ophelia sees

since i was young, dreams have come to me easily. in the gardens i have imagined skilled warriors jumping from tree to tree, hiding in bushes and peering out from behind bundles of branches. in water i see my reflection morph into creatures untold. in the skies, clouds shape themselves into stories, weave themselves like yarn into tales. when i wake, remnants of sleep still come to me, whispers are still heard in the rays of the sun and shadows still seen in the corner of my bedroom.

usually, i am dreamless. a pleasant dream may come to bless me on days i have prayed for kindness. a nightmare may come the days i have sinned greatly. when the sun is out and i doze off, the dream is light enough to give me respite.

at night, the visions come.

i feel it in my heart that they are true. deep in my bones, anxiety settles and i know for certain that the time will arrive. with a dream, it seems as though part of me is missing. for visions, there is no part of me that is not whole.

the priests tell me i am cursed. still, some wait on my doorstep in the depths of the night, asking me to see into their marriages, their children’s courtships, their political arrangements, their deaths–their futures.

how am i meant to do that? how could i possibly control my dreams, let alone the visions?

agathe’s hair glows a subtle red in the sun, her presence just as warm. there is something sharp about her smile, though. madam lisbeth tells me she is a lady in waiting. i cannot imagine she is much older than i, but the way she holds herself speaks to her maturity. 

i am led to believe that she feels badly for me. or perhaps she is aware of who my father is. regardless, agathe sits beside me in the courtyard when she breaks from her work and talks to me whether or not i respond.

agathe tells me that her true love is journalling. it frees her from her duty as a wife. she slides ink onto leaves and bark and presses them into her leather-bound book. she tells me its how she stays happy in the castle.

i don’t know what im hoping to find here. agathe has shown me the pages she writes, the things she collects. loose leaf tea stuck to pages alongside writings of her day, of her troubles, of her life. she has begun to follow me out of the courtyards, find me in my room studying or snacking in the dining room.

it goes like this: laertes is in his voice lesson and the window is open. beyond the window is void. a bird flies into the music hall, and begins to screech and peck at him. my consciousness is there, but i myself am not. laertes falls, and only then does the bird leave him. only then does the door creak open, and shut closed after a moment.

tomorrow, i shall tell him not to go out with his friends, or at the very least to keep his mouth shut. laertes does not have voice lessons.

i am waiting on my balcony when the dream shifts to vision. the flowers i am arranging wilt into my hands within seconds. they wither and crumble as the sun bursts over the horizon. it rises fast, falls faster.

winter is coming, and i know deeply that my heart will fall with the sun.

leaves and flowers of all kinds are crushed into pigment, alcohol burns my nose. i dip my fingers into the inks, letting them drip onto the papyrus. they sting my eyes, my nostrils flare. my fingertips tingle, the skin shedding. the inks eat. they devour me. the tears that fill my eyes, i cannot tell if they are from the burns or the pain. my hand throbs until it is gone. it spills onto my legs and turns them to dust. it consumes.

i am gasping. i cannot tell when it switches–from choking on the white void floor, to the stained mattress of my bedroom. blinded by vision still, i could not see–the darkness does not reach for me. a hand does.

only when it shakes does the vision blur, ripped away from me as something replaces it.

lisbeth is not the one illuminated by the moonlight of my window–it is a boy, whose face i know well enough, disheveled curls falling around his face.

it is the first of the month. a rap at the door. the silver is hard to come by and my frail mother begins to shout. laertes is in his lesson, as ordered by my father who lives his lavish life in the castle. this is how the vision goes. it ends with a slam and a scream.

rarely is it these days that the dreams align so perfectly to reality.

it is the first of the month. a rap at the door.

i have asked my mother to have aunt marischa over. she is the one who answers the door–she is the one who drives the tax collectors away.

my mother is quick to notice how i prickle at the sound of knocking. she looks at me in a way that i have only ever seen her look at my father–with fear.

his majesty called for me. lisbeth had beckoned for me, prayed over me, whispered to me gently that i was to go to his majesty’s bedroom.

water droplets as big as stones fall from the sky in an endless sea. i gently tread over the water, tiptoeing to where the vision wants to take me. the flowers i hold turn to petals, drifting from my hands when they had previously molded to them. i pick them out of the air as best i can, floating in the air as if we were under the water rather than hovering just barely over it. wind sweeps me off my feet, the petals whisk themselves to the east just before i plunge into the depths.

my visions and interpretations often have no time associated with them. laertes is an imbecile. he has gotten himself injured, made a fool of himself in the castle courtyard. agathe had called me over in a scramble, begged me to calm laertes down. he had fought with a visiting noble.

agathe has her suspicions about me, i figure. she and i have spent a few nights in my bed, talking until the sun peaks over the water. i often wonder if her husband misses her, though we usually start talking enough that i forget about it entirely. 

recently, she has asked me about hamlet. she says that hamlet has taken a liking to me, though i do not feel so certain.

the spool unwinds. pink wool, pulled taut, begins to unravel, whip around me. it tangles first in my hair, then my feet and by my neck. i am swallowed, and the people erect my body in the town square as a statue. i feel stiff when i wake.