How much regret could he have had if he was standing there in my kitchen making me a goddamned fruity drink?
I spun around and tried to push the button, but Cornelius grabbed my wrist.
“Hey, what are you doing?” yelled Hamlet, coming toward us.
“She can’t leave, sir,” Cornelius replied.
Hamlet kept walking.
“Put down the knife, sir.”
I shrank back behind Cornelius, terrified of what Hamlet would do next.
“I’m not going to… Jesus,” Hamlet said, putting the knife on the end table. He put his hands up and asked, “What do you mean she can’t leave?”
“Orders, sir.”
“Has she been kept in here since I killed…”
“Yes,” I whispered, still cowering behind Officer Cornelius, who I was suddenly glad was in my apartment. Hamlet squatted down, put his head on his knees, and started to cry. The guard moved swiftly to remove the knife from the table.
I was standing alone and exposed, hoping Hamlet was truly feeling the regret he showed. At that moment I believed he was my only chance of escape. “Tell your mother to let me go,” I pleaded quietly.
He wiped his tears and looked at me. He stood suddenly, and I shrank back. Officer Cornelius moved forward, but Hamlet merely came over and pushed the button for the elevator. My heart was racing. His scent, so familiar, so loved, wafted over to me, and I felt myself leave my body again. I closed my eyes, hoping to chase my soul back to its proper place. The elevator dinged and Hamlet vanished behind its sliding doors without another word.
I sank to the floor and leaned against the wall, staring at the pile of fruit Hamlet had left on the counter.
“You—you okay?” asked Officer Cornelius. When I winced, he said, “Sorry to ask, but that was… unexpected.”
Barely above a tense whisper, I asked, “Unexpected? All of this is unexpected. I don’t even…” Without bothering to finish my sentence, I rose and dragged my feet down the hall to my bedroom.
As I entered, I caught sight of a framed photo of Hamlet and me in Florence—one Hamlet had taken of us on the Ponte Vecchio. He had held the camera at arm’s length and we had pressed our faces together to fit in the shot. Even though you can hardly see the old bridge or the river behind us, it had been my favorite photo because Hamlet had wanted to commemorate the spot I loved the most. And the photo wasn’t staged for anyone. It wasn’t for anyone. It was just for us. And we were happy.
I picked up the frame and held it close to my eyes and then far away, thinking that if I looked at it from the right angle, I might be able to understand all that had happened, all that had changed. I turned the frame over and pulled out the photo, held it to the light, and then flipped it over. The faintest image of us shone through, remnants of what we had been.
Struck by an idea, I walked over to my wall, grabbed a pushpin from the corner of my Poor Yoricks poster, and stuck the photo to the wall. Then I pulled the rest of the pins out of that poster and from two art prints hanging nearby as well. The points of the pins poked my palm as I clenched them tightly. The pain focused me.
I dove for a photo album that had been kicked under my desk and opened it. Photo after photo of Hamlet and me. Some with Horatio. Some with our families. I pulled out one photo, then another, then another, and started pinning each to the wall. When I ran out of pins, I used tape. When I ran out of photos, I printed more, cropping out anything that wasn’t just the two of us. Then I started cropping closer and closer. I printed just my lips. Just his hands. Just my cheek. Just his chin. Just his eyes. Then my eyes. And Gertrude’s eyes. And my father’s eyes. And Claudius’s eyes. I taped the images one above the other, building a tower of faces and eyes. I stepped back. It was eerie.
I reached for my art case and plucked out the thickest brush. Rolling it between my palms, I stared at the wall and decided what I wanted. I picked up a dinner plate I’d neglected to return to the kitchen and squished black paint onto it. Smushing the brush into the dark puddle and disregarding the drops that fell on