Standing Alone, Drink In Hand

-Chapter 3-

March 12th

Another day. I feel at a loss for words this evening. Nothing necessarily bad happened. Well, that's not true. I'll touch on that later. Yet nothing was necessarily good, either.

I woke up early this morning, memories of dreams thankfully fuzzier than usual. Stumbling through the kitchen for coffee, I burned myself. Looking out of the grimy window that I really ought to have washed a month ago, it was raining again, and the birds were being obnoxiously loud about it.

I suppose I dressed a little more haphazardly than usual, but I wasn't going anywhere important. I had the morning shift at Barnes & Noble and it was, as expected, quite slow. However, it did leave me with an anecdote for this journal today. Perhaps anecdote isn't the right word, for it was terrifyingly embarrassing and will not be funny for maybe another eternity or so.

I noticed a beautiful woman browsing in the cookbook section and she had been wandering through the store for quite some time, so I thought that maybe I might strike up a conversation with her as I unloaded the new shipment of Cake Decoration for Dummies.

And that… Well, I tried. I asked her if she was aware of the cooking class down at the community rec center this weekend, and informed her of the coupon for it that would come with any Paula Deen book from our store. She smiled and said, no, she already knows how to cook, but was looking for a diabetic cookbook for her niece. I felt the shame of all physical bookstore employees as I laughed (charmingly, I thought) and told her that we didn't carry any, but she might find some on, ugh, . She laughed (with hesitation, it seemed. Was I making her uncomfortable?) and shrugged. She moved on towards the science fiction shelves. I spoke up just in time, before it would have seemed creepy to follow her.

"Excuse, me?" I said. "Excuse me, I'm sorry, but I have to- Your eyes are so radiant; is it possible you might want to go out with me sometime? Could I get your number?"

"What?"

Had she not understood me? Had I said something wrong? I thought I was very good with the complimenting of her eyes, I thought women liked that. "Do you want to go out? With me?" I reiterated.

"I'm sorry? I can't quite understand you …" she trailed off and I realized with horror that I had forgotten to try to control my stammer. And I had been nervous. A double whammy, so to speak.

The first person I speak to other than Miss Robinson in months, and I can't even string two sentences together. I was humiliated. I could feel the horrible humiliation in my face, my hands, even my feet would most likely have been flushed with red had they been visible.

So I bowed my head and waved it off, trying to indicate to her that whatever I had struggled to say had been of little to no importance. She probably thought I was slow or something. At best, that's what she thought. With my old clothes and roughly shaven face and stuttering speech, I may have come off as a drunk or even a druggie who had just rolled in through the door that morning.

I often find myself wondering how different my life would be if I had a love in my life. Someone who may sympathize with me, take my mind off of … whatever, simple things of that caliber. They wouldn't even have to know about my post-traumatic stress disorder if they didn't want to. I wonder if I should perhaps find a canine companion in lieu of a human one. Dogs are always loyal and never have any reason to leave you.

I remember when Ophelia left Hamlet. He tried his hardest not to show it, but I knew he was heartbroken. He only ever throws himself into an issue when he is avoiding some other aspect of his life. In that case, avenging his father was the avoidance of Ophelia's betrayal. Among other things as well, of course, but one could look into his eyes and see the heartbreak that dulled them.

Perhaps he would not have been so rash in his actions had Ophelia stayed by his side. But, no, of course, she had to follow her father's orders. She may have never said it outright, but we all knew that Polonius was the reason for her malice. That poor girl couldn't blow her nose without asking for his permission. It was completely ridiculous.

I remember when Hamlet told me that he was thinking of proposing to Ophelia. This was just a few months before it all went spiraling down, when Hamlet still held the youthful hope that belonged there in his face. He and Ophelia had been courting for a fair while, and it had been a question of the community of what may happen to her when he rose to power. I, however, knew full well that Hamlet would never leave Ophelia if it could be avoided. What we didn't know was that she would leave him.

I remember that he got angry at me when I questioned why this happened. He shouted at me. "It's her bloodyfather, you dunderhead! He's had her under his stubby little thumb her entire life! He's afraid I won't treat her like- like the Queen she is!" Then he started to cry. I had never seen Hamlet cry before. I had never seen another human being cry with such force, either. He turned to me for an embrace, and I - of course - obliged. The shoulder of my shirt was soaked through. I didn't try to tell him it would be alright, because I understood that, no, it would not.

Hamlet allowed himself five minutes of sorrow. Then he peeled himself away from me and exited my chambers. His shoulders were up around his ears, his red eyes in violent contrast with his pale skin, and his clothes in disarray. Before closing the door behind him, he turned to look at me and said, in a hoarse whisper, "Now I've got a murder to plan. Are you a part of this or not?" For a moment I was frightened that he may have meant Polonius or even Ophelia, but then the supernatural events of the past month came rushing back to me. I nodded fervently after a moment or two, and pushed myself up from the bed.

If only I could have mended the rift between the two. I had done it before. But this time Polonius wouldn't even let me near his daughter. He knew how close Hamlet and I were, and probably recognized my intentions. Ophelia was, for all intents and purposes, locked away from the world. If Hamlet could have had his love back in his arms again, he would not have been so reckless with his own life. Or the lives of others, for that matter.

I most likely would have no need to be keeping this bloody journal if Ophelia had stayed. I would have been Hamlet's best man. I know it.