Ophelia

Trigger Warning: Suicidal ideation. Please only read if you’re in the right headspace to do so.

   It was almost, almost a painting. The cobblestone bridge held steady over the river, its only companions a mess of grassy reeds and the willow tree. But the willow was an especially vital part of this scene. It was gnarled, and watercolor textures had painted themselves onto its bark, a mosaic of soft browns and woody undertones. With low-hanging branches and roots that spilled over the riverbank, it housed her childhood, climbing up in what she and her brother affectionately called the river tree. It was a hangout, a fortress, and now, a place of asylum. Besides, its leaves had woven themselves into a curtain, shielding her from both known and unknown, as well as rumor. She wasn’t mad, as they said. She was… grieving. And in that, a whole mess of emotions slammed together inside her skull, boiling over like an unattended pot. 

   Her father was dead by her lover’s hand. Dead. The word rolled through her mind like a plague, infecting every word she spoke. The things she knew and the things that poured from her lips were two very different things, and she couldn’t quite catch why. Her hands shook at the thought, her curtain of leaves turning into the one that had become her father’s deathbed. A dove flitted through the green tapestry, and she gasped, imagining it as the sword that had done the deed. If she hadn’t reached out to steady herself on the trunk, she might’ve fallen into the gentle flow of the water below. A close call. No matter. 

An hour ago, she’d crawled up onto the lowest-hanging branch, dipping a muddied shoe into the river’s temperate waters. There was a task at hand, sure. She couldn’t find reason nor motivation to do it. After all, she came here for the sole intent of gathering flowers to put on her father’s grave, when the servants found it, but the branch looked so inviting. A shelter, a home. It looked like a picture, like a scene made of thread and needle, one of the tapestries her mother used to make. And so she climbed, hoisting her skirts with a heavy fist and tucking the bouquet into the crook of her elbow, finally settling on the branch. The river ran lazily below, the tip of her satin shoe darkened by its blood. 

   Gradually, a warm summer rain had begun to fall, sprinkling droplets of water onto the river’s glass surface. Clouds rolled overhead, dramatic and melancholy, reminding her of her lover. Or was he an enemy? She shook her head, carefully taking a dagger to her thoughts. If it was dead, she was better off. If it wasn’t, she’d kill it. A scornful revenge on her own mind for daring to mention him.

The sweet fragrance from her bouquet had caught on the warm wind, gently teasing her mind away from sorrow to focus on the blooms. Crowflowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples, all for one man. Her mother would say she overdid it, that the bouquet was too frivolous. No matter. She’d thought they were pretty, and what did the dead care about frivolous things? Actually, what did the dead care at all? Humming absently, she tucked a daisy behind one ear, letting it be lost in her hair rather than clutched in her hands. The shoe she’d dipped in the water was now soaked, the back slipping off her heel. Cursing, she bent, switching the flowers from hands to her elbow, seeking fingers trying to pull the fabric back up. 

   It was a cruel bit of foreshadowing, written by Fate’s hand. The daisy fell from behind her ear, floating gently into the rain-puckered river below. She felt herself slipping in the same way, and jolted upwards in the opposite direction. For a fraction of a second, she teetered on the branch, back and forth like an old children’s toy. The moment flashed by like a burst from a witch’s spell, sending her into the river. 

   Her body went under before her mind comprehended, the warm water closing in and over her face. A minute later, she rose back up, breaking the surface with a gasp. Her skirts had billowed out around her like a wedding dress, her bouquet spreading and floating around her as if she were a fairy. The rain felt good on her now-wet face, falling from the heavens to caress her skin and linger on her eyelashes. The sky was beautiful, rolling clouds and heavy, rain-filled dresses. Of all things, it reminded her of a ballad, a lullaby that her mother had whispered. The song left her lips and was carried away by the hand of Nature, the rain growing harder and the wind humming to her song. The waters held her up like she was leaning on an old friend’s shoulder, comforting and warm.

 Slowly, her skirts grew heavy, saturated through and through with the river’s blood. They began to sink, taking her with them, still softly murmuring something between a song and a speech. With the rain dancing on the water, with the wind teasing her nose, and the flowers around and in her grasp, she began to sink under, delighting in the warm waters accepting her as one of their own. It was terrifying to delight in the idea of death lurking so close, but it didn’t seem to faze her. 

Sooner rather than later, things had reached a point where the petal-strewn surface had receded far from her, the hands of the dying sunlight desperately reaching for the girl who had loved them so. A loss settled over her hands and heart, sending a steady stream of tears down her rainspotted cheeks. It was a fearful relief, a joyed sorrow. Somehow, miles away from her house, she was home. The tears came harder, yet just before her lips left the surface, a laugh bubbled over to spill out into the summer evening. 

It was beautiful on Death’s ledge.