities. Even with her night job at a convenience store, she couldn't find peace. Her mother, who had never fulfilled a day of maternal duty, required medication. While most was covered by the NHS, even the lowest-dose out-of-pocket costs were an expense she could ill afford.

She had thought more than once about abandoning her delusional mother, but she always dismissed the thought. She knew what it felt like to be abandoned.

Boris did not return to school, so she was no longer a substitute—she was officially the French literature teacher. But she no longer cared. Students might not need teachers, but teachers needed students. She no longer considered herself a teacher. Settling into silence was easier than struggling against the status quo. She learned to read from the textbook to students who were noisy and uninterested. It was meaningless, but she never received another complaint from the parent committee.

Every night, she went to the convenience store by the gas station, waiting for the fat woman who bought donuts and the mechanic who bought pre-made sandwiches.

The day-to-day grind exhausted her. She grew irritable, though she didn't show it; she could hear the repressed voice deep within her. To survive, she cut out all entertainment. In her meager free time, she only slept to numb the fatigue. She couldn't even remember the last time she’d gone to a bar to order a gin and listen to jazz.

On her way home from work, she stopped without reason. She suddenly wanted a drink; perhaps if she weren't so sober, everything wouldn't be so unbearable.

She sat at the bar and ordered a Tom Collins. This bar was known for its jazz, and the band was playing "Moon River." She listened quietly. Memory is a strange thing; words, sounds, scents, tastes—anything can awaken the past.

She suddenly remembered the drummer sitting in the corner of the stage. Though she didn't know him, she knew he was a frustrated musician, for the drums hold everything the player has endured. Only those who move against the grain of the world can strike such chords. The public might not like it, but Ophelia remembered him out of a sense of shared misery. She had once heard someone call his name: Warren.

*We are the same,* she thought. *Both of us walking alone.* She downed the clear liquid in her glass and rose to leave.

This should have been a memory to surface in old age, watching the sunset to the sound of bells, but the next day, an untimely remark sent Ophelia's fate careening in a new direction.

This was the first time Ophelia had seen the school principal, Franks Duncan. He was the nominal head of Brampton Manor High, though everyone knew his real job was as a businessman. He had built his fortune selling drugs that skirted the edge of the law. Perhaps out of a performative piety or a desire for political votes, he had founded this public high school to give the chaotic children of the East End a place close to home.

"Miss Ophelia, I must admit your performance this semester has been eye-catching. You are the teacher with the fewest complaints from the parent committee. Perhaps you’ve found a way to get along with those children. In any case, you are certainly qualified to be this year's Best New Teacher." Franks smoked his cigar, eyeing her with the gaze of a man looking at a woman.

Ophelia ignored the implication in his eyes. She thanked him with composure, choosing to disregard his rude stare. She needed this job; she only needed to read from the textbook to finish her daily duties.

"Well, congratulations, Miss Ophelia. You can go back and prepare your acceptance speech for the gala tomorrow." Franks took another drag of his cigar and exhaled a cloud of smoke.

Ophelia nodded and was about to turn away when Franks added, "Keep up the good work, Miss Ophelia. If all goes as planned, you’ll be the Best Teacher every year from now on."

Ophelia froze. A thought, shivering and cold, crossed her mind. She didn't even want to dwell on it as she fled the principal's office.

Franks raised an eyebrow, not understanding why his words had startled her. Before he could ponder it further, his phone rang. After listening to his subordinate's report, Franks repeated his mantra:

"Keep up the good work. If all goes as planned, you will eventually replace Marcus as the person in charge there."

Ophelia’s mind raced with Franks' words. She didn't understand why she felt so panicked until she returned home and saw her mother locked in the bathroom again. Then, she realized what she feared.

She feared seeing the next twenty years of her life in a single glance. She feared the unchanging, dull, and meaningless existence. She had comforted herself more than once that everything she did was for a better tomorrow, but Franks’ words forced her to face her current reality.

The financial deficit, the stagnant relationships, the repetitive work—everything revealed a terrifying truth: she was trapped in a whirlpool. Her life would be wasted in this muddy existence until she was completely submerged. Her mother’s medicine, the student loans, the rising rent, the hollow circle of friends—she couldn't even find a way to survive. To get her full salary sooner, she had signed a five-year contract with Brampton Manor High. The monthly bills forced her to pour even more time into her part-time job. She was walking a tightrope, with no path but to keep walking or fall.

From the moment she brought her mother home from the care facility, she had opened Pandora's box, but the hope at the bottom refused to appear. She felt on the verge of collapse. She couldn't imagine how her future could ever change.

A repulsive, self-serving thought crept into her mind. *She was never a mother to you for a single day. She abandoned you. Everything you do now will receive no response. She is just a mentally ill woman who hasn't recovered. You are not a saint. You don't need to keep falling into the trap she built for you. Let her go to hell. Those pills—those tiny, expensive pills—you don't have to pay for them anymore, because you have no such responsibility.*

*Your life needs to change, and it should start with her.*

"Ophelia." A voice interrupted her thoughts. She looked back to see the frail woman lying on the sofa.

Ophelia leaned in, but avoided her eyes.

"I’m sorry." The woman on the sofa reached out to touch her daughter's face, but Ophelia was too far away.

These were the few moments of clarity in her life. The woman who had been wild in her youth, drowning in a dream woven of alcohol and lies, now dared not look in a mirror. She feared seeing the aged, real version of herself more than she feared death.

"Do you want your medicine?" Ophelia took out the bottle, which had only a few white pills left. She needed to go to the pharmacy tonight to refill it.

"No, no. I am glad I am sober right now. Come here, Ophelia. Let me look at you."

Ophelia looked up at the aged face that still revealed a resemblance to her own. She didn't know what she was thinking. She shook the bottle; there were three pills left, she guessed.

"I regret everything."

"Regret what?"

"All of it."

She spoke softly, then closed her eyes, a turbid tear sliding down her cheek.

After her mother took her medicine, Ophelia walked out to the balcony alone. She saw the city under the lights, forever shrouded in a hazy mist.

She took out her phone and called the owner of the convenience store, then walked out into the street, trying hard not to think about the docked pay. She felt she needed a night like this—a night to think about the future.

She walked into the bar, but unfortunately, there was no jazz tonight. She hadn't seen the drummer named Warren in a long time.

She ordered a whiskey. The burning liquid ignited her world.