hall, and I spotted corn-silk hair bobbing between the black trench coats. “Hamlet!” I called, but he couldn’t hear. The group was headed away from me, and I knew I had to do something since, once he found Gertrude, it would be ages before he and I could speak. I needed to know he was okay.
“Marcellus, where are they—Can you—?”
Marcellus lifted his wrist and spoke into a tiny microphone hidden under the cuff of his shirt.
The flock of guards halted and I heard, “Phee?”
“She’s here,” called out Marcellus, and I put my hand up.
Hamlet rushed around his detail and flew at me. I was relieved to finally talk to him, to touch him.
His cheeks were as cold as his hands. He started to break down but wiped his face hard, looking at the doctors and nurses who had stopped to stare. “Come on,” he said, grabbing my hand and yanking me into the circle of guards who had followed. “Privacy, damn it. We need a place that’s empty!” His voice was shrill. Two guards fanned out and began opening doors. When one signaled, Hamlet dragged me along with him.
I was suddenly fearful that when we were alone, I would have nothing to say. What words would make him feel better? None. I knew from experience that talk meant nothing at a time like this. But I could hold him. And I could listen.
He nodded almost imperceptibly at the guard, who nodded back and shut the door behind us. Hamlet’s angular face was pinched and red, his eyes unfocused. “Hamlet,” I said softly, and put my arms around him. My chest ached with sympathy and my own loss. I couldn’t help but mix this moment in with the day my mother died, and thinking of how much he had helped me that day, I determined to push aside my own feelings so I could help him.
He sank into my embrace and wept openly. I could hardly hold him as his body shook and heaved.
“My father, my father,” he rasped over and over. My shirt was soaked with his tears, but I held him still, stroking his smooth hair and kissing it every so often. He broke from my arms and put his hands on his knees, gasping like when he was cooling down from a run. When he finally stood up and tucked his hair behind his ears, every bit of his face was wrinkled and distorted. “I have to go back out there. Damn it.” He walked to the sink, splashed water on his face, and pulled the paper towels with a sharp tch-tch. He dried his face, furiously crumpled the paper towels, and let the flap on the trash can close loudly. Every sound was exaggerated. I just wanted to be somewhere quiet and familiar.
“Come on,” he said, and he opened the door.
Guards surrounded us as soon as we stepped into the hall, and we all began walking toward a set of double doors. Knowing there might be a dead body on the other side forced acid into my throat. I squeezed Hamlet’s hand. He misinterpreted it as checking in because he whispered, “I’m okay.”
We all came to an abrupt halt. Too short to see around the guards in identical black trench coats, I could only hear Claudius’s voice. “Leave Ophelia out here,” he commanded.
“But Uncle Clau—” began Hamlet. His request was cut off when Marcellus stepped between us, and the rest of the huddle moved forward through the double doors. Hamlet’s fingers slipped from mine and I stood on my toes, hoping to catch at least a glimpse of him. I couldn’t.
“Marcellus, this is ridiculous. He wants me with him,” I argued.
“But Claudius doesn’t.”
“Why does he get—”
“Go home, Ophelia. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”
I left to find Horatio and tried not to think about hating Claudius, feeling bad for Hamlet, or how much I was going to miss the king.
Francisco: (clears throat) Why did you text Horatio “find hamlet”? Was it so he could kill him, too?
Ophelia: Of course not. They were best friends.
Barnardo: We think it was a code. We think Horatio was in cahoots with you.
Ophelia: Cahoots? Who even uses that word?
Francisco: Answer the question. Did you and Horatio plan to murder the king and then get to Hamlet?
Ophelia: That’s ridiculous. It was a text to—
Barnardo: You two exchanged a lot of messages.
Ophelia: Yeah, we’re friends.
Francisco: Maybe we should bring him in.
Ophelia: No, please. He had nothing to do with this.