Weeds and Flowers

A different take on Shakespeare's Hamlet.

I twirled a delicate finger through my knotted hair, grinning as I basked in the glory of my accomplished plan. My back and shoulders were sore from the heavy weight and my knuckles were still white from gripping his legs. The pain made me feel more alive than I did in a while. It meant that I was only minutes away from killing the man I thought I loved.

 

Under the protection of my willows, the sun barely broke through into my private grove. There would be no visitors, no witnesses, only the sun and I. The forest was silent; it seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for my next action. I would show it.

 

He lay crumpled, like a broken doll, under the largest patch of sun. His face was buried in the moss, limbs twitching, not yet conscious. “Well,” I whispered, standing above him, “we can’t have you miss the show.” I closed my eyes, holding the thought of vines in my mind. I saw them breaking the surface of moss, slithering over him and binding him in an earthy bed of my choosing. For dramatic effect, I snapped my fingers. A soft screech only I could hear came from deep in the ground. It was the vines, growing out of nothing at an alarming rate. I watched, impassive, as the green plants pushed upward. They surrounded him in a circle, almost a dozen, and four wrapped themselves securely around his wrists and ankles.

 

“That’s it,” I cooed, watching as they pulled him onto his back. The other vines slid under him, entwining themselves together in a sturdy, intricate design. The more they touched and curled, the higher he rose from the ground. Soon enough, the vines stopped and I admired my handy work. He was strapped to a bed of vines, laid out before me like a delicious meal. My lips split into a smirk.   

           

My toes dug into the mossy ground as I stepped away from my captive; leaving him be for the time being. He wasn’t going anywhere – I hit him pretty hard – and I had to get ready. I pushed back some hanging branches, looking over my shoulder one last time before disappearing into my room.

      

My ‘room’ was completely covered, sun be damned. I didn’t want to burn during the day. I tiptoed daintily across the moss, gliding over to the basin that doubled as my mirror. I peered over the top and stared into the rippling water. I looked at myself with grim satisfaction, touching my face with mud stained hands. What I saw before me was not the lady I once was… it brought me joy.

     

My face was partially covered by my matted hair. It used to be silky and shined like the sun; I had a maid that would brush my hair every day and every night. My hair used to be pleasant shade of dark blond but now it was more dirty and dark than ever. The last of the brightness glittered when I stepped into the sun. Having a long mane of hair became so tiring to upkeep… sometimes I just let it do what it wanted.

 

I used to be considered a beauty. I believe I had a plain face but bright, expressive eyes. I liked my eyes… never mind what other people thought. They called me a striking maiden and all looked upon me with an appraising eye. Glimpsing back on it now, I wonder how I was able to take it. Looking into the mirror, I find only satisfaction. I am no longer pretty. Dirt dusts my face like blush and my ‘perfect’ lips are cracked and dry. My green eyes burn back at me, blazing with several swirling shades of the color. The mark of an awakened Earth Witch.

           

A dagger glittered from behind me, hanging from one of the branches. I glided to it, all thoughts of myself gone. This night was not about me. It was about revenge, the balance of the universe…. Justice. I would inflict justice on this man. I brought the dagger at a fair a few weeks ago; it was then that I decided I would use not my magic, but a mortal weapon. The silver dagger called to me… pleading to be used. Now was it’s time.

 

I held it in my hand and the metal felt cool and comfortable against my skin. They say that Earth Witches shy away from such things. I must be the exception. My fingers closed tightly around the hilt as I danced gracefully back to the room with my captive. He was unconscious still, hanging loosely within the confines of my vines.

 

I stood above him, watching him, trying to dig deep into my memories. I hid them away, you see, but the bad ones are the memories that drive me.  I could remember the way he looked at me, calling me a w***e and other horrible words that stung my spirit. I recalled the hate in his eyes, the utter distrust, as he slowly pulled himself away from me. My love… how is that I can keep calling him that?

 

 

 

 

My ears picked up a sound; the trees were groaning in protest. I asked them why and they said that someone was trying to enter my home. I closed my eyes and I could hear the pounding of fists against the sturdy trunks of my trees. I could hear the whispers of a spells, so different but the same, creep from someone’s lips. A strong wind blew in, slapping me in the face with an astounding force. The wind carried a voice, “Ophelia!” he screamed, “let him go!”

 

I laughed, harsh and brittle. My voice was carried through the leaves, “So you have come, have you, Horatio?”

 

His wind replied, “That’s right. I saw what you did!” He pounded on the trunks, “I’ll blow these trees away, I’ll stop you myself, if you refuse me!”

 

“Why shouldn’t I kill him?” I asked, my voice dripping with venom, “He is the one who brought me my pain. It was him that broke my mind and my heart. Peace can only come with his death.”

 

“You still want revenge?” Horatio asked, his voice cracking, “Even after all this time? Ophelia, you don’t know the truth. You weren’t supposed to get hurt. It was an accident.”

 

“A-accident?” My voice cracked too, only with fury. The ground beneath me shook as my body did. I squeezed the dagger, focusing on its shining light. “You call my father’s death an accident? And what of my own state of being?” I shouted, “I lost my mind, Horatio! If it weren’t for this magic, I would surely be dead.” My voice dropped to a whisper as the sound of flooding water filled my ears, “Either by my own hand… or someone else’s.”

 

“Please, Ophelia!” Horatio pleaded.

 

“No,” I growled back. With new determination, I lifted the dagger in front of me. My hand shook, and the dagger trembled in my hand. It looked excited.

 

My plants, my home, started to screech in union as a fierce gale struck. The leaves of my roof rained down around me, whispering encouragement and warnings. I couldn’t hear them. As Horatio summoned up his most powerful winds, I took my last look at him.

 

I heard him moan and silence flooded my ears. He shifted in his bed of vines, not yet fighting against them. My eyes sweeped over his body, collecting this final image. He still wore all black, an honorable memory of his father. Tights, shorts, a vest – he lived for the past. His shock of blond hair, full of playful cowlicks, was dampened by the blood that stuck to his skull. A tiny, sweet memory of twisting those cowlicks around my fingers rose in my mind. It faded like a dream.

 

The strong, old trees that blocked Horatio’s way finally broke, screaming their last screams in my ear. The excess wind lifted my hair as I steadied my gaze. I was sure Horatio was too late.

 

How did I ever love this man? What was it I loved about him? I didn’t want to remember. All I knew were the dark times when everything I came to know fell apart around me. The world as I knew had shown me its true colors. He played me… used my heart for his own games. There was no truth. He never trusted me. He had to die.

 

Horatio pushed his way through the branches, rushing into my home. I could hear his heavy footsteps, his labored breathing. He would see us any second.

 

I raised the dagger above my head. I held on with two hands and my head was pounding. A drop of sweat trickled down my throat.

 

He stirred. His eyes, as blue as the ocean, stared up at mean with confusion and recognition. I didn’t see him look at the dagger. He was only looking at me. His voice, broken and weak, sent a knife through my own heart. “…O...Ophelia?”

 

Hamlet.

 

Horatio, a second too late as predicted, watched in horror as I brought down my shining blade.

Author's Note

Back up again!

Reviews

[Danielle Watkins]

My first thought was "Hamlet? Really?" Then I read on. And I caught on. Even if I had stopped before it was revealed that the dead (or just before death?) Ophelia had the man of the hour, I would still be able to say that this is a truly wonderful piece, and I expect that there will be more? (I may be of mind to hound you until there is). Your descriptions are wonderful and vivid, the reading was wholly enjoyable. (Hamlet is my favorite, too. There is something about a desperate man seeking revenge)

[Anna Marie]

That was an incredible prologue to what seems to me to be a great piece. I loved Hamlet too. Quite an engaging work. Nice spin on the classic with the magic. Descriptions were excellent...thought provoking really. Kept me wondering. The ending was superb.

[Danielle Watkins]

i forgot the rate