I am Ophelia.
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And I should be dead.
Maybe I am,
Maybe I am not.
I’m not sure anymore.
The abyss I reside in is endless. 352Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡU4i2wL1AEA
Occasionally I come across a frame. An ethereal memory. A photo. A story. To whom it belongs, I’m not sure. I’ve spent time admiring them. Hours. Or minutes...I’m not quite sure. I imagine what is happening in them, and the story behind and in front of them. A darkly lit study, with walls and walls of books, with a cruel old man sitting behind the desk, tells the story of a small little boy who befriends shadows. A brightly lit flower garden that belongs to a grand archduchess with a lonely mansion and a lonelier heart. A tea party with sweet treats and smiles stretched too wide. I find it funny, how once I would've found those smiles delightful. But now, they fill me with trepidation. And something else...Something that trickles down into my stomach like sand in an hourglass. It echoes of my past life, those smiles. I wonder how I never saw it before. All those people I helped, loved, and sacrificed for wore those same smiles. And the smile of the bastard who killed me. At first, I could not recall his face, but over my time in this chasm...My mind has received shocking clarity in all the things that had come to pass in my past lifetime. I gave him my heart and soul, and now I have neither. It was never enough for him. I always thought he was trying to help. And perhaps he was. Just like how he helped me into that club. And how he bought me too many drinks. And how he left me there in the arms of another man. A faceless man. A man who would bring about my death. Of course, I would be a fool to think that it was an accident, he knew exactly what he was doing when he left me there.
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Oh. Oh.
Regret fills me.
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There were so many signs. But I was too busy looking at the scenery to notice them. He was charming at first. Who knew he wore a mask. Just like everyone else was in that dreaded society.
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The world mocks me with it's cruel sense of humor. Spinning round and round without a care in the world. Wearing people down with every tick of the clock. Wearing them down to the point of breakage. To the point of spiritual death. I wonder when it would've come around to me. The dents it made in my soul were almost invisible, but not quite. So indiscernible you couldn't even see it. But it was there. Wherever I go from here. Wherever I go from this rift in space and time, I will never be worn down. Scarred, perhaps, but never broken, and never without the fire that has been lit in the depths of my soul. I will become adamantine.
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I will be The Adamantine.
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