Ophelia dreaming

It was the dream again. It was always the same, blurred and gentle under the veil of dreamish memory, just as real as the waking world with none of the harsh realities of wakefulness. Details, as was often the case with dreams, as she had found, seemed just beyond her grasp, out of reach for even her desperate clinging fingers. 

With a body still heavy with the bindings of lingering slumber she had yet to shed, a pajama-clad Ophelia padded from the sanctuary of her bedroom to the little kitchen, a yawn hidden beyond the sleeve of her dressing gown. As body memory would have her do, as she did each day, she set the kettle on as she fetched her teacup. It was a pretty little thing, pale flowers dotting the porcelain, no less lovely to see for the chip in the handle, a casualty of a time when mornings were not quite so gentle and sleep had not come so dream-laden. But she’d like to think that she was doing better, though perhaps the tea leaves were a little more of a trial than they ought to be, but tea bags did their job and there was no shame in little things being easier. 

The flowers, she noted distractedly, that she brought in to add a touch of colour to the otherwise tragically monotone nature of the room, had begun to wilt. Oh, how easy it would have been to weave the drooping blooms through her hair, dashes of colour amongst the flamelike curls, stubborn even as the water tugged at it with the swirl of the river flow. How easy it was to remember the cling of fabric as it dragged her downwards, down to the waiting stones, tumbled to form as the water passed over it. Tears lost to the river, the lapping of water about her ears heavy with the promise of a blissful nothingness that awaited her amidst the riverweeds and stones if only she allowed herself to succumb to it. She’d walked through the same dream so often that the dreams of drowning felt no less real than her waking memories. Even as she sat there at the table, she could almost recall the sensations of the water swirling about her. 

The whistle of the kettle drew fair Ophelia from her thoughts, cutting through the lingering sense of a dream that was stubborn enough to follow her. 

“Alright, alright, I hear you.” mumbled she as she dragged herself up to turn the kettle off mid-whistle. If only there was a less irritating way to announce that the kettle had come to a boil that had less whistling of steam and more, well, anything else.

There had been a bite to the air, winter having begun to show signs of creeping up long before it was invited, though she had not really noticed it until she had her teacup firmly clasped in her hands, sweet smelling steam curling off the warm beverage making it all the more inviting. A dash of sugar and milk joined the teabag, which she left to seep indefinitely, a combination that did wonders to bring in a morning. 

Tea in hand, she made her way over to the curtains, a pale purple that was a little paler than when she had been given to them as the sun had been busy fading it to an interesting abstract. The sunlight that shone across the city beyond brought with it an early afternoon glow, making it a little clearer that it was less morning and more afternoon. She’d not bothered herself with checking the little wall clock that hung by the refrigerator, and her alarm clock had found itself unceremoniously relocated from her bedroom one morning when she was slightly less together than she’d like to admit. 

There was something marvelously simple about sunlight, and it was easy to understand why it was plants were so very fond of it rather than having to deal with something tedious as keeping track of the nuances of hours, minutes and seconds. 

Chewing thoughtlessly on the end of a teaspoon, having since completed its task of stirring her beverage, she fetched her phone from where it sat, uncharged from the night before, on the countertop. As she reclaimed her seat by the table, she revealed a message from her brother, Laertes, who seemed determined to fret over her love life to no end. It felt a little excessive, really, but it was nice to think that he cared enough to worry about her, even if she did not necessarily intend to heed his needlessly numerous naysayings and warnings. She’d reply later, some kindly teasing or another over the fact he was fretting over her wellbeing rather than making the most of the time he was studying abroad in France, but it was not the time to talk now. This was her time, and she was content to make the most of it before she was obligated to do anything at all for anyone but herself. 

By the third sip of her tea, the dream had managed to lose the grasp that it had attempted to maintain over her. Tragically, however, that brought with it a sort of clarity that Ophelia was not entirely ready for yet. So, with a piece of toast placed into the toaster, she busied herself with the medication that sat alongside the salt and pepper shaker, swallowing them dry before taking a sip because of a half-remembered article she read about pills dissolving people’s throats and stomach lining and other horrifying ordeals. Of course, tea and dry toast was probably not what they meant by ‘take with food’ but it was better than nothing, so it had to have counted for more than going without. 

Her tea had grown bitter before she realized. Too long had the teabag been left in the water, lost below the surface until it became something foul, something that looked lovelier than it was. The unwanted metaphor did not escape her, even while her dreaming faded from mind, but unlike a waterlogged body, she was able to rid herself of the offending teabag by just tossing it into the sink to be dealt with later. It was far too early to be drinking bad tea and was definitely too early to be comparing herself to bad tea. 

Once more, Ophelia had her musing cut short just as it began to spiral out of where she’d have liked it to wander by an annoying sound. This time it was the ringing of her phone, or more accurately, the sound of her phone vibrating against the tabletop. A flicker of mild annoyance crossed her freckled features, knowing full well that there was a single person who would call her at random like this without asking first. Feeling particularly scorned over the implication that her feelings were flighty and short-lived so should not be taken as credible, she set her now empty teacup down on her phone, outright ignoring whatever nonsense Hamlet thought he ought to concern her with. She was sure that whatever he had gotten up to the night before was not her business and would almost certainly have been something ridiculous anyhow. 

Instead of bothering herself with unwanted conversations – she knew with that strange rational irrationality that she’d like to think she was better at managing than she’d once been, that she’d forgive the man for his rudeness when she was a little less cross with him – she turned her gaze towards the little notebook that lay alongside a nub of a pencil. A good many scraps of songs lived within the pages, fully formed and refined resting alongside fragments scratched in a fit of writing, scrawled barely within the realms of legibility. Perhaps it might shape up to be the sort of day where she could build something from the pieces, a jigsaw of her mind reassembled from half-lines and incoherence. 

But it seemed wrong to hide away all day, locked within the walls of her little home as time marched on its habitual journey onwards. Perhaps, if the mood took her, she would set out for an afternoon stroll, content with the company of her own self, meandering through the shade of the weeping willow trees, leaves brushing the river as it travelled beneath it. Perhaps she might even bring along her little notebook, hidden snug in the pocket of her coat, just to see if anything came to her as the trees whispered their strange songs of wind and leaves. 

Of course, it was all very nice to consider in theory, but there was no shame to be found in simply not doing that at all. Maybe it was a day made for strolling, but it might just as easily be calling for her to stay home, snug in her pajamas and simply not do anything at all. No fretting over Hamlet and his foolhardy schemes, no fresh flowers in her vase plucked as she wandered by the river, no half-remembered dreams whispering to her with gentle invitations from the water's edge. Just her and her tea and all the time in the world to take things slowly. 

After all, it was not as if she was going to be dying any time soon.