Hamlet
You draw Horatio aside before you go your separate ways. "My friend, please do not be alarmed if I start to behave strangely in the near future."
This madhouse of a place is about to get a lot more interesting.
The next morning would be the beginning of your new game. As you sip your morning coffee and contemplate how best to alert the court to your "condition", a nervous looking boy in the garbs of an attendant enters.
"Good morning, young sir," you greet.
"My lord," he bows, "Lady Ophelia bids me to give you these."
"Thank you," you smile and offer him a coin, hoping to put him more at ease. "A token for your trouble, young sir."
But this only seems to make the boy more anxious, if anything. "T-thank you, my lord! But my lady, she said," he gulps, "She bids me to request that you do not attempt to contact her again, my lord."
In the moment's distraction, your cup slips through your fingers. It falls and shatters on the floor, splashing scalding hot liquid all over your stockings.
"I... I beg you pardon?" You manage to get out. In one hand, you seize the bundle of letters deposited on the table by the boy.
They were all from you. Every poem, every prose you've composed for her in confession of your love. Everything you ever sent her! Why, fair Ophelia? I thought we were true love. I thought you loved me!
The messenger, already skittish, takes a half step back. "That's - that's what the lady Ophelia bid me to tell you," he says hurriedly, "good day, my lord!"
"Wait!" You demand. You realize that the hot drink is still burning your calves. You clumsily roll down your stockings for some relief, but you really couldn't care less about it at the moment. "Did Ophelia say why? Did she say anything else? Anything at all?"
The boy shakes his head and bolts out the door.
Why, dear Ophelia?
She must've been asked to do this by her father, you realize after a while. There can be no other reason, other than her not loving you in the first place.
Polonius loves only too much to boss his children around, even if they're ten times the people he'll ever be. Your hatred grows for the meddlesome sycophant of Claudius. You also can't help but feel resentful at Ophelia herself. Ophelia, who knew how much she means to you. Ophelia, who knew you'd never taken anything from her but her time and her thoughts until your wedding. And did she not tell you herself that she loved you also? Yet she rejected you, and all for what? You understand that all children feel a duty to obey their parents. But surely your love should matter to her as well?
If you are to stay in character with this "madman" persona, there's no way you would take this calmly. It might actually be a bit suspicious if you do. You've been looking for a way to demonstrate madness, and Ophelia's just provided you with one. You might well start here. On the other hand, a part of you feels bad for subjecting her to what you intend to unleash on the rest the court. She'd probably be traumatized.
But on the other hand, she did just break your heart...
This madhouse of a place is about to get a lot more interesting.
The next morning would be the beginning of your new game. As you sip your morning coffee and contemplate how best to alert the court to your "condition", a nervous looking boy in the garbs of an attendant enters.
"Good morning, young sir," you greet.
"My lord," he bows, "Lady Ophelia bids me to give you these."
"Thank you," you smile and offer him a coin, hoping to put him more at ease. "A token for your trouble, young sir."
But this only seems to make the boy more anxious, if anything. "T-thank you, my lord! But my lady, she said," he gulps, "She bids me to request that you do not attempt to contact her again, my lord."
In the moment's distraction, your cup slips through your fingers. It falls and shatters on the floor, splashing scalding hot liquid all over your stockings.
"I... I beg you pardon?" You manage to get out. In one hand, you seize the bundle of letters deposited on the table by the boy.
They were all from you. Every poem, every prose you've composed for her in confession of your love. Everything you ever sent her! Why, fair Ophelia? I thought we were true love. I thought you loved me!
The messenger, already skittish, takes a half step back. "That's - that's what the lady Ophelia bid me to tell you," he says hurriedly, "good day, my lord!"
"Wait!" You demand. You realize that the hot drink is still burning your calves. You clumsily roll down your stockings for some relief, but you really couldn't care less about it at the moment. "Did Ophelia say why? Did she say anything else? Anything at all?"
The boy shakes his head and bolts out the door.
Why, dear Ophelia?
She must've been asked to do this by her father, you realize after a while. There can be no other reason, other than her not loving you in the first place.
Polonius loves only too much to boss his children around, even if they're ten times the people he'll ever be. Your hatred grows for the meddlesome sycophant of Claudius. You also can't help but feel resentful at Ophelia herself. Ophelia, who knew how much she means to you. Ophelia, who knew you'd never taken anything from her but her time and her thoughts until your wedding. And did she not tell you herself that she loved you also? Yet she rejected you, and all for what? You understand that all children feel a duty to obey their parents. But surely your love should matter to her as well?
If you are to stay in character with this "madman" persona, there's no way you would take this calmly. It might actually be a bit suspicious if you do. You've been looking for a way to demonstrate madness, and Ophelia's just provided you with one. You might well start here. On the other hand, a part of you feels bad for subjecting her to what you intend to unleash on the rest the court. She'd probably be traumatized.
But on the other hand, she did just break your heart...