If someone were to ask me what I would be doing on my eighteenth birthday just a two weeks earlier, I would have perhaps said I would be with my family, or my friends, or alone and scrolling through my phone, waiting for the excitement of being an adult to truly hit. I could have seen myself laying on the roof with my two closest friends, telling stories and laughing. If someone had told me I would spend that day in the hospital, I may have believed you, but the rest of this story would have seemed to insane to comprehend.
But then again, that's just life when you're friends with Hamlet.
I was the last of us to turn 18. Ophelia was ahead of us both, as always. I swear, she's always been perfect in every way. At the beginning of the school year, she was waiting for us outside our dorm, two cups of coffee and a cup of tea, flowers in her hair and a smile on her face. Technically, she wasn't allowed into the boy's dorm building, but being a member of the student council, a helping hand to every teacher, and a consistent honor role student, the staff often let little things like morning rituals pass.
Hamlet was next, near the beginning of the second quarter. He wore a gold paper crown and a grin that day, and once again I was the one that ended up doing his work for him. His cocky nature and natural smile kept him on the constant edge of trouble, never quite crossing over to be at risk of detention. He and Ophelia celebrated that nigh with a date. I knew better than to wait up for him.
But then it was my turn. Just two weeks left, and I'd be an adult, although Hamlet had often reminded me that time didn't really matter. It mattered in his birthday, but I wouldn't say that. It was also here, at two weeks before my birthday, that he awoke me at two thirty-one on Sunday morning with a wild look in his eyes.
"There's been a murder!" he whispered. His hands were cold on my shoulders, pale skin reflecting the moonlight. I could easily have mistaken him for a ghost, were I not so sure they didn't exist.
"What? Hamie it's late-" I tried to explain, but he wouldn't hear it.
"There's been a murder," he repeated, "my father told me!" I glanced at my clock. Two thirty-one. His wild dark eyes reflected the red numeric glow.
"Hamlet. Go o back to sleep, you were dreaming-"
"My father is missing. He's been murdered." His cold fingers dug into my shoulders, and I wished I had worn a shirt to bed. I sighed, sat up, and pushed him to sit proper on my bed.
"Okay, you're not going back to sleep yet, are you?" It was silly to ask, but I always asked. If I didn't, he would sulk.
"My father is missing. He's not returning my calls."
"Oh dear lord- Hamie it's two in the morning, of course he's not!"
"He usually does."
"Hamlet."
"And he didn't earlier- I went to the office and it was my stupid uncle!"
"Not so loud!"
Hamlet huffed, pulling away from me to dug dull fingernails into his arms and cast glances at the ground. He had never liked his uncle, his father was his hero. It was a pity they ran the school just like that, he deflated. His body sank down, cold and pale as death. Like any friend would, I pulled him close, let him under the covers and into my arms. Nightmares were not infrequent for him, why would I believe this was anything else? So that morning, all I did was pull him close, tuck him in, and stay by his side. Had I known the heavy truth of it all, I would have gone to the police, or insisted he fled. Looking back seems silly, but it's the past that remains clear while the future always remains blurred.
