The Death of Ophelia

She stared at the ceiling with no thought in particular. Glancing above some how made her feel calm despite her frustrations.

Oh, the frustration. Oh, the things she hid in her heart for too long. The things she hid to make it work and yet she watched her love dissipate in front of her.

She fears love; to be dependent on someone else. She may have never locked lips with him, yet she has sold her soul to him all too often.

Ophelia was dedicated, gentle and kind. At the call of her name, she was more loyal than a furry companion, ready to serve her master with any need.

Dedication; she never cried, never criticized. Ophelia always stood by his side and believed.

Torn. Torn by unfaithfulness. Torn by uncaring. Torn by the shrug of his shoulder.

She ran to the woods and cried on the forest floor, pounding her fists onto the ground with all of her might. She was to blame for his unhappiness. She could not cure his anger. She counted down the days of her pathetic life. In the forest, she reenacted her death.

Every night, Ophelia returned to his side. She felt wonderful with him and her pain was forgotten for a time. Nothing made her happier than seeing his smile and adoration of her.

She was the object of love; the desirable in front of him. She took off her torn rags and slipped on her glass slippers with him; she was a princess and he made sure to tell her so.

But all the times he did not reciprocate, she did not even complain. She comforted him and complimented him on his dedication to self.

When he went off, she would run to the darkness of the forest. Ophelia covered her hair with a shawl and wore her torn rags. Unthinkable abuse happened there. She would write in the solid dirt “I am unlovable. I am ugly. He does not deserve me.”

When he went off, she spent her nights in the forest. She often brought a rope with her which she wound around her neck, imagining her death.

When he went off, she would think of her past lovers now content and happy. She would wonder what her fault was with them. Was she not beautiful enough? Was she not dedicated enough? The rope grew tighter and tighter across her neck.

One day, as Ophelia prepared her lover’s tea, he ran his stubborn hands across her neck. “What is that mark that penetrates your neck, my beautiful?” He asked her as he pressed on her neck. None of her lovers before had noticed the scars and pain she inflicted on herself. “I cut myself when I went off to collect the strawberries for your favorite dessert,” lied the lonesome woman. Ah, Ophelia never complained.

In February he went off on one of his adventures again and said he’d be back in a week or so. She waited and never complained. Four weeks went by and he still had not returned. Then, she learned he had found gold with a beautiful princess and eloped with her.

Ophelia did not complain. She did not even cry. “Ah, if that’s what he always wanted, riches and gold and a woman to hold, then who am I to pull him away from his dreams?” She sent him her hearty congratulations and sent away his best suit and best shoes which she polished for days.

The next day, she uncovered the most beautiful dress a past lover had given her. He was a prince and thus, was unable to marry her. She draped the beautiful turquoise material across her body and pulled out a pair of diamond earrings.

She received these from her first lover. He was a preacher who stole the money from the offering to pay for those earrings.

Then, out came the necklace she received from a traveling minstrel who came to her village a long time ago. According to the minstrel, the necklace was one of Alfred the Great’s.

She put on her golden shoes she received from the lover and took a walk down to the beautiful gardens.

She reached the edge of the sacred garden and glanced at the dark forest it led to. She refused to walk into the forest but sat down by the river to peer at her reflection. “Oh precious stones may garner my body. My skin may be smooth and my eyes may reflect the purest rays of sunlight, but he has found fault in me. No form of repentance can heal my wounds. I am a work of imperfection.”

Ophelia, still wearing her golden shoes, put one foot into the iced water. She swung her other foot into the river and slowly, slowly crouched into the space. She took one last breath of air and sat down into the water as her golden locks floated in the water.

Her body shook, her soul cried. Her golden slippers slipped off her tiny feet as she struggled with her body. One last bubble came up. Then, her body, like an abused doll, floated to the surface. She was blue in the face and her mouth opened in an absent “Oh.”

The death of Ophelia. No one knew.