Ophelia
The lake seemed unbothered. Only a few waves came to die on its edge, merely disrupting the calm of the surface. The water was dark, of a dark green, and one couldn’t see far below the shallow. But you could guess what kind of sticky seaweed lived here, probably moving slowly, waiting for an arm or a leg to grab.
A girl was here, however. Her arms spread out, keeping her out from drowning. Her hair laid around her head, like a blond and inoffensive Medusa. She was wearing a white nightshirt which, inflated with water, gave her a weird look, like a puffed up doll. You could see her tiny body inside the shirt, made almost transparent with the time spent in the lake. She was maybe five or six. She was a child.
My sister has always been the favourite. Although she was the youngest, she was the most loved. “You were a gift; your sister was a miracle”, Mother once told me. Of course, I felt jealous and angry. But I came to live with this injustice. I learned to be the one who does not amaze, no matter how brilliant I was. For Mother, my successes were nothing compared to the slightest move of my sister. Mother didn’t like me, and I hated her.
Oddly enough, my sister loved me. She had an inexplicable fascination for me, Always sticking around, always having a pure joy painted on her face when I was near her. I did not like her that much, though I did not hate her either. This was a grey area, where my feeling for her remained blurred and undefined.
And they still are. Even now, when I am looking at her body in the water. I am sitting on the edge of the lake, where the waves end. My legs are against my chest, and I put my head on top of my knees. I am sitting there, in the cold air of the morning. Water is dropping from my black air, crashing in the grass – no noise. I am freezing, as my nightshirt is also wet. My whole body is shaking, every inch, until my bare foots grasping the soil. I can feel that my lips are sealed together, covered with this wet veil, the one you get when you whole head went underwater.
Are the lips of my sister blue already? Are her eyes wide opened? I wish I could tell. But all I see is the hair, the blond hair covering the water like streaks of gold. Maybe she stares at the seaweeds.
She would have looked so peaceful if she died staring at the sky.
A girl was here, however. Her arms spread out, keeping her out from drowning. Her hair laid around her head, like a blond and inoffensive Medusa. She was wearing a white nightshirt which, inflated with water, gave her a weird look, like a puffed up doll. You could see her tiny body inside the shirt, made almost transparent with the time spent in the lake. She was maybe five or six. She was a child.
My sister has always been the favourite. Although she was the youngest, she was the most loved. “You were a gift; your sister was a miracle”, Mother once told me. Of course, I felt jealous and angry. But I came to live with this injustice. I learned to be the one who does not amaze, no matter how brilliant I was. For Mother, my successes were nothing compared to the slightest move of my sister. Mother didn’t like me, and I hated her.
Oddly enough, my sister loved me. She had an inexplicable fascination for me, Always sticking around, always having a pure joy painted on her face when I was near her. I did not like her that much, though I did not hate her either. This was a grey area, where my feeling for her remained blurred and undefined.
And they still are. Even now, when I am looking at her body in the water. I am sitting on the edge of the lake, where the waves end. My legs are against my chest, and I put my head on top of my knees. I am sitting there, in the cold air of the morning. Water is dropping from my black air, crashing in the grass – no noise. I am freezing, as my nightshirt is also wet. My whole body is shaking, every inch, until my bare foots grasping the soil. I can feel that my lips are sealed together, covered with this wet veil, the one you get when you whole head went underwater.
Are the lips of my sister blue already? Are her eyes wide opened? I wish I could tell. But all I see is the hair, the blond hair covering the water like streaks of gold. Maybe she stares at the seaweeds.
She would have looked so peaceful if she died staring at the sky.
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