Act 4 Scene 7

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Warning: anxiety attack, plus mentions of death

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Warning: anxiety attack, plus mentions of death

Ophelia felt less like a person than a collection of tears to be spilt, pain to be caused, a creature to capture, and hurt to feel. Tears fell freely from her eyes as she sat near the cliff's edge, wind whipping around her head and waves crashing against the rocks drowned out the sound of her crying.

She sucked in a shaky breath of air but the oxygen that hit her lungs only burned as though she were already drowning,

Ophelia backed away from the edge of the cliff wary by her own actions. Her white skirt getting stained by the grass and the dirt she was surrounded by,

But she couldn't go on like this. She needed all the hurt, the pain, the heartbreak of being Ophelia Marigold over and done with.

She clasped her flowers in her hands, helplessly drawn to the Daisies, the Rosemary, the Rue, the violets, the Columbine, the pansies, and the fennel, combined with Poppies, Roses, Lavender, and Marigolds,

A rather ugly bouquet if you really looked at it, whoever arranged it must have been going through a mental breakdown when they did.

Ophelia raised herself to her knees and watched how the waves crashed ruthlessly into the rocks, how quick it might all be, no one would even doubt she was gone.

Her heart felt tight as she sat back cross legged on the damp grass, each breath more ragged than the next, each tear chasing the other as though trying to win a race to the edge of her cheek,

Her hands and feet had gone cold, and she could feel hands closing around her throat as shaky fingers buried themselves in locks of honey blonde hair.

Golden eyes shut tight, she had to escape this hell she was living, surely the real fires couldn't be worse than the ones inflicted on her by the people in her life.

Surely the ministry's hold on her keeping her close keeping her locked up in a gilded as opposed to Azkaban couldn't be worse.

The only reason she was here now was because they'd allowed her out for her Birthday.

Her nineteenth birthday. She could laugh at the concept of her youth. Honestly.

Turning eighteen was meant to mean freedom. Independence, forging your own path. The laughter began small,

But it became maddening, hitting the air as harshly as the water hit the rocks below her,

The idea that a dark lord had decided to pick an eighteen year old girl with little magical prowess, and little genius to her name to fund his army was insane. To think that this man,

She laughed harder,

This dark lord, all powerful by the way, had decided to send this young girl to play gold digger with two men. It was the stuff of fiction. Of a madman's ramblings to himself as he searches for money,

Oh, Ophelia | Tom RiddleWhere stories live. Discover now