Title: Papa is Dead
Authors: Gwen M. , Cassie K., Kara K, and Sara D.
Summary: A scene from Hamlet told from Ophelia's POV. I.e. Ophelia's response to her father's murder by Hamlet.
Disclaimer: Parts of this story have been lifted from Shakespeare's play "Hamlet" anything you recognize from that play be it characters, quotes, or settings, is the property of The Bard. Anything else belongs to us.
Notes: Yes this was in fact written as an "creative assignment" for English. There is a possibility that more will be added on to bring this piece through Ophelia's death. However for now those plans are on hold and may or may not ever be placed into fact. In the mean time we hope
you enjoy.
Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.
The word echoes in my mind becoming progressively louder.
"Ophelia?" The voice of Queen Gertrude is soft and gentle.
The voices grate against my ears. "Ophel-ia. Ophel-ia" Voices sing softly, mocking, and taunting. "Ophelia, Little Ophelia, Papa's gone and dead. Gone and Dead. Gone and Dead."
I wrest my mind back.
"Yes, Lady?"
"Are you alright, Ophelia?"
"I am fine Lady." My words are soft, given with a little smile.
I see the doubt in her eyes, just as I feel the doubt that is not doubt with in my soul. I will never be alright. Not ever again. I haven't been alright for ages. My word has been slowly crumbling and I unable to see.
I slip away; not waiting for my dismissal, the Queen lets me leave. I wander the halls of this forlorn castle. I pull back the skin from a window. Let the wind whisper to me.
"He was brave, he was wise." I tell the wind. "What did he do? Who deserves this unfortunate end?"
The wind whispers only, "Sweet child, Sweet child." In reply.
"Why am I alone in this world?" My voice is rough with unshed sorrows. "My brother is lost to me. Laertes, dear Laertes. I wish you were here. And yet, I do not. Do you need know the sorrows that consume my heart?" I clutch at my breast in an effort to plug up the hole that eats away inside. "Do you? Tell me this brother; how do you stand the cruelties of this world? I heeded your advice and still I came to no greater end. You were right, right dear brother, right about Hamlet. He is lost. Lost to me. Lost to the world. I fear for him. I fear for all of us."
The wind provides me no answer. It just whispers on softly, uncaring to the troubles of man. The rain begins to fall. A steady pitter-pater. The drone of wind and rain helps to abate the suffering of my soul just as the drone of my father's voice helped me to abate the youthful troubles of my life. I slide down against the cold stone. The castle cradling me in the way human arms can not. Those arms that once might have held me are all gone. Dear brother Laertes lost to Paris and the greater world of men. Loving Father, your life stolen away. Now lying cold and dead in the frozen ground. Hamlet, my love, my hate, you are lost to reason, lost to Denmark, and lost to me. Claimed by the madness of your own creation.
Cold stone is my only love now. My gaze rests on the wall and I feel the weight of the very stones as they stare at me in my misery. My thoughts a-jumble. I can not feel myself lost with in this storm of emotion. I hear footfalls in the distance and rouse myself from this despondent state. Pushing the whispers of the wind and of my grief from my mind. Pulling a mask of amiable indifference to the world over my face.
The footfalls come louder now and a man appears at the end of the corridor. "How are you Lady Ophelia?"
I straighten myself from the frozen stone and place a sweet smile upon my face. "How am I supposed to feel?" I question saucily before retreating into polite difference. I wonder if he can see the confusion, the hesitation with in my eyes? I do not wish to hurt those around me. And yet… and yet, I do. How can they walk around they way they do: alternately ignoring me and treating me as though I am fragile glass that will break under the slightest pressure?
"The Queen wishes to speak with you."
I nod my acquiescence.
Inside I am seething. How dare my solitude be broken. I walk the length of the corridor and glide into the hall to be held in the Queen's audience.
"Where is the beauteous majesty of Denmark?"
I hide behind this soft factiousness. It would not do to openly flaunt the Queen. I know she means well but it is obvious neither of us wish to be here.
"How now, Ophelia?"
I wait silent. How now indeed. She cares, but does she care enough.
"How should I your truelove know
From another one?
By his cockle hat and staff
And his sandal shoon."
"Alas sweet lady, what imports this song?"
Can she not know. What imports this song? Why 'tis grief and madness that imports this song. 'Tis the voices, of friends now enemies, of brothers gone and fathers unjustly slaughtered.
"Say you? Nay, pray you mark.
He is dead and gone, lady
He is dead and gone;
At his head a grass-green turf,
At his heels a stone.
O, ho."
"Nay, but Ophelia—"
I cut her off. How dare she try and sooth me.
"Pray you mark."
I start my song again, a song of lament.
"White his shroud as the mountains snow –"
The King enters and I can see Lady Gertrude trying to foist me off to him.
"Larded all with sweet flowers
Which beswept to the grave did not go
With true love showers."
The King approaches. "How do you, pretty lady?"
I smile and continue. Let him figure out for his own. How am I doing?
"Well, God dild you! They say the owl was a baker's daughter. Lord, we know what we are, but know not what we may be. God be at your table."
Does he understand my warning? My offering of peace? I know he is not fully innocent in my father's demise.
"Conceit upon her father."
How he simplifies this matter. Simple brooding. It is far more than that. Grief, betrayal, loneliness, and love rescinded twisted into a fine rope that is nothing more then a snake of utmost emptiness.
"Pray let's have no words of this, but when they ask you what it means, say this:"
I raise my voice again in song. Perhaps my message will get through. My message to poor, lost, mad Hamlet and all others so beloved once.
"Tomorrow is St. Valentine's day.
All in the morning bedtime,
And I a maid at your window,
To be your Valentine."
A wish, a dream of what might have been.
"Then up he rose and donned his clothes
And dupped the chamber door,
Let in the maid, that out a maid
Never departed more."
"Pretty Ophelia."
He doesn't understand does he?
"Indeed, la, with out an oath, I'll make an end on't:
"By Gis and by Saint Charity,
Alack an fie for shame!
Young men will do't if they come to't,
By Cock, they are to blame.
Quoth she, 'Before you tumbled me,
You promised me to wed.' "
He answers:
'So would I'a' done, by yonder sun,
An thou hadst not come to my bed.'"
All of those broken promises given to me. And still they do not understand.
"How long hath she been thus?"
"I hope all will be well." Though I know it never will be.
"We must be patient, but I cannot choose to weep to think they would lay him I' th' cold ground." How can I make my thoughts any more clear to them?
"My brother shall know of it; and so I thank you for your good counsel." Ha, what counsel. The never even tried. Could not they see me reaching out for love, for understanding, for anything?
I take my leave of this hall with its pretentious inhabitants, joking lightly, struggling to keep in place my façade of health and sanity.
"Come, my coach! Goodnight, ladies, goodnight. Sweet ladies, goodnight, goodnight."
Goodnight, goodnight it shall never be. For in this life, for me, for all Denmark the peaceful sleep shall never creep o're the hills to beckon gently. God Bless the dead in their cold and hallowed tombs. Gracious are they for whom Death has brought mercy. May Death bring mercy from this madness to us all.