Looking back, it all happened so fast. During the event itself, it felt like an eternity. That eternity began when I was awoken that morning.
I always enjoyed seeing him in the morning light. Fiery red hair reflected the sunlight well, and the warm glow let him look alive, his freckles scattered like the dust in the air. I usually loved him like this, sleepy and smiling, adorned in a stollen set of clothes- my nice pajama pants and Ophelia's long lost Indigo Girls crop top. It was a sight like a modern renaissance painting. The chaos of it all, the unity, the beauty. That morning was different.
"Horatio." He hardly ever used my name alone. The sun had hidden from him that day, allowing only grey light to dull his vibrant image.
"What's wrong?" I had asked. Had I been more awake, perhaps I would have remembered our early conversation. However, I had not remembered, and that was a mistake.
"My father is dead. Ophelia told me." Had his voice not been so cold, I doubt I would have believed him. But his eyes were empty. His already pale skin had lost any remaining color. It hurt to see.
"Ophelia?" Again, I look back and see stupidity. I was simply echoing his words as he sat in pained shock. He said nothing, simply stared ahead.
To go on in detail about the remains of that day would be a waste of words. To put it simply, he hurt. He lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling. Ophelia joined me later, sympathy and stress behind her bright eyes. She explained in a hushed tone over tea and coffee that the body had been found that morning, laying cold on the courtyard.
"It's not official," she had said, "but Hamlet called me last night, just an hour past midnight. He said it had happened, and I saw the body. They showed it for a moment on the news."
That they had, and despite how much I didn't want to look, I took the phone from her hand. His figure was clear, unmarred and cold. I had spoken to him many times before, assisted him in the halls, and had once even had dinner in his home. He was a kind man, intelligent. I looked away.
Hamlet was so quiet that day. Ophelia and I joined the silence, unsure of what else we could do. It was when he spoke again that this story truly began to fall apart.
"I want to go on a walk." An innocent enough request. Of course we agreed, he should get out, breathe open air rather than locking himself up.
We walked with him. Ophelia wrapped her arm around his, and I kept my fair pace ahead. Ophelia could nearly always calm the chaos that was Hamlet, while my every plea for him to slow down was only fuel to his fire. I'd like to say this is why I often stayed away from the couple despite the both being dear friends, but it was more than that. It stood on level with welcoming him under my sheets as a friend. A true, loyal friend.
"I have an announcement to make," he had said. I turned to face him and found a faint light returning to his eyes.
"I know who killed my father, because last night, he told me."