D A R L I N G O P H E L I A DAMNED IMPOSTER
“return home? you’re a lying snake, serpent in the garden. if you were really sebastian delacroix, you’d have moved on–rode the wave from your napoleon island. you wouldn’t want this tainted flesh and bone, leaking and dripping with hopelessness. the blood that poured from my torso disgusted him, despite it being his doing. and he left me to die, as if to say i was only here to be the mother to his precious fucking heir. as if lungs producing lungs producing lungs on butterfly breath was all i was ever meant for.”
her charcoal breath is bitter, tastes of slimy coffee grains at the bottom of the pot. his tantrum is starting, as they always do, starting from those feet of his. the same feet that she had squished her toes against playfully fortnights before, attached the the same leg that she’d sewn her lips to in the vain worship of a servant who didn’t deserve a damn thing. not in her eyes. she wanted to point, look at the sky. smite him, burn him at the stake–he’s the real sorcerer, he’s a false king, he’s eyeing duncan’s murderers and i will be the dagger, i will be the dagger, i will be the dagger-
her eyes are sharper than he probably remembers, years of pain condensed into pupils. life’s gone from her lashes, her palor is sickly. her wrists under his calloused fingers are all wannabe silver and fool’s gold and gaunt. he could have had her forever, could have taken those glasses and they could have shared a drink and she could have died in his arms as he laid limp. but he’s not breaking her expression, he’s nothing to her.
“let go of me. if you were him, you wouldn’t want to touch me anymore.”
✝ ACT ONE | RETURN OF THE KING. ✝
chapter three: betrayal of the court.
‘ TOUCH THEE? THOU CLAIMST I DO NOT WISH
TO TOUCH YOU? I LET THEE LAY HANDS ON
ROYAL FLESH, OPHELIA, I LET THEE BRUISE
CHOSEN SKIN AND THOU STILL BELIEVES
I HATE THY FLESH? HOW DARE, HOW DARE-- ‘
a step forward towards the woman is taken and his grip on her wrist tightens, albeit not tight enough to bruise beautiful skin, the skin he once caressed under the moonlight, kissed in bouts of sensual scenes, curtains pulled closed. opposite asides were shared between commander and director ( funny, funny he was-- get it? opposite asides? tiny kisses and conversations shared between actors, hidden from the eyes of the audience ; THE WORLD IS A STAGE, YOU BETRAYING HERETIC ) as he would hold her as if she was a fragile porcelain doll, filled to the brim with razor blades. get it? get it? once you broke her, you would too be wounded.
‘ forget it. forgive the screams and the cries of the
antagonist. i am the antagonist; i am the villain. i
am CAIN, i am the INFECTED HAIR on the head
of the angel that drives them to sin. i am HATRED. ‘
he pulls his hand away from hers, disconnecting the once star-crossed lovers, hands falling to militaristic fists, his parade rest as admirable and regulated as he is.
‘ thou hast made a mistake, falling to this witchcraft.
i will return. i will purify thee. thou wilst see the error
in thy ways. i will return, ophelia, and we will be
whole again. ‘
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