by Michelle Ray
I woke up on the floor in the late afternoon. My stomach was acid, and my cheek—bruised the day before, then slept on for who knows how long—
burned. I made my way back to the kitchen. Officer Cornelius was sitting on a folding chair that had come from somewhere else in the castle. It looked out of place in my home and uncomfortable to sit on for long, but I wasn’t offering him anything more welcoming.
“You okay?” he asked.
Without acknowledging him, I got a mug down for tea and put bread in the toaster.
“We checked to make sure you were breathing,” he said. “And we took the medications out of al the bathrooms.”
“How about the household cleaners?” I asked.
He didn’t respond, but I noticed they were gone by the next morning.
For the next two days, I stayed in my room almost al the time, bored, depressed, and sick from not eating properly. I was too out of it to read or draw, and I was unwil ing to watch television with one of the guards looking over my shoulder. I didn’t want to cook in front of them either, so I grabbed whatever packaged food we had around.
Lying on my bed, I felt removed from my body. I would poke at my face to make sure I was stil there. I could feel the sensation on both my finger and my face, but it was distant, like having gloves on or like it was happening to someone else. I didn’t always try to bring myself back from the numbness.
Sometimes I relished it. Numb felt good. Numb meant not thinking. Not feeling. And being numb and awake was far less terrifying than being asleep.
Every time I drifted off, I had nightmares. My dreams were ful of broken glass and flashing cameras and flying bul ets. In them, I was trying to stop my mother from getting in a car or tel ing my dad not to hide in Gertrude’s room, but neither of them seemed to know I was talking. I would cal out, but my voice was nothing more than a rasping whisper. Off they would go, down a hal or into an elevator, and, standing alone, I would hear screams and see blood oozing or flowing or splattering. And then I would wake.
Deprived of sleep and peace of mind, I began to doubt my own sanity. But when I focused and thought about it, I became sure that if I were al owed out, al owed to cal my brother or Horatio, or al owed to go to school, the routine and human contact would do me good.
Thursday afternoon, I showered for the first time in days, dressed myself, and marched up to Officer Cornelius, demanding that I be taken to see Gertrude. He looked at me warily. “I don’t think they’l al ow that.”
“Cal them,” I insisted, pointing sharply at his shoulder.
He did, and we waited for a few minutes as more cal s were placed. I hadn’t heard the caravan of limos and security sedans, so I knew she was in the castle. Officer Cornelius looked at me with some concern and even opened his mouth to say something. It must have been an inquiry as to my wel -being, because he clapped his mouth back shut and held his lips in a tight line. I smiled at my infinitesimal victory.
The speaker crackled awake, and to both of our surprise, someone on the other end said that we could proceed upstairs.
Gertrude sat at her desk with her blessed tea set spread out just so and gestured for me to join her. I stood behind the chair instead. “You’re looking…” she began, but could not say I looked wel and so said nothing.
Faced with her, my emotions ran higher, but it was my one chance to make my case and I wanted to appear levelheaded. “Gertrude, I know you’re worried about Hamlet and what might happen to him if this gets out, but you don’t have to keep me a prisoner. I won’t tel anyone anything. I swear. I’l go to my brother, and you’l never have to hear from me again. Just let me leave.”
Her face was expressionless. “You know I wish I could,” she said.
“Can I at least have permission to get out of my apartment? I’m going crazy down there al alone. You could send guards with me. I… I don’t have to go back to school, but let me go outside or talk to my friends or get a cup of coffee somewhere.” She tapped her fingernails on the rim of her teacup. “I don’t trust you to keep silent. I don’t trust you at al .”
“What have I done to make you not trust me?”
“Let’s not fool ourselves, dearest. It didn’t take much for you to betray my son, so…”
“That was your doing. You said—”
She flicked her hand in the air as if swatting the truth away.
“Don’t rewrite history, Gertrude. You blackmailed me. We had a deal, and I kept up my side of the bargain.” She laced her fingers together and sat tal , her gaze burning through me. “You got no helpful information from Hamlet. And now we have a new problem.”
I paused, not sure what she meant. And when I realized, my anger exploded. I walked around the chair and slammed my palms on her table. “Problem?
How is your son kil ing my father my problem?”
She rose slowly and said with terrifying calm, “It would be better for al of us if you weren’t around, but you’re here, and we have to figure out what to do with you. Until that time, you wil stay put.”
Figure out what to do with me? My mind reeled as I thought of the possibilities, and fear left me with only enough breath to whisper, “Please, Gertrude.
Please let me out.”
She shook her head and then left the room.
I wanted to pick up the tea set and fling it at her. I wanted to take the little tongs from the sugar-cube bowl and stab her with them. Instead, I sank into the chair and rested my forehead on one palm, trying to keep my mind in the room where I was. I hadn’t the strength. I felt it float out of my body and to the window and imagined seeing al of Elsinore sparkling in the mid-afternoon sun.
I headed half-dazed for the elevator. As I passed Claudius’s office, he opened the door and asked me to come in. I hesitated but had no choice. He closed the door behind me, and I stood near it, hoping I could run if I needed to.
Leaning in, he said, “You told my wife that Hamlet was lying about your seeing me in the garden. I think you are the one who is lying. I need the truth and I need it now.” He was speaking slowly and measuredly, but behind his facade I detected a sense of nervousness.
“I…” I began, but was afraid to continue. My eyes flicked to the corners of the office, hoping to see a security camera in any of them like there were in so many of the other offices and meeting rooms. Sadly, there were none. I considered lying but realized that if he had evidence, I would be even more screwed. “The day… the day the ki… your brother died… I… I went into the garden to read.” Claudius’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.
“When I came out of the elevator, I… I saw you headed for… for the stairs.”
“And?”
My heart was racing, and blood was rushing in my ears. “And that’s it.”
“Who have you told?” he asked, his lips curling.
“No one.”
“You told Hamlet!” he shouted, and grabbed my arm. I tried to move away, but his grip merely tightened.
“Only him. Not even—” My voice broke at the thought of him. “Not even my father.” I was too scared to mention Horatio’s name for fear of what Claudius would do to him. And I hoped Horatio hadn’t casual y mentioned it to anyone, though that would have been out of character.
Claudius bent at the knees so his face was level with mine and he squeezed my arm even tighter. “Let me be clear,” he growled. “You saw nothing. But if I find out that you so much as mentioned your being in the conservatory that day, let alone the fact that you saw me, I wil kil you and whomever you told.” He held me for another moment to be sure his message had time to sink in, then opened the door and pushed me through it.
To my astonishment, when Officer Cornelius and I got back to my apartment, Hamlet was waiting. He was standing behind the kitchen island cutting fruit.
Seriously. Cutting. Fruit. I couldn’t believe he was free, and I was locked up, and I couldn’t believe he was standing in my apartment, a place he’d fled from in anger. I wanted to scream, �
��Are you insane?” and then I thought that he real y might be. Who besides a crazy person kil s a girl’s dad and then comes to cut fruit in her kitchen? And if he was crazy, I didn’t want to be anywhere near him, especial y if he was armed with more than just that carving knife.
I remained frozen while Cornelius took a step in front of me and asked, “Sir, what are you doing here?”
“I’m making a smoothie. I know how much Ophelia loves them. I’m headed for England tonight, so I thought I’d do this as a farewel gesture.”
“Sir,” Cornelius insisted, “you’re not al owed anywhere near her. Where’s your detail?” Hamlet began cutting again.
I took a step back, but the elevator doors had already closed. The cool surface chil ed my shoulder blades. It was such a familiar sight, seeing Hamlet in my kitchen, but it made me feel like I had jumped out of my body. Everything looked jerky and echoed. My mind raced to other days like this when I would have sat with him on my balcony and enjoyed the day doing nothing. But my father would not come home that afternoon; he was hidden somewhere, cold and dead, waiting for a proper burial. Mr. Smoothie himself had cut my father’s life short with ease. How much regret could he have had if he was standing there in my kitchen making me a goddamned fruity drink?
I spun around and tried to push the button, but Cornelius grabbed my wrist.
“Hey, what are you doing?” yel ed Hamlet, coming toward us.
“She can’t leave, sir,” Cornelius replied.
Hamlet kept walking.
“Put down the knife, sir.”
I shrank back behind Cornelius, terrified of what Hamlet would do next.
“I’m not going to… Jesus,” Hamlet said, putting the knife on the end table. He put his hands up and asked, “What do you mean she can’t leave?”
“Orders, sir.”
“Has she been kept in here since I kil ed…”
“Yes,” I whispered, stil cowering behind Officer Cornelius, who I was suddenly glad was in my apartment. Hamlet squatted down, put his head on his knees, and started to cry. The guard moved swiftly to remove the knife from the table.
I was standing alone and exposed, hoping Hamlet was truly feeling the regret he showed. At that moment I believed he was my only chance of escape.
“Tel your mother to let me go,” I pleaded quietly.
He wiped his tears and looked at me. He stood suddenly, and I shrank back. Officer Cornelius moved forward, but Hamlet merely came over and pushed the button for the elevator. My heart was racing. His scent, so familiar, so loved, wafted over to me, and I felt myself leave my body again. I closed my eyes, hoping to chase my soul back to its proper place. The elevator ding ed and Hamlet vanished behind its sliding doors without another word.
I sank to the floor and leaned against the wal , staring at the pile of fruit Hamlet had left on the counter.
“You—you okay?” asked Officer Cornelius. When I winced, he said, “Sorry to ask, but that was… unexpected.” Barely above a tense whisper, I asked, “Unexpected? Al of this is unexpected. I don’t even…” Without bothering to finish my sentence, I rose and dragged my feet down the hal to my bedroom.
As I entered, I caught sight of a framed photo of Hamlet and me in Florence—one Hamlet had taken of us on the Ponte Vecchio. He had held the camera at arm’s length and we had pressed our faces together to fit in the shot. Even though you can hardly see the old bridge or the river behind us, it had been my favorite photo because Hamlet had wanted to commemorate the spot I loved the most. And the photo wasn’t staged for anyone. It wasn’t for anyone. It was just for us. And we were happy.
I picked up the frame and held it close to my eyes and then far away, thinking that if I looked at it from the right angle, I might be able to understand al that had happened, al that had changed. I turned the frame over and pul ed out the photo, held it to the light, and then flipped it over. The faintest image of us shone through, remnants of what we had been.
Struck by an idea, I walked over to my wal , grabbed a pushpin from the corner of my Poor Yoricks poster, and stuck the photo to the wal . Then I pul ed the rest of the pins out of that poster and from two art prints hanging nearby as wel . The points of the pins poked my palm as I clenched them tightly. The pain focused me.
I dove for a photo album that had been kicked under my desk and opened it. Photo after photo of Hamlet and me. Some with Horatio. Some with our families. I pul ed out one photo, then another, then another, and started pinning each to the wal . When I ran out of pins, I used tape. When I ran out of photos, I printed more, cropping out anything that wasn’t just the two of us. Then I started cropping closer and closer. I printed just my lips. Just his hands.
Just my cheek. Just his chin. Just his eyes. Then my eyes. And Gertrude’s eyes. And my father’s eyes. And Claudius’s eyes. I taped the images one above the other, building a tower of faces and eyes. I stepped back. It was eerie.
I reached for my art case and plucked out the thickest brush. Rol ing it between my palms, I stared at the wal and decided what I wanted. I picked up a dinner plate I’d neglected to return to the kitchen and squished black paint onto it. Smushing the brush into the dark puddle and disregarding the drops that fel on the carpet, I pushed the brush against the wal . If my father were home and saw what I was doing, he would have lost it. But he wasn’t. He never would be again. I froze for a second and then ran the brush higher on the wal . I dipped into the paint over and over and painted black up and down, side to side, above and between the photos. I stepped back. It was not the grid I had set out to paint. It was the castle.
The tower stood menacing, dark; the faces and bits of people peeking through the windows. A home. A monolith. A prison.
The rest of the wal needed to be fil ed. Purple brushstrokes—coarse and swift—became the sky. Red rain pelted down. The drops grew longer and sharper, becoming daggers. I would paint daggers because I could use none. My thoughts turned angrier. Unearthly flowers of odd shapes and colors sprouted near the floor, under furniture that I did not bother to move. Some flowers had teeth. Some had eyes. Some had fangs. They grew from the ground and crept up and around the tower. Vines. Fingers. Strangling the tower of happy faces, covering the watchful eyes.
With the wal ful and my hands aching, I slumped onto the bed and regarded my work. It was wild. It was disturbing. I was the best painting I’d ever done, and no one would see it.
Ophelia: You know they locked me up?
Barnardo: Yeah.
Ophelia: Was that part of my sinister plan?
Barnardo: They knew you were a danger.
Ophelia: So it was my fault?
Francisco: You threatened them. What else would you have had them do?
Ophelia: You seem pretty big on blaming the victim.
Barnardo: I don’t see any victim here. I just see the last girl standing.
20
“How did being locked away make you feel?”
Ophelia’s eye twitches. “Trapped.” She studies her laced fingers.
“And?” Zara pushes.
Ophelia pauses and looks out at the audience. The camera cuts to their expectant faces before she adds, “I guess… Horrible. Lonely. Terrified. I didn’t know what Claudius had planned.”
“Just Claudius?”
Ophelia nods.
Zara puts her hand on Ophelia’s. “So much for a young woman to go through.” She dabs at her eye before saying, “We are sooo glad you are safe and free.”
“What the hel is going on?” Horatio shouted as he pushed past Officer Cornelius.
I leaped off the couch and ran to him. His presence snapped me out of my malaise, and I clutched him, al owing relief to wash over me. Once I felt ready to let go, I guided him to where I had been sitting for most of the week. Taking his hands in mine, I forced myself to stay composed. “Hamlet kil ed my father.”
He winced. “I know. I went up to see Hamlet first, and he told me.” His leg was bouncing. “Where’s Laertes?” I felt
my face twitching as I struggled to push down the emotion. “He hasn’t been told.”
“How can I know but your brother can’t? This is outrageous.”
I nodded and started to whimper.
Horatio squeezed my hands. “Ophelia, I can’t get you out of here.”
I nodded again.
“I tried to talk to Gertrude, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She told me I wasn’t supposed to know and that if I told my parents, she’d fire them and imprison me as a traitor.”
I whispered, “She said that?”
He nodded. “It real y took me by surprise. Gertrude has never been anything but civil to me. She’s scared, Ophelia. And getting desperate.” My lip trembled again. “I don’t know what they’re gonna do to me.”
“They’l let you go. They have to.”
I felt an emptiness in the pit of my stomach. “I’m not so sure.”
“They’re not going to hurt you,” he said. Horatio’s powers of forgiveness and optimism were usual y endearing, but just then he seemed a fool in my eyes.
“You don’t know that.” Again I thought of Claudius grabbing me, his face so close to mine.
“What would make you think—”
“What would make me think they’d lock me up and hide my father’s body? I’m done with making excuses for them. Done with giving anyone the benefit of the doubt. Done with predicting. Nothing makes sense anymore, Horatio, and trying to reason it out hasn’t worked so far. I have cause to be afraid, and you know it. There are a mil ion reasons a high school girl could disappear. They could put out any story, and everyone would believe it.”
“I wouldn’t.”
I felt a chil thinking of Horatio as a whistle-blower for my murder or my kidnapping or my banishment or whatever they might have in store for me. “Then you’d better watch out yourself. You’re expendable, too… though at least you have parents who would look for you.” My father, blue and on a slab somewhere awaiting a proper burial. My mother, deep beneath the ground rotting or already dust. It was too awful to consider.