Ophelia's Sacrifice

I don’t remember when I started confusing sacrifice with romance. 

Maybe it started when he told me that silence was a form of purity, or when I once valued the calmness of his voice. 

I thought I really loved him; I did so much with such devotion, with such blind faith, as if he were some kind of angel who’d fallen from heaven, and I were his eternal devotee, weeping tears of crystal. 

He spoke, and I nodded. His word was law, his sadness my punishment, his desire my destiny. I was his mirror, reflecting everything he wanted to see. When he walked away, I felt like the dimmed moon, useless in the darkness without him. 

I remember that afternoon in the countryside. He asked me to confide all my secrets in him, and I did; I told him everything, until I was left empty. I entrusted him with my fears, my sorrows, and my joys. Everything that was mine, he took into his hands as an offering. And he, so calm and so cruel, let it fall like withered petals at his feet. 

That very night he woke me up in a frenzy, grabbed my arm, and began dragging me through the trees. He used to tell me that I reminded him so much of Ophelia, with my reddish hair, pale complexion, and those blue eyes, a true work of art, he would say. 

We arrived at a lake when the moon was at the highest point of its endless journey. 

“Would you do anything for me?” he asked. 

Of course, I would do anything for him; I loved him fervently, and I wasn’t about to back down now. He placed a flower crown on my head, sliding it over my locks of hair; he put daisies in my hands, draped my neck with jewelry, and told me to wait there.

I don’t remember how long it was before I heard his footsteps again—minutes, maybe hours. But I felt his arms wrapping around me, those hands I knew so well then. He grabbed me by the waist, his lips pressed close to my ears. 

—I’m sorry, you know it’s necessary. 

I let myself fall. I felt the cold water seeping into my skin, to my bones—The jewelry weighing me down, preventing me from reaching the surface. My hair sticking to my face, suffocating me. I was slowly drowning. My vision blurred, my lungs burned, and little by little my breathing failed me too. 

The last words I heard come from his lips were: 

—Oh, my sweet Ophelia.

Vivianne is a young writer from Spain with a deep appreciation for literature and storytelling. Inspired by classics works, she approaches life with curiosity and thoughtfulness, always seeking meaning in both everyday and larger ideas.