The Usurper's Domino

“Father?” The young woman spoke, her eyes glazed over. A figured shrouded in mist stood on the other side of the bank of the stream next to her, his eyes were pleading.

“My Ophelia… I have been wronged.” The hollow wispy voice of the spirit spoke out in little more than a whisper. It took a step forward towards the rushing stream. As his mouth opened once more as if to speak, a lone stream of blood pool out of his lip, running down his chin to drip slowly from it. Drip….drip….drip… The lush green grass underneath became stained in crimson.

“Father…” Ophelia tried to begin, but salty tears began to run down her face. Her lower lip quivered in a force repression of the sobs that threatened to break out.

“Help me. Revenge me. Be the reaper to the creature that has done this to me” The apparition’s face contorted in anger and the blood bubbled out of the cold ethereal blue lips.

“Name him.” Ophelia pleaded.

“Hamlet.” The ghost spoke and clipped off, the revered name sounded through the trees as though it had been yelled for the world to hear.

Ophelia’s eyes darted to the rushing stream, refusing to meet those of her father, “I cannot.” She spoke, her mouth remaining agape in a stunned plea.

“You must!” he roared.

“I wont!” she screamed back, a new flood of tears began to stream down her cheeks.

“You will.” Said the Polonus in a tone as cold as steel.

“Leave me specter, for you are not my father. You are the devil shrouded in a mist to hide your true form! Leave!” Ophelia’s fist was clenched and shaking, her knuckles turning white.

The apparition stood on the bank, the mist swirling about its form like clouds being shifted in a deep storm. The dark eyes of a father’s disappointment gazed upon Ophelia in her withered angry state. Her dark eyes, so much like her father’s, blazed with life that was rarely seen in her.

“My daughter, this act of vengeance must be accomplished.” The shadow of Polonus said, “Until Hamlet lay dead as I, so must I wait in limbo.” The apparition turned around and began to walk away. Ophelia jumped down into the river and began to wade to the other side, attempting to catch up to her father.

Slowly the apparition’s head turned to the side, his eyes glancing at the anxious girl. Softly he spoke, “Be my blade.” Polonus’ head turned forward, and as he took his next step the sun’s golden light tore through the figure and the mist dissipated. The fathers voice whispered through the small forest, echoing “Revenge me.”

The daughter Ophelia stood dumbfounded in the rushing water, her light dress clinging to her body. Her head tilted down and she watched her face as the water played around it, morphing and changing it. The longer she looked at the image staring back at her the less she could recognize it. She became angry at the eyes that attempted to look inside of her, wanting to comfort her.

“I hate you.” She whispered to the image. The image stared back at her and smiled.

“I don’t hate you.” The image replied.

A tear fell down Ophelia’s face, splashing into the water. Ripples exploded from the entry point and distorted the image further. When the water began to calm, the same green eyes stared up into Ophelia’s.

“What should I do?” Ophelia asked the reflection. The reflection thought about it for a moment, then smiled.

“Kill him.” It replied.

“But I can’t.” Ophelia whispered.

“And why not?” Replied the image, “He had no trouble killing your father.”

Ophelia watched the image toss and sway in the rippling water, thinking to herself about the ways life had scorned her. About the way Hamlet had scorned her. Another tear slid down her cheek and hit the water.

Hamlet should die.

Hamlet must die.

“I hate you.” Ophelia told the image, “I want to kill you.”

The image smiled back at Ophelia, “Then do it.”

And she did.