an accident. Someone was eavesdropping on my mother and me. I didn’t know who was hiding behind the curtain. I thought”—he looked over his shoulder and, putting his hand on mine, whispered even more quietly—“I thought it was Claudius.”
Fury swept over me, and my mind snapped into clarity. I jerked my hand out from under his. “And that makes it better?”
“Not exactly,” he replied. “But it does change things, right?” He put his hand on my knee, and I leaped up.
“You must be joking.” My pulse was so fast, I could feel the veins in my neck throbbing. I was light-headed but determined to stay on my feet, and damned if he was going to soothe me into forgiveness.
He stood, too, and his eyes bounced between me and the group huddled across the room watching us. He leaned in to whisper, “I confronted my mother about Claudius, told her I knew about the poisoning. I begged her to see Claudius for what he is and to admit her part in bringing down my father. She cried, Ophelia. She actually cried. And I think she—”
“Hamlet, I don’t care.”
He stopped. Blood drained from his face, and he wrung his hands. He looked over at the group again, then met my eyes. My body tingled with hate, and my lips curled into a snarl.
He winced and added, “And I saw my father.”
It was like having cool water poured over my head. How many times in the past months had we talked of suicide, revenge, fear, and hate? My efforts to stop his plans were halfhearted at best and cowardice-driven denials at worst. I knew I had allowed this catastrophe to happen by not insisting he stop the pursuit of his father’s killer… if there even was one. But I never thought it would come to this. Or maybe I did. Maybe I’d just hoped the body being wheeled out would belong to Claudius.
I breathed deeply and paused. With all the calm I could muster, I explained quietly, “Hamlet, I have been trying to understand what has been happening with you lately. I know this has all been a shock, but at what point will it end? Your father is dead. Now my father is, too.” I swallowed hard and rubbed my forehead. “Your mother will continue to be married to your uncle no matter how many times you claim to see ghosts, or do skits, or kill. You can’t change what’s done. Now please, please leave me alone.”
I turned and planned to walk away, but he caught me forcefully. Gertrude gasped. Everyone present turned to look at us, and Marcellus stepped forward. Hamlet let go and put his hands up. I stopped Marcellus from continuing toward me, torn between sympathy and hatred.
“Don’t go,” Hamlet whispered. “I love you.”
I stared into his drooping eyes, looking for a sign that he realized what a ridiculous statement it was. I rubbed my forehead again, trying to understand. A few hours ago, he’d treated me like garbage in front of hundreds of people. Two days ago, he’d caught me with another guy. Six days ago, he’d told me to stay away from him. Either he was crazy or he was faking. I wasn’t sure what to believe.
He was seeing ghosts, which seemed crazy, but Horatio backed him up. He was running around at all hours of the night, but if he went to his apartment, he’d be living with his mom and Claudius, making it the last place he’d find rest. And I had kicked him out. Everywhere he turned, someone he loved betrayed him. He was so sure his uncle had murdered his father and he seemed unable to do anything about it. It was enough to make anyone crazy, or seem crazy. But which? I wanted to ask him, but I couldn’t.
And then, over my shoulder, I heard an officer whisper my father’s name, and what Hamlet was suddenly didn’t matter.
“You murdered my dad. You. My dad was all I—” A horrifying thought stopped me. Could he have done it on purpose? My dad had wanted us apart, and my dad was winning. Was this Hamlet’s psychotic attempt to make sure no one stood between us? He wasn’t that cruel. And he wasn’t that desperate. No. He was. My dad’s blood sinking into the carpet was proof of it.
Suddenly I understood Hamlet’s obsession with revenge. I realized that if the gun were within my reach, I would have shot Hamlet.