Post by Bun on May 19, 2006 2:32:08 GMT -5
GASP! Quick, somebody stop me before I angst again!!!! Noooooo~~~~!!! *doesn't get stopped* Well, don't say I didn't warn you.
Ophelia was a woman, she remembers, who went mad because of love.
It was a tragic, pointless death, she has always thought, as she thumbs through the pages of the old, old novel, the only book she has ever read and enjoyed in her lifetime. She trudges through Garden textbooks with the enthusiasm of a dying Caterchipillar, but whenever she has time, she takes this book from its secret place beneath her mattress and reads it, over and over, even though she knows everything by heart and even knows all of Ophelia's lines. She would never say it to anyone (because it's not like anyone asks) but she adores this novel, written by a Centran playwright who died centuries ago, but whose few works have survived until today.
The novel is about a prince gone mad for revenge, and people who died because of his thirst for vengeance. Ophelia, poor, sweet, innocent Ophelia, pure and white as newly-fallen snow (though she has never seen newly-fallen snow, she knows it must be pure), was the greatest casualty, a little songbird who was caught in the crossfire between the prince and the object of his hatred, the king.
If she could rewrite the story herself, she would make it so that Ophelia never died, and was taken away, someplace so far that violence could never reach her, and keep her safe.
She has always been considered a strong woman. If anyone knew of her love for a piece of classical literature, her carefully-built reputation would fall soundly around her ears, broken and scattered and destroyed to nothing. So she tells no one. And she is fierce, and fiery, her personality a bright, indomitable flame, so no one would ever guess that sometimes, at night, she reads Ophelia's songs and sings them to herself, like a lullaby.
She has never had a lullaby sung to her. Not once.
Ophelia is everything she is not. Ophelia is weak, innocent, naive----everything she despises and yet secretly wishes to be. Ophelia is protected. Ophelia is...safe.
Ophelia is loved.
(But she will never be loved. Not once, not ever, because love doesn't happen to her, it just doesn't. Not at all.)
In the end, it was love that destroyed her, love that drove her to throw herself into a river and sing til she drowned. "She is drown'd, Laertes, drown'd, drown'd," the queen laments, and Laertes, Ophelia's brother, stands stunned, broken, because Ophelia was his light, Ophelia was light, Ophelia was everything.
Ophelia was loved.
(Sometimes she wonder what it would be like to be loved so deeply, so closely, that her pain would make someone cry, just because they cared that damn much for her.)
Tonight is no different from any other night. She locks her door and dims the lights, until the only glow comes from her bedside lamp. And she digs beneath her mattress and pulls out the book, worn and ripped, the edges wrinkled and dog-eared half to death. The book is falling apart, but it is her secret treasure, and carefully (so carefully), she opens the book and it falls open to Ophelia's scene; she is mad, and handing flowers to every person she sees, and singing her insane songs. She finds her favorite song and sings it out loud.
"He is dead and gone, lady, he is dead and gone----at his head a grass-green turf, at his heels a stone." She is no idol, she knows for sure, but she sings her twisted lullabies, remembering her own father, who is also gone, and wonders if maybe, just like Ophelia, she's actually insane but doesn't know it (because that's what everyone else thinks, she knows that's what they think).
She reads and reads and reads until her eyes hurt and her head droops, and only when she cannot read anymore does she stow her book under the bed and turn off her lamp, lying on her bed and staring up at the blank ceiling. She plays the songs over and over in her head, her own secret lullaby, until her eyes close and she drifts asleep.
And in the secret world of her mind she dreams, peaceful dreams of being Ophelia, of being innocent and pure and naive and protected.
At night, Blaze Sanaku dreams of being loved.
Ophelia was a woman, she remembers, who went mad because of love.
It was a tragic, pointless death, she has always thought, as she thumbs through the pages of the old, old novel, the only book she has ever read and enjoyed in her lifetime. She trudges through Garden textbooks with the enthusiasm of a dying Caterchipillar, but whenever she has time, she takes this book from its secret place beneath her mattress and reads it, over and over, even though she knows everything by heart and even knows all of Ophelia's lines. She would never say it to anyone (because it's not like anyone asks) but she adores this novel, written by a Centran playwright who died centuries ago, but whose few works have survived until today.
The novel is about a prince gone mad for revenge, and people who died because of his thirst for vengeance. Ophelia, poor, sweet, innocent Ophelia, pure and white as newly-fallen snow (though she has never seen newly-fallen snow, she knows it must be pure), was the greatest casualty, a little songbird who was caught in the crossfire between the prince and the object of his hatred, the king.
If she could rewrite the story herself, she would make it so that Ophelia never died, and was taken away, someplace so far that violence could never reach her, and keep her safe.
She has always been considered a strong woman. If anyone knew of her love for a piece of classical literature, her carefully-built reputation would fall soundly around her ears, broken and scattered and destroyed to nothing. So she tells no one. And she is fierce, and fiery, her personality a bright, indomitable flame, so no one would ever guess that sometimes, at night, she reads Ophelia's songs and sings them to herself, like a lullaby.
She has never had a lullaby sung to her. Not once.
Ophelia is everything she is not. Ophelia is weak, innocent, naive----everything she despises and yet secretly wishes to be. Ophelia is protected. Ophelia is...safe.
Ophelia is loved.
(But she will never be loved. Not once, not ever, because love doesn't happen to her, it just doesn't. Not at all.)
In the end, it was love that destroyed her, love that drove her to throw herself into a river and sing til she drowned. "She is drown'd, Laertes, drown'd, drown'd," the queen laments, and Laertes, Ophelia's brother, stands stunned, broken, because Ophelia was his light, Ophelia was light, Ophelia was everything.
Ophelia was loved.
(Sometimes she wonder what it would be like to be loved so deeply, so closely, that her pain would make someone cry, just because they cared that damn much for her.)
Tonight is no different from any other night. She locks her door and dims the lights, until the only glow comes from her bedside lamp. And she digs beneath her mattress and pulls out the book, worn and ripped, the edges wrinkled and dog-eared half to death. The book is falling apart, but it is her secret treasure, and carefully (so carefully), she opens the book and it falls open to Ophelia's scene; she is mad, and handing flowers to every person she sees, and singing her insane songs. She finds her favorite song and sings it out loud.
"He is dead and gone, lady, he is dead and gone----at his head a grass-green turf, at his heels a stone." She is no idol, she knows for sure, but she sings her twisted lullabies, remembering her own father, who is also gone, and wonders if maybe, just like Ophelia, she's actually insane but doesn't know it (because that's what everyone else thinks, she knows that's what they think).
She reads and reads and reads until her eyes hurt and her head droops, and only when she cannot read anymore does she stow her book under the bed and turn off her lamp, lying on her bed and staring up at the blank ceiling. She plays the songs over and over in her head, her own secret lullaby, until her eyes close and she drifts asleep.
And in the secret world of her mind she dreams, peaceful dreams of being Ophelia, of being innocent and pure and naive and protected.
At night, Blaze Sanaku dreams of being loved.
