The room is drowning in a thick layer of dark purple as the thinnest ray of light to ever exist finds its way through the terrifying shadows. It reflects on a rusty sofa, covered by an old, dusty, bedspread, which sits by a turned off T.V. It is extremely perplexing just how daylight managed to sneak into this very room. Apart from the sofa and the telly, all that can be found in here are a notebook, a couple of pens and pencils, what someone would call an immense stack of papers, folded in such way that even the naked eye could tell they had not been touched for a very long time, approximately 3.5 packets of Marlboro red smokes, a half-finished sandwich, 2.75 bottles of rum, and lastly, a precious vinyl player, accompanied by a stack of records and half- read books.
Ophelia is usually found somewhere among these stacks, and sometimes she loses count of the days she passes in her little chamber. You see, in here, she can be whatever she wishes to be. She could instantly transform into the ruler of this universe, or even better, her own self. She always dreams of being in control, only to let even the thought of it leave her, as she quirkily grabs another cigarette. But she can’t help but wander; is there more? Because lately, she feels as if the whole universe is secluded within her drawer. Only if she could know the reasons we look up in the sky.
She has absolutely no idea how many times the clock marker moved another thirty dreadful degrees, but she can tell that it’s been more than she could even count.
She picks up one of the two pens, only to immediately replace it with the other one, for it had run out of ink. What a silly metaphor. In her half-asleep, perpetually drunk, and weakened state of mind, she writes, producing letters of different sizes, staining the paper with blue dots, and making so little sense that even she can’t understand exactly what point she’s trying to make. So, she just lets go;
Dear Black Moon,
I am no longer sad about you.
I mean, there will always be a part of me that will forever be wounded over you and the the idea of loving you, but I refuse to be sad. This morning I realized that we were not the same as that adventurous summer we shared that only our numb fingers’ breadths will ever know about. At first, I wanted to burst into the most vinegary tears, only from the thought of it – that you and I were never meant to be. Not together, though. We weren’t meant to be at all. Not in this universe.
Tell me, did we know each other before we were born into this world? Before we even existed and we were just nothingness? Where are those lines we promised never to cross? Meet me there. In a parallel universe.
Ophelia returns her gaze to the almost empty room, and she can feel her spine shiver, as she temporarily becomes lost in her train of thought once again. All that she’s now left with is herself, as it’d always been. She adjusts the tubes in her arms to make the flow in her yellow blood more efficient. She wanted to break free of these little cylinders, duct-taped on her skin, but unfortunately, she was stuck with them. The cannula attached to the provider growls a bit – some of the many malfunctions it’s had lately. She couldn’t ever understand why she needed a memory tank, but she knew she couldn’t ever take a breath otherwise. After all, she was one of the few members of universe Anamnesis who lacked the most important source of life. Yet, what was actually drowning her, was not to be a habitant of a universe she wasn’t meant for. It was that, to be considered alive, she needed to remember everything from the day she was born. From the first time her mother held her in her embrace, to every tiny, insignificant detail that led her to this very moment. Because, if she couldn’t reminisce on the facts, how would she know that they even ever happened?
And the most agonising part was that no matter the provider taking care of her disability, she knew she was sick. Because she couldn’t recall a single memory where she was happy. And what frightened her the most, was actually not having any. It was obvious that she was getting worse. And it was obvious that she couldn’t do a single wretched thing to care about it.
Yet there were so many things Ophelia cared about; even if she wasn’t supposed to. It was the thought about existence between the worlds that completely took her brain by storm. Well, maybe her utter fascination about existing in another world was hope.
Hope that, in a parallel universe, something would have been done right.
Being absolutely exhausted after a full week of doing nothing, she thought it was time to get her mind off of things for a while, so she went on to sit on the past-its-prime sofa, and watch some T.V. She put her fair, yet with dashes of dark brown, hair in a high bun, and took the remote in her hand. The television splashes open, and a sudden pop of light reflects on her dark brown -almost black- eyes, making them appear golden in hue. She instantly regrets her decision, having become bored of the reported gushing on and on about meaningless bilges, and turns off the box.
And in a momentary epiphany, she puts on a record, gets herself a drink and a cigarette, and begins to dance.
As she immediately begins to move around and lose her self in the upbeat, yet mellow and melancholic music, gleaming her long fingers to match the song. She can’t exactly comprehend this feeling, because it’s one unlike any she’s had before. As Ophelia is completely out of her head, she abruptly opens the windows which creak and creak, for they have not been opened for months, and she looks at the beautiful moon blending in a starry night. And she thinks to herself how she doesn’t want to be alone anymore. A tear makes its appearance in her right eyelid, but she manages to hold it back. After all, she knew how painful opening the window would be. And no matter if her loneliness is indeed her better half, she can’t escape the thought of another pair of dark brown eyes that became lost in the horizon what seems like a day ago, when it’s really been longer than she can count.
She wonders if they’ll ever get that letter, or even better; If she’ll ever send it in the first place. The green Luna lights up her face and offers a momentary peace in her surroundings. So much that, she decides to go out on her porch to enjoy such an amazing view after a long time.
She settles down on the stone terrace and has her very last thought of the day before she collapses from the tears that are now unstoppably running down from her cheeks. Because now, even when she watches the stars, all she can remember is a voice that told her they will forever protect her. A voice that she couldn’t even allow herself to think of for months now, and cried herself to sleep instead. And she can’t even remember these tiny details she’d promised she’d never forget because of that stupid malfunction of her insides. And she’s afraid, for that all the seasons are the same and the for that the light never reaches her insides – because she’s lost of what caused it to. What she used to call a Dark Moon.
And she’s sorry, because she hasn’t been herself, but what she’s more sorry about, is that she doesn’t even know what “herself” looks like anymore. But still, here she is, facing the stunning, yet ill-looking Panoptic Blue, and for the first time in forever, looking through it, she looks so deeply she feels as if she might actually take a leap and forever become lost in the ethereal unknown.
Maybe someday she’ll even be able to face the sun itself, she thinks. Baby steps.
Ophelia wipes her now joyful tears from her drowned eyelids, and takes a leap of faith to head back inside. And as she turns around to enjoy the pretty, dishy picture, her knees bend and her eyes howl at the view she has just encountered.
She takes four slow, disbelieving steps forward, before she starts running at the speed of light towards what her gaze has met.
To be continued…