Ophelia
I don't know where this came from, but it's for a class.
The premise; If it were present day, and Ophelia survived her suicide, what would happen?
Ophelia was not supposed to survive.
In her heart, she knew that, but she seemed incapable of convincing any of the doctors that death was a better option for her.
Ophelia was strapped to a bed. She was strapped down because she was allergic to the drugs that kept her catatonic, and she was not inclined to stay in this place, nor was she keen on the tube they’d stuck in her nose, to keep her from starving herself.
The real problem with not taking well to morphine was that she was still in her mind. She knew it’d be easier to watch herself lying there, not feeling what had happened. But the reality kept intruding, and she was almost tired of denying it.
How could he - why did he - daisies. Daisies were easy to think about. Not quite as easy as pansies, but easy enough for now.
Laertes always told her she had to be strong. Laertes always told her she shouldn’t listen to the lies men would tell her. Laertes was dead.
Ophelia still strained against the straps sometimes, but her wrists had been rubbed raw long ago, and she was not happy about the sensations that struggling gave her. There were men in white coats who said words like “post traumatic stress” and “unstable.” Ophelia had tried to make them stop calling her that, once, and it had just earned her a prick and the calming sensation. That was before they knew it made her sick. Now she wasn’t allowed to touch anyone, at all. They could touch her all they wanted, and they could stand over her making notes and clucking noises, but she was powerless to an extreme.
Ophelia should not have survived; she should have drowned. She should have died when her father did, when her brother did later. She was found, waterlogged and cold on the bank of the river by some idiot who didn’t have the sense to leave her. She was here, in this place, when the man she loved killed her only brother, and she was in this place when he was buried and she was in this place when the man she had loved was, in his turn, interred and why did God hate her?
She made it a mantra, some days. She believed, or tried to believe, that this was hell. That she died with the mortal sin of dying on her soul and this place was her torture. She screamed for a priest some nights, to cleanse herself, and yet when they brought her one her tongue dried up and stuck to the roof of her mouth and she couldn’t breath to tell her sins. He held her hand then, touching the spots where she had torn the IV out, where she had rubbed the very skin off her arms. She thought maybe he had understood, maybe he had forgiven her. But she was still here and she was still- rosemary. Rosemary was easier than ever pansies, and Ophelia relished the very thought.
Ophelia tried to sleep, but she dreamt of floating, of existing in that between world the river had taken her to. That made her want to stay awake forever.
Ophelia couldn’t stay awake, it hurt. And she couldn’t stay asleep; it was too much like dying, and she wasn’t allowed to die anymore, she understood that.
And yet she planned to make a good end, when the time came.
The premise; If it were present day, and Ophelia survived her suicide, what would happen?
Ophelia was not supposed to survive.
In her heart, she knew that, but she seemed incapable of convincing any of the doctors that death was a better option for her.
Ophelia was strapped to a bed. She was strapped down because she was allergic to the drugs that kept her catatonic, and she was not inclined to stay in this place, nor was she keen on the tube they’d stuck in her nose, to keep her from starving herself.
The real problem with not taking well to morphine was that she was still in her mind. She knew it’d be easier to watch herself lying there, not feeling what had happened. But the reality kept intruding, and she was almost tired of denying it.
How could he - why did he - daisies. Daisies were easy to think about. Not quite as easy as pansies, but easy enough for now.
Laertes always told her she had to be strong. Laertes always told her she shouldn’t listen to the lies men would tell her. Laertes was dead.
Ophelia still strained against the straps sometimes, but her wrists had been rubbed raw long ago, and she was not happy about the sensations that struggling gave her. There were men in white coats who said words like “post traumatic stress” and “unstable.” Ophelia had tried to make them stop calling her that, once, and it had just earned her a prick and the calming sensation. That was before they knew it made her sick. Now she wasn’t allowed to touch anyone, at all. They could touch her all they wanted, and they could stand over her making notes and clucking noises, but she was powerless to an extreme.
Ophelia should not have survived; she should have drowned. She should have died when her father did, when her brother did later. She was found, waterlogged and cold on the bank of the river by some idiot who didn’t have the sense to leave her. She was here, in this place, when the man she loved killed her only brother, and she was in this place when he was buried and she was in this place when the man she had loved was, in his turn, interred and why did God hate her?
She made it a mantra, some days. She believed, or tried to believe, that this was hell. That she died with the mortal sin of dying on her soul and this place was her torture. She screamed for a priest some nights, to cleanse herself, and yet when they brought her one her tongue dried up and stuck to the roof of her mouth and she couldn’t breath to tell her sins. He held her hand then, touching the spots where she had torn the IV out, where she had rubbed the very skin off her arms. She thought maybe he had understood, maybe he had forgiven her. But she was still here and she was still- rosemary. Rosemary was easier than ever pansies, and Ophelia relished the very thought.
Ophelia tried to sleep, but she dreamt of floating, of existing in that between world the river had taken her to. That made her want to stay awake forever.
Ophelia couldn’t stay awake, it hurt. And she couldn’t stay asleep; it was too much like dying, and she wasn’t allowed to die anymore, she understood that.
And yet she planned to make a good end, when the time came.