Early Winter - 1893

Stunned, and a little bit selfish, Vincent consumed the response like it was a lifeline. Idly he wondered, somewhere in the back of his mind, what would become of this correspondence once he was cured. Would he— (should he?) seek out his Ophelia out of a destructive curiosity to see him or her in person? Would it devastate everything of them he’d built in his half-sane mind? In that moment, Vincent couldn’t be bothered to care. He held onto his imagined ally’s response like it was the only thing that could keep the breath in his lungs and James from his soul. He waited to respond until the next evening, but the comfort of Tennyson’s rhyme echoed. The small parcels are tucked neatly in with the rest of his letters away from prying eyes.

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Ophelia,

I marvel at the likeness of our poor lady Shallot to the predicament of the mind we seem to share— if I may be so bold to assume. One side of the coin dipped in golden hope and anticipation, the other shadowed in longing and a desperate bid to have that which society denies. How much I feel her angst and pain.

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Reading his missive over again, Vincent drafted a few versions— each less insightful than the last. He had much to say about the contrast he felt with how desperately he loved that which he was never to have, but it wasn’t something he could ever share— not with his Ophelia. Not with anyone except his hearts greatest desire. Angry that Cassian had at last colored the one thing that had been free of his tarnish, Vince burnt the previous versions— never to see the light of day.

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This play however— I find infinitely less harrowing but feel equally as fully. I have devoured every one of our precious playwrights genius manuscripts many times in the course of my life, emblazoning them in my memory, and yet you’ve managed to help me find distraction and enjoyment in it once more. For that, I could almost thank you. For your timeliness, more so.

I have nothing of equal value or interest to share so I give you this letter as a token of memorandum: if ever we are to meet, perhaps I might do something for you, dear Ophelia.

Yours indebted,
Hamlet

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