Come to My Garden, Minnie Riperton, 1970.

Her favorite record.

She pulled it from the shelf and observed Minnie in her clean, ethereal white gown contrasting her bronze skin on the greenest lawn she had ever seen. Accented simply in the corners by petunias and white alstroemerias. The gorgeous cover never failed to give her an overwhelming sense of self. She carefully let the record slide from the sleeve to her hand, and placed it on the polished oak Victrola, already cranked and turning. Placing the needle on the first groove, she mindlessly swayed to the hum and crackle of the spinning silence before the first song had even begun to play.

She propped the record sleeve on the shelf and glided across the room as that delicious introduction of guitar, base, and drums underscored her thoughts. And soon Minnie's angelic, gossamer voice sang those first lyrics of Les Fleurs...

Will somebody wear me to the fair?

Will a lady pin me in her hair?

Will a child find me by a stream?

Kiss my petals, weave me through a dream?

Her eyes fluttered at the entrancing sound of Minnie's voice harmonizing with her own. Ophelia learned to do that, naturally, without technical assistance. The talent brought her much success in her career, in ways she had never dreamed. Her mellow tunes accompanied by strings were especially popular to islanders. After all, it is where she wanted to make her music; wherever the water was.

~ This music crept by me upon the waters, Allaying both their fury and my passion With its sweet air: thence I have followed it. Shakespeare, The Tempest (1611).

So Tenerife, Canary Islands is where she settled. It was here that she found the sun never faltered, even when it rained. Even now, the golden rays of evening pierced the windows and flooded the wooden floor. She faced the mirror and admired the white lace of her collar that fit snug around her neck with one pearl button. The rest of the gown dripped down her form, so divine, so female.

For all of these simple things and much more, a flower was born,

It blooms to spread love and joy, faith and hope, to people forlorn.

She looked at her yellow tendrils, disheveled and loose, just as she preferred them. Taking the steel watering can on her vanity, she lifted her arm over her head and poured. The water showered her daisies, cascading down her face and her dress. Most refreshing. She set the can down and picked up a gallon of Ortho and spritzed the top of her head. She massaged the chemical into her scalp and pulled out any weeds that were beginning to sprout. This didn't hurt her, but tingled, slightly.

Inside every man lives the seed of a flower,

If he looks within he finds beauty and power.

She took her silver brush and began untangling the ends of her hair, and then brushed from the top. She flashed her large green eyes and smiled at her herself, sweetly. She was lovely.

"You crazy. Fucking. Bitch."

In stormed Stavros.

He had been downstairs throwing a clamorous tantrum for two hours, now. Ophelia continued to pay mind to her hair.

"You sure did it now, you fuckin' freak. You absolutely did." He stomped past her, smelling of brandy. She watched him from the glass as he recklessly rummaged through drawers, taking whatever belonged to him. The boisterous chorus of Les Fleurs went beautifully with his fit of childish rage.

Ring all the bells, sing and tell the people everywhere that the flower has come!

"First, you fuckin' flip my father through our bay window, all because he asked you to demonstrate your stupid judo. He was in fuckin' traction!"

Light up the sky with your prayers of gladness and rejoice for the darkness is gone!

"Then you shatter my grandma's antique crystal chandelier in our foyer because you had the retarded idea to swing on it by your knees!"

Throw off your fears let your heart beat freely at the sign that a new time is born!

"And now you leave the gate open, knowing that my fuckin' dog was outside, just because he was digging through your garden? Your precious fucking garden, Ophelia! I have no idea where he is, he could be dead for all I fuckin' know! That's the last straw, you're through."

She listened, intently, with unbothered expression. She took a small lock of hair and started a braid. It had just occurred to her how gaudy he looked in contrast with her darling pastel bedroom. Add him to the list,

Gomez Addams - doesn't count.
Cousin Itt - player.
Stanislaus - weakling.
Horatio - fraud.
Humphrey - dead.
Montrose - weird.
Throckmorton - insecure.

And Stavros was just a pussy.

This time, however, was different. She wasn't sobbing. Screaming or begging. Wasn't crawling on her knees or blocking the door.

~ Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my tears. Shakespeare, Hamlet (1601).

Boys are always falling for Ophelia, her mother's voice echoed inside her head. And she wasn't lying. They did always fall for her. And that was all they really did. It wasn't until she showed her true self that they ran screaming into the night, leaving behind shards of her heart in their cold footprints. Cementing another brick in her wall of shame for self expression.

"No amount of beauty, pretty words, or money can hide the fact that you're a complete psycho, Ophelia. You and your whole fuckin' family."

She tapped a drop of chamomile oil on her finger and dabbed it on her collarbone and wrist. She used to dream her one true love would sweep her away, and would quite literally picture herself a knight in shining armor. Her very own Don Quixote de la Mancha, tilting his lance against the foe. A chivalrous prince, maddened by all of the romance he had ever read, and she could relate.

Manifestation's cruel twist was that she would end up the foe to all of the Don Quixote's.

"I'm gonna find my dog, and I'm not coming back." He stood behind her, holding a pile of crumpled clothing in his arms. "...Well?! You're just gonna stand there, you have nothing to say? Is this a fuckin' miracle?"

After several seconds, she met his beastly eyes through the glass and exhaled, relaxing her shoulders.

"'Til thou, never I have found myself less gratified in the boudoir."

"What the hell are you even saying?"

"Your penis is small."

He bared his teeth and let out a wounded roar. He marched out of the room and continuous shouts of "bitch" would decrescendo until she heard the front door slam shut.

Alas, just her and Minnie Riperton, once again.

May mosaydee kaylie lowya roses...

Roses... Morticia. Darling, sister. Her hero, her muse, her true D'Artagnan. Drying her tears since they were infants. She recalled returning to the Addams household that one summer after Itt had severely wounded her ego. She was prepared to make amends with Gomez, that perhaps he could prove his worthiness and they could pick up right where they left off, preacher and all. But as soon as their butler opened the door to reveal her sister with a humungous diamond on her finger, it all immediately made sense.

And she could not have been prouder.

After all, if circumstance were reversed, and it was she who found herself madly in love with her sister's fiancé, would she have cheated behind her back up until their wedding?

Absolutely she would.

Romance overcame all laws, and she understood that more than anyone. Morticia and Gomez became her romantic ideal. Mostly. It would have been far more romantic if they actually succeeded in offing themselves, together. Nevertheless, she knew exactly who she needed at this moment in time.

A soft scratching and sorrowful whimper came from behind the powder room door. She turned from her reflection and made her way across the room, making sure to glance at her large painting of Swans Reflecting Elephants by Salvador DalĂ­ that she purchased from a gallery whilst tripping on psilocybin mushrooms. She opened the door and out jumped the large Rottweiler, standing on his hind legs and adorning her face with licks. She knelt down and wrapped her arms around his neck.

"Pack your things, angel. We're going on a visit."

"Miss Ophelia..." announced Lurch, making way for her to enter the foyer. There stood her sweet little sister, dressed depressingly as ever. Her eyes wide and arms wider.

"My darling Ophelia, what are you doing here? You're a lovely surprise, I- oh..." She retreated her arms and grimaced at the drooling dog that sat loyally at Ophelia's side. "Why, Stavros, you haven't changed a bit."

"This isn't Stavros."

"Oh? Oh... Then where is...?" Morticia stood perplexed until she studied the numb expression on her sister's face. "Oh, I see..."

"And thus I have decided to end my quest for love."

"...I see... Yes, well, Lurch? We'll take a bottle of wine in the conservatory."

-o-

Hamlet. I did love you once.
Ophelia. Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so.
Hamlet. You should not have believed me.

Shakespeare, Hamlet (1601). Act III. Scene I.