he was watching over me. I wasn’t scared, but even in my haze I knew he shouldn’t be there. After drifting in and out of sleep a few times, all I could think to say was, “Sorry.” He put up his finger to his lips and wandered away.
When I came to in the morning, Horatio was lying on the floor next to my bed, which surprised me. “What’s going on?” I asked, my voice croaking. “I thought you were going back to Wittenberg.”
He sat up and rubbed his cheeks, creating white and red stripes. “I was supposed to, but I couldn’t leave you after what happened. God, Ophelia, what a mess you made.”
“What?” I asked, sitting up and looking around the bed, thinking he meant it literally.
“You went to Gertrude’s office and… you wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”
“What did I do?”
“You ranted, recited limericks, and drew flowers on everyone.”
“Drew?” I started to laugh. “I did?” I looked down at my arm and, sure enough, there was a spiky plant in black ink.
Horatio held up his matching sketch and tried not to laugh himself. “I thought you’d passed out, but when I went to the bathroom, you ran off. I don’t know what the new guard was thinking. He said you told him Gertrude wanted you, and you pushed the button for her floor, so he wasn’t too concerned. I caught up with you eventually, but man! I can’t believe…” I laughed as he shook his head. “Speaking of the bathroom, I guess we should both clean up.”
He went into Laertes’s bathroom, and I went into mine. One look in the mirror almost sent me running. My face was streaked with mascara. I figured I had been crying, which saddened me. My hair was pointing in all kinds of wild directions, and my pajama pants and black, holey T-shirt were crumpled and hanging limply.
I felt filthy and in serious need of a shower, and once I got in, I was reluctant to come out. I leaned against the cool tiles, rubbing at the drawing on my arm, trying to let go of all thoughts, until Horatio knocked on the door to see if I was all right. I lied and said yes, and heard him pad down the hall. I wrapped myself in the same towel I had been using since my imprisonment had begun and noticed a distinct smell of mildew. At least doing laundry would give me purpose. Then I thought about that prospect, about how ridiculous it was that doing laundry promised to be the only excitement in my day. Pitiful. Infuriating.
My mother’s words from our final conversation popped into my head, words that I had thought of countless times since her death. “Let me assure you that you will sacrifice a lot to be with him. If it’s worth it, make the sacrifice. If it stops being worth it, let go.” Standing in the bathroom, achy and depressed, her words stung. She never could have known how much my being with Hamlet, or even her husband taking a job at the castle, would cost everyone. It had stopped being worth it some time ago; only I was trapped.
The unbearable nature of my unspecified imprisonment came rushing to the surface. I thought about all that had transpired in the past few weeks, about how my life, once full of fun and freedom, had been reduced to thankfulness at being allowed out for coffee. Bile rose into my throat. Gertrude and her deceit. Claudius and his plotting. Hamlet and his revenge. How did their madness become my nightmare? It couldn’t continue. One way or another, I would make a change. Somehow I had to get out.
I stewed about it as I dried off. What could I do? I could obediently stay in my apartment, waiting and hoping that Claudius would stay away and that Gertrude would have a change of heart. I could beg again to be released. I could find a way to contact Hamlet and see if he could convince his mother. I could run. But how? How? I felt dizzy, and my head pounded, so I leaned against the sink. I was in no condition to make a decision.
I put on a pink cheerful Mr. Bubble T-shirt, so different from how I was actually feeling; I thought a change on the outside might make me feel different on the inside. It wouldn’t take away my hangover, nor would it bring my father back to