She believed herself to be evil.
The definition of the word “evil” depends entirely on the reader or writer’s perspective on the word.
What is evil? The opposite of good; the unrighteous evil. What is injustice? The provision of an error of one person on another.
Good may exist, but evil may not. By “evil” we mean the opposite of goodness; a force that works in contrast to an equal and contradictory power of good. What we call evil is nothing but the absence of good.
And Ophelia Delisle believed herself to lack goodness.
Ophelia did not believe in life after death, she did not believe in heaven or hell. Because in the end, the purpose of life after death is not to punish or reward the souls, but remind them of their purpose. In the end, the difference between heaven and hell is irrelevant because both are a part of the illusion that characterizes the whole creation, the whole world.
Which is why she was so devastated when her twin brother had been pronounced dead. And still, she did not cry, no, she stood her ground with and held her head high. She did not dare to cry, not in front of her family; her mother, her little sister, her father. Weakness was not allowed in the Delisle household, Ophelia knew the consequences of sympathy, of tears, and it was not something she wanted to get herself tangled into that rainy May day. No, that day was a reminder, a reminder that Ophelia, in fact, was evil. Because she had killed her brother, she was the reason why he was laying in that casket on that day. She had made a mistake, an error, and it made her lack goodness.
Her mother wanted to leave the country, move to France, admit Ophelia and her sister to Beauxbatons. Ophelia’s father, however, was more interested in England and they all knew better than to cross him.
Ophelia had lived in the United States her whole life, gone to a muggle school and, of course, been taught magic in a small, secret school on the side. The Dark Arts was a subject that her parents particularly wanted her to learn, to excel in.
Ophelia could hear the faint voices of her mother and little sister from the open window on the second floor as she sat in the backyard of their soon to be ex house. Anastasia was only eleven when the last bedtime story in their grey, little house was read to her. Anastasia always did as she was told, she was a rule follower, sweet and easily pliable; the perfect child to parents with plans.
Ophelia lit a cigarette as she continued to listen to her mother’s words.
Cigarettes, it was funny to Ophelia how something so dangerous could make her feel so alive, so good. Her mother and father did not approve and had taken a lot of them away from her since her brother had died, but had eventually given up. She did not care of others approval, what she did care about was the ecstasy, the feeling of her soul dying.
Because at least then, she would know that she had one.