Assignment.
A/N: Class assignment; 100%; And yes I was thinking about KKS and Tablo for some odd reason.
"It had been raining incessantly for the past four or five days. I don't remember, I couldn't really keep track of time. Hours upon countless hours were just Ophelia and I. We tried talking, but she stayed silent. So we just stared. Her eyes were fixed on the peeling and cracked paint on our walls, the moisture trying to penetrate. And I? Well, I stared at her, at that pallid and broken expression of hers that wouldn't change. Neither of us slept that night. I just thought about that deadpan stare of hers, that cold feeling that trickled down my spine as her expressionless orbs seemed to dilate and grow with each waking moment.
You keep me sane girl, you insane girl
"Our eyes burned with the effulgence of the sun. But oh, my dear Ophelia, my beautiful Ophelia. Her eyes were far back in her head, the whites teasing me with their pure emptiness.
She's dead.
"I couldn't weep, for the many tears that would be shed had been sucked dry out of me. As I stepped outside with Ophelia in my arms, I noticed something. The rain had stopped. It had stopped. Everything around us was sunken. Our home into the mess of mud and tangle, Ophelia's cheeks and eyes and all the greenery that surrounded us and brought us tranquility. As I placed poor Ophelia into that murky and flooded garden, I smelled her wrist. She was as perfect as ever. Though I stared at her, half-drenched in that swamp, I couldn't take my own eyes off of her. So I started to paint, taking care to restore her beautiful pale face and not the sallow-skinned one I saw before me. I asked myself why I was painting the portrait of a corpse. The answer was simple: Ophelia was my life, and that miserable, sickly expression of hers I found wonderful and inspiring. And now that it was gone, I craved it. I needed that sick face, I needed that pain.
A sixth day would have been too much, if only it kept raining
Desdemona, Juliet, Lady Macbeth and Ophelia. No more pallid faces for me to keep
At least those girls no longer weep
"I found that her painting went swell in my collection. Oh Ophelia, my greatest affection. Alas, no more pale faces to paint, but only myself. I found it rather silly, killing myself, to make one last painting. I was magnificent.
"It had been raining incessantly for the past four or five days. I don't remember, I couldn't really keep track of time. Hours upon countless hours were just Ophelia and I. We tried talking, but she stayed silent. So we just stared. Her eyes were fixed on the peeling and cracked paint on our walls, the moisture trying to penetrate. And I? Well, I stared at her, at that pallid and broken expression of hers that wouldn't change. Neither of us slept that night. I just thought about that deadpan stare of hers, that cold feeling that trickled down my spine as her expressionless orbs seemed to dilate and grow with each waking moment.
You keep me sane girl, you insane girl
"Our eyes burned with the effulgence of the sun. But oh, my dear Ophelia, my beautiful Ophelia. Her eyes were far back in her head, the whites teasing me with their pure emptiness.
She's dead.
"I couldn't weep, for the many tears that would be shed had been sucked dry out of me. As I stepped outside with Ophelia in my arms, I noticed something. The rain had stopped. It had stopped. Everything around us was sunken. Our home into the mess of mud and tangle, Ophelia's cheeks and eyes and all the greenery that surrounded us and brought us tranquility. As I placed poor Ophelia into that murky and flooded garden, I smelled her wrist. She was as perfect as ever. Though I stared at her, half-drenched in that swamp, I couldn't take my own eyes off of her. So I started to paint, taking care to restore her beautiful pale face and not the sallow-skinned one I saw before me. I asked myself why I was painting the portrait of a corpse. The answer was simple: Ophelia was my life, and that miserable, sickly expression of hers I found wonderful and inspiring. And now that it was gone, I craved it. I needed that sick face, I needed that pain.
A sixth day would have been too much, if only it kept raining
Desdemona, Juliet, Lady Macbeth and Ophelia. No more pallid faces for me to keep
At least those girls no longer weep
"I found that her painting went swell in my collection. Oh Ophelia, my greatest affection. Alas, no more pale faces to paint, but only myself. I found it rather silly, killing myself, to make one last painting. I was magnificent.