Words, words, words.
They are there, plain as the sky and they burn like fire.
And I cry because I can feel my heart burn.
Words on a page.
So small, so simple, so hurtful despite their harmlessness.
And I cry because I feel the pain and I bleed the pain.
Communication we know so well - we take for granted.
And I cry.
I cry because I want to
I cry because no one else will
I cry because humanity is too strong to
And I cry.
Don’t try and stop me.
To live is to die
To die is to not know
Is it worth the risk
To take one’s life
And risk an afterlife
To live is to die
To die is to not know
To live is to have a chance
To die is
Nothing more than
Thrown at feet
Gaping wound in chest
Her heart in her
His heart in her
From bloody hearts
He is dead
His bloody heart
Like fair maiden
“Now cracks a noble heart!”
Words fall uselessly
As rose in winter
Upon dead ears
“I am more an antique Roman than a Dane!”
Can he not go and follow?
Why does his Lord make him
The new Lord is not
His Lord who ordered
Though he wants
To be a soldier
His Lord to the end
Which is a story
That must be told
“Now cracks a noble heart!”
He cannot follow
For it is
Of only one
“May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!”
One must stay
One must stay
One must stay
One must stay
To tell the story
“Tell my story, dear Horatio, for I am dead and cannot tell it myself.”
“But, my Lord, I am more an antique Roman than a Dane. Let me join you - there’s still some poison left.”
“Let go, Horatio! You need to live! You need to live for I cannot! My story must be told by one who will tell it right! If you ever truly loved me…you will live while I die.”
“I die, Horatio. In my dying breath, I declare that Fortinbras shall be King of Denmark. He has all which I do not. Serve him well, my friend. Live and tell my story.”
Not a day goes by to which Horatio does not think of that horrendous, callous day of death.
The Danish Royal Family is dead and with it dies one side of a forever unrequited love that was doomed from the beginning.
Horatio lives because Hamlet cannot.
Horatio serves because Hamlet cannot.
Horatio writes because Hamlet cannot.
The scholar puts the memories down on paper. The good, the bad - more bad than good, but each word and setence is filled with so much truth, honesty, and love, that even if such words were more joyful than sad, one who did not know the story would weep the tears that Horatio forbids himself from weeping.
“Horatio, you should rest.” The voice, soft, but strong, flits through the air, cutting silence in half and Horatio pauses only briefly in his writings before pushing on.
“I should, my Lord, but I cannot.”
“Do such dark thoughts of times past still plague your mind, Horatio?”
The scholar stops and turns his head; red strands fall into eyes older and wiser than their years.
Those eyes meet with his Lord’s. With Fortinbras’. Fortinbras who is tall and slim and handsom. His hair is dark - as are his eyes, and his face is with beard. A mere slight scruff around his chin which adds to his regal ruggedness.
Horatio cannot help, but feel minor disappointment that this is not the man whom he wishes to see.
He is not of short stature. He is not of fair complextion in skin, hair, and eyes. He does not hold the air of reason about him and there is nothing gentle about him and he does not sound the same.
This is Lord Fortinbras, King of Denmark.
He is not Lord Hamlet - the King who could have been.
“Indeed they do, my Lord.” Horatio replies, voice low and careful.
“Why focus on such things, Horatio, when they bring you only much sadness and dark feelings?”
“Do you not know love, my Lord?” The schoar whispers, turning his head away to stare at the words drawn out in the blackest ink he could obtain.
Words. Words, words, words.
The Lord Fortinbras strides and perches himself on the side of Horatio’s desk, picking up the unfinished words and looking them over carefully with a critical eye.
Horatio does not look up, but he does not try to take such a story back either. What use is telling a story so important if no one shall hear it?
“I know love, Horatio.”
“Have you not lost love, my Lord?”
“I shall not say I have, but as I know love, I cannot say that I have had love, so the thought of the loss you speak of is difficult to comprehend.” Fortinbras turns the pages; no smile and his eyes continue to search.
Horatio looks up.
“Indeed, I know of love, my Lord. I know of it and I had touched it once before love withered before mine eyes.” His voice is but a whisper and the Lord Fortinbras peers up from the written words to study the scholar.
“I am not Lord Hamlet.” He says firmly.
“Indeed you are not.”
“You remain here.”
“Indeed, my Lord, I do.”
“Out of loyalty?”
“I did promise so, my Lord, to henceforth be your servant as I was Lord Hamlet’s.”
“But not my friend.”
Silence and the Lord Fortinbras furrows his brow.
“You need not stay, Horatio.”
“But I must, my Lord.”
“I beseech you, Horatio, that you need not.”
“It is my duty.”
“But not your wish.”
“It is my wish o fulfill my Lord’s wishes.”
“I am your Lord.”
“Now, yes. I speak of Lord Hamlet.”
“His words overpower mine?”
“My love for him overpowers my love for you.”
Silence and the Lord Fortinbras places the papers down before he turns all of his attention to Horatio who is paled and quivering.
“I see.” He murmurs before he reaches out and places his hands to the scholar’s shoulders.
“You loved Lord Hamlet deeply.”
“I did and do, my Lord.”
“An unrequited love.”
“My Lord Hamlet had no chance to return such love.”
“And yet, Horatio, you do forget that I am here - alive and well. Your mind so focuses on the past that you do not realise the present.”
“I do not forget, my Lord.”
“I am no Hamlet.”
“No, my Lord.”
“I am Fortinbras.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Be content with life, Horatio. Your Hamlet loved you. He doth order you to live, yes?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Then your love was no unrequited.” The Lord Fortinbras slips from the desk and places a chaste kiss to Horatio’s cheek.
“Be merry, Horatio. Your Hamlet will be much please then - as will I.” And he leaves.
Horatio is alone.
Horatio must go through the whips and scorns of time as he writes this story. He must push down his feelings of sorrow and depression for the name of his word.
All he has left of his Lord Hamlet now is his word.
From a distance, Fortinbras watches, sighing and trying to ignore this strong sense of disappointment welling up inside.
He has never been an emotional man - always a man of action and this sudden wall of emotion makes him unsure.
“Horatio, that is enough.”
To see the scholar work so hard for a dead man is…almost infuriating.
“…my Lord, I cannot.”
“You shall.” It is a demand.
Horatio is quiet, but listens in the end.
“I believe that I am in love, Horatio.”
Hamlet had smiled and looked so happy - his blue eyes bright and cheerful.
Horatio had to hide away the feeling of biterness and jealousy as he smiled in return. For, his Lord Hamlet was happy - nothing else mattered.
“If I might ask, my Lord, who with?”
“The fair maiden, Ophelia.” Hamlet sighed happily as he sat himself down at his desk with a quill.
“Ophelia?” It was a soft whisper on Horatio’s part and Hamlet barely heard it at all.
“Oh, yes, Horatio! The beautiful Opheilia! At this very moment, I plan to confess my love to her in a letter!”
Hamlet was so happy.
Even though a peice of Horatio shattered, he felt happy as well because he Lord Hamlet was smiling. He had to admit to himself that was all that mattered - he convinced himself for awhile.
“A love letter, my Lord?”
“Indeed, Horatio! Only…I know not where to start.”
“Ah, so you require my assistance?”
“If you would not mind.” Hamlet murmured, embarrassed.
Horatio strained a smile.
“I shall help you then. You may always count on my help, my Lord.”
“Doubt thou the stars are fire,
Doubt that the sun doth move,
Doubt truth to be a liar,
But never doubt I love.”
“That’s quite beautiful. What is it, Horatio?” The Lord Fortinbras asks and the scholar looks up, a dry smile slipping across his lips.
“A love letter, my Lord.”
“A love letter?”
“The fair lady, Ophelia before she was stricken with madness.” Horatio answers, hiding away the peice of paper.
Fortinbras regards him carefully.
“So there is no other? Did you not write such beauty, Horatio? You did not love this Ophelia you speak of.”
Horatio is quiet and then smiles.
“My Lord, why do you pry?”
“Because I care, Horatio. Do speak to my rather than hide away.” It almost sounds like an order, but not quite.
“Yes, my Lord.” Horatio murmurs in response.
“The letter is my words, but Lord Hamlet’s hand.”
“Yes, my Lord?”
“Is such a poem…was such a poem meant for Lord Hamlet?”
Horatio does not respond and instead goes back to writing his Lord Hamlet’s story.
Fortinbras decides that he doesn’t need to push the question any further as Horatio’s silence is all that he needs.
To delve in the past does little to help Horatio escape the feeling of bitter loneliness and heartbreak. Fortinbras knows this and between all of his duties, he makes sure to check on the scholar personally and bring him back to the reality which is the present.
Horatio is an intelligent man, but he is in mourning.
A part of Fortinbras, however, wants to shake sense into him, but he is somehow able to push that part of him down so that it only take up a small space at the very back of his mind. Still, it is difficult to watch the scholar roam about the grounds like a ghost - his face pale and his expression dull.
Fortinbras can sesnse that the scholar is bordering a line of some sort that he does not entirely understand. Or, perhaps, he does not even realise that he has come to that line yet…?
Regardless, Fortinbras cannot just stand aside and let this happen any longer.
He is a man of action, after all.
“Love is an amazing thing, Horatio.” Hamlet explained, picking daisies by the pond just outside of the castle walls.
Horatio stood by his side, watching his every movement with an air of curiousity.
Hamlet was almost like a child entrapped within a man’s body, but he had a quick mind and tongue.
“Is it, my Lord?”
“It is. I have learned much while courting the fair Ophelia.” He smiled as he said this, reaching up and giving his friend a single daisy.
Horatio watched it carefully before he smiled and looked to his Lord Hamlet.
“You will both be happy.” He said, voice level and soft - although he choked a little on the inside.
Lord Hamlet’s happiness meant so much more to him than his own.
Hamlet blinked and then laughed, smiling.
“Indeed! I will see to that! My mother already talks of the wedding! But, I shall not rush. What use is acting rash? It can only end badly.”
“Indeed, my Lord, but inaction can sometimes have negative effects as well. Sometimes even more deadly than acting rashly.” Horatio’s voice remained level and Hamlet watched him before grinning and getting to his feet.
“I will act, my friend! Perhaps not now, but one day and all will be well in Denmark that day. Now, let us return to Elsinore! We leave for Wittenburg tomorrow and we do require rest.”
“Yes, my Lord.” Horatio whispered and Hamlet smiled.
It was a wondrous sight and Horatio held the single daisy closer.
“You’re not a person. You’re a disease.”
When I hear them chant that and when I see them stare at me with their soul-less eyes, I feel sweet satisfaction.
I stole something precious to them. Precious and pure and I held the power to destroy it and I still do - even as I rot in this cell.
If I look proud of myself, it’s probably because I am and they all know it too.
It’s why they hate me.
Not that I care about their opinion of me, but they don’t realise the truth, you know.
No, no they don’t. Hah! I stole something precious and I destroyed it piece by piece, I’m not going to lie. What’s the point?
You know what I did. I tortured and slaughtered their children like butchers slaughter animals.
Hm? What’s with that face?
Oh! You hate me too? Well, that’s all right. More of a reason for me to talk.
You want to know how I tortured them? Oh, you want to know how I chose them?
At random. All children are the same, y’see? Smelly, destructive, naive little creatures. Give them candy and empty promises and they’ll do whatever you want. Especially the young ones left at the park for a minute or two to play.
When I got a child - boy, or girl; it’s never mattered, you know - I let them have whatever they want. Never struggle as much then. Especially when the torture begins.
I love hearing them scream in terror. So much power and so little effort.
You know, keep looking at me like that and you’re face might stick that way. Not that I mind.
The more people think of me, the better.
How better to be remembered?
I removed their limbs, y’know. Digits, toenails. There was so much blood - I never let them die until I got bored.
A monster, you say?
I quite like that title.
Call me the real life Bogie Man. If I get out, maybe I’ll hide in closets, next.
I won’t be getting out?
Never out of your mind, you mean. No one will forget what I’ve done. No one will forget the Bogie Man.
I steal children and tear them limb from limb. I have tapes too, y’know. Sometimes I like to remember…
Maybe you should see them too?
No? What a shame. Just as I thought we were getting along too.
Tsk tsk. Now, now, Andrew, you should know better than to throw a tantrum like that. You resemble such a child when you do those things - and you know what I do to children…
How do I know your name?
I’m the Bogie Man I do believe that is explanation enough.
Oh? You’re leaving now? We’re done already? Interrogation over?
You’re not curious at all as to why?
Oh, you don’t want to know.
Too bad. I’ll tell you anyway.
I thought you’d sit down again, Andrew. You’re just like a curious little kitten. You do know what happened to the little kitten, correct?
All right, all right, I’ll tell you why.
No need to get so loud. My old ears are quite sensitive, y’know.
I did it because I am a monster and knew that I could.
Isn’t that quite terrible?
I thought so too. Not that it stopped me.
I’m quite like a child myself. I’ll keep repeating my actions so long as I don’t get caught and punished for my actions.
Yes, yes, I know the laws. Still, I killed quite a few successfully. Forty nine, actually. I was aiming for one from each of the fifty states. When I said random?
I am a monster, after all. A disease. Best to be ridden of - especially after the pandemic. Now, however, those who died to the Bogie Man’s disease will be remembered as my victims and hardly anything more.
Yes, yes, I am a monster. You’ve already said that.
And yet, my face is everywhere and so is my name.
I’m quite a popular monster, hm?
I’ll be used to scare children even after I die.
The greater the monster, the less likely forgotten.
I’m quite proud of myself, Andrew. And you helped me become so popular, so, wouldn’t that make you a monster too?
i pledge allegiance
to the queen
of the united states of america
and to the republic
for which she stands
with liberty and justice for all
W H A T
i dont get it guys wh—OH.
IS THIS A FUCKING JOKE I WASNT READY
YOU FUCKING BASTARD.
i sat here jammin to fuckin ke$ha and just kinda …
I don’t get this post…help?
Sweet Potato sweet potatoes!!!
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