#tragicheroine

Rem Saverem: Steady Heart ANIMATION

The Guilt-Eaters of Lament

Silence wasn’t the absence of sound in Lament; it was a substance. It poured into the gaps between broken buildings, a thick, dusty syrup that swallowed Rem Saverem’s footsteps as soon as she made them. Her survey mission had been simple: confirm the abandonment of this SEEDS colony outpost. But her escape pod’s crash-landing three kilometers back had turned a routine check into a fight for survival.

The buildings, all white adobe and curved arches, were pristine, untouched by the planet’s rust-colored dust. Yet every window was a dark, hollow eye. Her Geiger-counter clicked a benign, monotonous rhythm. The only anomaly was the silence.

And the mirrors.

They hung at every intersection, polished discs of what looked like salvaged ship hull, dangling from frayed ropes. In the first one, Rem saw her own reflection—pale, ash-blonde hair tied back, blue eyes sharp with fatigue, the utilitarian lines of her SEEDS uniform. In the second, a block down, her reflection was slower to appear, as if the glass had to remember her face. By the third, the reflection smiled a fraction of a second after she did.

A dry wind sighed through the empty streets, carrying a whisper. It sounded like her name.

“Rem…”

She spun, hand on her ion-pistol. The street was empty. The whisper came again, not from the air, but from her own mind, a memory given voice. Tesla. The name was a fresh wound.

“This is a psychological manifestation,” she said aloud, her voice swallowed by the waiting silence. “Isolation stress. Auditory hallucination.”

“Is that what we are, Rem Saverem?” The new voice was liquid, mellifluous, and came from directly behind her.

She drew her weapon in a smooth arc, settling into a combat stance. The man standing there was impossibly tall and slender, dressed in a coattail jacket stitched together from a thousand silvery, reflective scraps. His face was long, handsome, and eerily familiar—it was the face from the mirrors, but alive. His eyes were pools of polished mercury.

“We prefer the term ‘symbionts’,” he said, his mouth not quite syncing with the words. “Or ‘cathartians’. Guilt-eaters is so… visceral.”

“What are you?” Rem demanded, sighting down her pistol’s barrel. “A rogue AI? A neural projection?”

The man—the creature—laughed, a sound like tinkling glass. “We are the consequence that lingered. This colony didn’t die of famine or plague, Rem. They died of regret. We simply… facilitated the feast.” He took a step closer, ignoring the weapon. “And you, my dear, are a banquet waiting to be served. The guilt you carry… it’s exquisite. It has layers, like a fine wine. The sharp top notes of professional failure. The deeper, richer tones of a sister’s betrayal. And the foundational palate… the love for something you believe is a monster.”

Her breath hitched. Nai. How could it know?

“We know because you show us,” it said, answering her unspoken thought. It gestured to a nearby mirror. In its surface, Rem didn’t see herself. She saw the cold, sterile lab on the SEEDS ship, saw her sister Tesla’s defiant face before the lockdown, heard her own desperate, unanswered pleas.

“Stop it.”

“We are not doing it,” the creature crooned, circling her like a predator. “We are merely the mirror. You are the one who cannot look away. Do you regret following orders, Rem? Do you regret not fighting harder for her? Or do you, in the darkest hours, regret that she made you doubt your precious Project?”

“I have no doubts about the Plants,” Rem snapped, but her voice wavered.

“Liar,” the mirror-man whispered, now suddenly beside her ear, his breath cold and odorless. “You love the independent ones. Like the child, Nai. You love its potential. You fear its power. You lie awake wondering if you are nurturing a god or a weapon. That cognitive dissonance… it is our ambrosia.”

A second figure emerged from a nearby doorway. A woman, composed of the same shifting, mirror-like fragments, her form reflecting a younger, more anxious Rem. “The weight is crushing you,” the female echo said. “Let us taste it. Let us have the moment you first called Nai ‘it’ instead of ‘him’. The moment you chose protocol over kinship.”

Terror, cold and sharp, spliced with a strange, hypnotic seduction. The offer to be free of the gnawing, constant shame was profoundly alluring. She saw it in their silver eyes—a promise of oblivion.

"Even if my light fades like an ember in the void, I'll cherish every moment it warms those around me... just like the tales of old knights who drifted before us."

Sarah Bernhardt, Ophelia (n.d.). White marble in a wood frame, 70 x 59 cm. Private collection, Normandy, France.

In the realm of art and literature, few scenes are as hauntingly captivating as Ophelia's tragic demise in William Shakespeare's Hamlet. Sarah Bernhardt, celebrated for her unparalleled prowess on the stage, extends her artistic expression into the medium of sculpture with her rendition of Ophelia. This piece, a rare surviving work signed by Bernhardt, offers a unique visual exploration of one of literature's most poignant figures.

A Fusion of Art and Tragedy:

Bernhardt's Ophelia is not merely a sculptural representation; it is a narrative frozen in marble. Inspired by Shakespeare's vivid depiction of Ophelia's final moments, Bernhardt captures the essence of the character's tragic end through the medium of high relief. The sculpture portrays Ophelia in a bust form, her head elegantly turned, eyes closed, as if in peaceful resignation to her fate.

The Garland of Flowers:

Adorned with a garland of flowers, the sculpture's Ophelia is enveloped by water that seamlessly merges with her tresses. Bernhardt’s attention to detail is manifest in the intricately carved flowers and the delicate waves of the 'glassy stream', creating a texture that contrasts strikingly with the smooth, bulging form of Ophelia's exposed breast. This duality of texture highlights the sculpture's technical mastery and artistic depth.

A Moment Between Life and Death:

Though depicted at the moment of her death, Bernhardt's Ophelia exudes an undeniable eroticism through her sensuous open-mouthed expression, overt nudity, and languid pose. This portrayal suggests not despair but an ecstatic consummation, presenting death not as a moment of loss but as a profound, albeit tragic, fulfillment. It's a bold interpretation that challenges traditional readings of Ophelia's character, suggesting a deeper, perhaps more complex relationship between the heroine and her fate.

Bernhardt's Artistic Legacy:

Sarah Bernhardt's Ophelia stands as a testament to her multifaceted talent and her ability to traverse the worlds of acting and sculpture with equal finesse. The sculpture serves not only as a memorial to Ophelia's tragic story but also as a reflection of Bernhardt's own interpretive genius and her capacity to imbue marble with the breath of life and emotion.

Reflecting on Ophelia:

In Bernhardt's Ophelia, we are invited to reconsider the narrative of the doomed heroine, seeing her not as a victim of circumstance but as a figure of complex emotional and existential depth. The sculpture asks us to ponder the thin line between life and death, the beauty found in the tragic end, and the eternal resonance of Shakespeare's work through the lens of Bernhardt's sculptural vision.

Your Perspective: