❝This above all: to thine own self be true.❞

-Hamlet by William Shakespeare

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Three days after my night-time adventure with Macy and Kat, it's back to the grind, and which means it's time for auditions for Hamlet. After I woke up that Monday - still tormented by nightmares, but decidedly more content with my waking life - I spent the entire in-service practicing and practicing my lines, but now I feel strangely anxious.

Sitting in one of the many hard, red, peeling plastic chairs in the hall next to the auditorium, I try not to have a panic attack; it's a challenge, because I can't help but feel that if I don't succeed, I'll be letting Will down. Being a senior, and seeing how theater is really my only talent, this is my last chance to do something worthwhile.

I'm not looking for a future in this place, or any place, for that matter, but some part of me wants to at least give my past in the theater a curtain call instead of cutting it off short. Neither Will nor Mama nor even Papa would be proud of me if I quit so soon.

For this production, I'm trying out for the character of Ophelia, Hamlet's young lover who is driven mad with grief and eventually dies - arguably by suicide. I'm not planning on climbing up a maple tree and falling into the New Haven River, a la Shakespeare, but in some strange way, I feel a connection to Ophelia. Just like me, she's young, sad, and has no agency for herself aside from her love and loyalty to those she knows.

I'm finding the closer I get to death, the more self-aware I become.

We - the other theater kids and I - have been waiting in the hall for some time now. Mr. Summers, the play's director, has been calling in kids one by one. Right now, through the thin walls, I can hear some freshman giving a valiant effort at Laertes, although his voice keeps cracking every time he says "I".

Out in the corridor, where the only light is that of the late-afternoon sun shining in through the doors at the end, a few people are whispering happily, blissfully unaware of the irony of doing a play all about death only a few months after the death of our former star.

Then there's Veronica, sitting three chairs down from me, right next to the door to the stage. Her golden hair is pulled up in a ponytail, her tan skin is glowing in the shadows, and she would look as Evil-Queen like as ever if it weren't for her slumping posture and the dead, emotionless expression in her eyes.

We'd exchanged a few terse words when I first arrived, coming directly from my 7th period study hall. I'd sat down in the empty seat furthest from my frenemy, pulling out my phone to look like I was busy, but for some sadistic reason, Veronica still attempted to talk to me.

"Lila," she'd said, her smug smile gone, an even, flat line in its place.

"Veronica," I'd replied, trying and failing to gauge what she was thinking. She's always been an expert at keeping her emotions an enigma, but she at least always has an aura of confidence. Now, without her shoulders pushed back and her head held high, she almost looks normal. No longer a minor villain in my narrative. Just a girl.

Her junior sheep - er, friends - , Jenna and Alexis, are sitting to her left and right, but neither are saying a word to the other. The former, a Self-Taught "Edgemaster", is attempting to fix her dark lipstick in her phone mirror; the latter, more of a lonely athlete than a lady-in-waiting, is running her long fingers through her caramel hair almost in a nervous tic. I know Alexis better than I know Jenna; whereas my knowledge of Jenna comes merely from her Instagram and the mountain of complaints lodged by Macy and my sister, I'm aware for a fact that Alexis actually plays soccer with Kat. If Ashdown was a graph and its student clubs were lines, play season and soccer season would be almost perpendicular, but I don't care enough to imagine how Alexis will fit it all in.

My focus, instead, is on Veronica, who's just staring at her phone, not even scrolling, and I have to wonder if she's just been reading the same Snap over and over again, or she's just lost in thought - like I so commonly am.

Of course, with that bit of wonder, I find myself getting drawn into my own thoughts, remembering what this process was like when Will was alive.

If Veronica was in a good mood, which she usually was around this time of year, we'd all sit together, giving freshmen advice, joking with Mr. Summers, teasing Jordan Costello - who's a shoe-in for Hamlet, this year - about his tendency to go into random bouts of song at any given moment. Sometimes Macy, bored and looking for something to do, would join us while we waited, and then Trevor would follow her, and the whole "squad" (or, so we would call it in 2015) would laugh and talk and dream about what the future held.

Now, I know, the future holds nothing, at least not for me. Macy is nowhere to be seen. I can see Trevor, however: he's pumping iron aggressively in the weight room near the doors. Actually, most of the football team is in there, and I watch them wistfully. If ever the football team was there when tryouts came around, they'd almost always make fun of Will, though you could practically see the "We're just kidding, bro" in their eyes. This was no High School Musical; somehow, someway, teams actually stuck together at Ashdown, even if one of their own was interested in something considered societally weak. Everybody loved Will, or so they said.

Just like Trevor told me, the team seems fine now, unhearable laughter in the air and smiles on everybody's - except for my old friend's - faces.

Shifting my gaze back from the real life live-stream of teenage jocks, I catch Veronica staring at me, one eyebrow raised in the unspoken question, "What the hell are you doing?"

My neck goes hot, and when Alexis and Jenna both turn their heads like clockwork to glare at me, I suddenly feel the need to go to the bathroom. Not actually go, just leave. Breathe in another world's air, even if that other world is just a cluster of stalls and two half-broken sinks near the Health room.

I get up, trying to be quick without making it obvious, and start making my way down towards the ladies' room. As I'm leaving, I hear the perky voice of the student director, Violet, say, "Who's up next?". I can almost picture her tan hands brushing her chestnut hair behind her ear and her cheeks dimpling as she smiles. But I don't turn to look, nor do I stay to hear. I almost leap into the bathroom, my chance at having an attack quickly cooling.

In here, it smells like antiseptic and strawberry vape, a remnant of the lunch periods, when sophomore girls trying to be unique huddle in stalls and puff out clouds of pastel pink and white. On the pale rose walls, things like "You're beautiful" and "Jake Paul is daddy" are scribbled in pen and highlighter, and I can't quite tell whether they're ironic or not.

I trudge over to the first sink and prop my arms on the rims, staring at myself in the hazy mirror. After a long and tiring Wednesday, I look like a sorry mess: too-dark hair covered in fly-aways, brown eyes filled with something like sadness, tan skin turned pale in the fluorescent lighting that exposes the dark circles under my eyes. I'm wearing one of Will's frumpy, old hoodies, whose reference is general enough - Stowe Mountain Resort, a ski resort about an hour and a half north of Ashdown - that nobody will realize it's not mine. Though it fit Will like a glove, it just looks pathetic on me.

Like Alexis, I run my hand through my hair a few times, letting the strands of melanin and keratin fall around my face. I go through my rounds of grounding myself: a few deep breaths - in, out, in, out - several blinks of my eyes, and the planting of my feet on the hard floor. I try not to focus on how soft the cotton sweatshirt is, or how easy it would be to just flee, drive home, and spend the remainder of my days laying in bed, counting down the minutes.

I gaze into my eyes in the mirror, thinking of when Veronica was still on my side and Will was always at my side, when I was young and beautiful. Okay, no, that's definitely dramatic - I'm still only 17, mind you, and I'd say I'm far from ugly - but it's the sentiment behind it that rings true.

Veronica was the person who really got me into theater. The same memory I had when I saw her last Monday - the one of the two of us going to see In The Heights as naive 11 year-olds - flashes through my mind again. Before we saw the show, we sat in her hotel room, at a bathroom vanity very different from this one.

"We're going to look like real teenagers," my friend had said, painting rose-colored lip gloss on my puckered face. "I'm an expert at make-up."

To prove it, she had a whole selection of cosmetics lying scattered on the counter around her fleur-de-lis Thirty-One bag. She'd already applied most of it on herself, making her look like a veritable goddess.

After a moment, Veronica had pulled the pink tube away, cocked her head in analysis of her work, then grinned. "Perfect! You look beautiful."

She'd grabbed me by the shoulders and turned me towards the mirror. Like she'd promised, I had looked nice, at least for my age. Unlike the memories of Will and I, with things like this I can't quite remember the fine details - what I was wearing, or how my hair was done, or how cold it felt in that bathroom. The one vision I trust for sure is that of Veronica and I looking in the glass, smiling widely.

I drag myself back to the present, and for a moment, I think I'm still reminiscing, because Veronica's face is right behind me. But then I see how her chubby cheeks and messy hair have filed out to expose high cheekbones and locks like molten gold, and I realize this is Veronica Lourdes age 17, crueler and more miserable.

"I see you've given up on make-up," she breathes, so close to me that I can smell her floral perfume. "I guess I always was the expert."

The words hit me hard. I don't know if she's saying it unknowingly, or if she remembers that night as well as I do, but either way, she's trying to psyche me out. She's a criminal, but after studying her crimes for as long as I have, I've been able to notice a pattern. When she's feeling insecure, she either lashes out at others or destroys herself; when she's confident, she's nothing but kind words and heartfelt smiles towards everyone.

I know she's probably just as stressed as I am about the play, but that's not a good enough excuse to hate me. Here I am, almost breaking down mentally, and the only person I hate is myself - for surviving and letting Will die, of course.

Veronica leaves my side and walks over to the other sink, pulling out a gray compact and brush to fix her highlight. After a moment of me staring at her, Veronica glances at me, her skin shining. She quirks her perfectly-shaped eyebrows again and for once, her eyes actually hold some semblance of feeling.

"Is there something else you want me to say, Lila?" she asks, her voice sick with sweet saccharine.

Yeah, I think to myself, How about, "Sorry for kicking you when you're already very far down!"

Aloud, I just say, "No."

I give her the best look of confidence I can muster, pivot on my heel like she always does, and find my way out of the bathroom in some anger-driven daze. I left the hall to get away from her; it seems like no matter where I go, she's always going to be my ghost.

Out of all the people to be a ghost, whether literal or figurative, of course it's her. It's just my luck, I suppose.

Just as I step out of the restroom, I hear Veronica call, "Break a leg at your audition!"

Obviously, I know it's just some silly theater saying, but I freeze, and just for a millisecond, I flashback to the crash. The first thing I remember when I woke up in the hospital was the sight of my broken left leg, casted and hanging in a sling. It took nearly 2 and a half months to completely heal, and when I think about it I feel a twinge of pain. Partially because the bones do ache from time to time, and partially because of the conversation that followed my awakening. The solemn looks on Mama and Kat's faces, the excruciating hurt pulsating through my body, the words announcing Will's death.

I can't do this.

Sharply turning, I exit the school through the closest pair of doors, exposing myself to the cool Autumn air and the sight of The Ridge, its ebony track freshly redone. To my left, Jackal Boulevard, where O'Rourkes Hardware sits plainly. To my right, the quad and the path to the parking lot. I begin my pilgrimage up the concrete sidewalk, keeping my head down.

Who am I to think that I can actually survive being in this play? I almost died 3and a half months ago, the love of my life is already dead, and I'm going to join him any day now. Death is practically a friend of mine, if I can consider Mor a friend, and I can barely live as it is. What if I have a panic attack in the middle of a performance, and the crowd's left staring at me as I see visions of blood and starlight? What if I die before the performance even comes?

I'm standing in the ashes of the starlet I used to be. I wish I could be like a phoenix and rise up, but I need wings for that.

There's no wings on my back. Just a heavy black backpack and a few metaphorical burdens.

My bumping into a cold body in my way is what makes me finally lift my head up. It's Mor, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, his black eyes dead and electric at once, his brow lifted in mock confusion.

I stumble backwards, inhaling sharply, and he asks, "Where do you think you're going?"

Shaking my head in relief that it's only a grim reaper and not a teenager, I answer softly, "H-Home. I'm going home."

I don't have time for him and his trivial games today. But it seems he has no game planned, because all he says in reply is, "No, you're not. You're trying out for the play."

"Am not." I sound like a child arguing with her guardian.

"Are too," Mor evens, "It's on your bucket list to star in a school production. Unless you've done that already, I'm afraid I can't let you take another step."

He's right. I remember writing something about that on there, long ago when the world of theater seemed bright and fresh and new. Still, I haven't completed it yet. In all our musicals, despite the talent my mother claimed I had, I'd never gotten past ensemble or supporting roles. Meanwhile, in our version of Hamlet, Ophelia technically was no star character, but she was the female with the most lines and therefore my only remaining chance.

Mor drifts toward me, and I breathe in his smell of steel and smoke. His hair is neatly combed, his shoes freshly polished, his smile just as sharp as ever. It seems that the closer he gets to me, the darker the sky gets around me. By the time he's standing right in front of me again, the previously overcast clouds have turned dark, signaling the arrival of a storm.

"Why don't you want to try out?"

"I'm already 'halfway to heaven', just like you said," I answer, crossing my arms and looking towards the horizon. "Everything pales in comparison to what has happened... and what will happen."

Mor strokes his pale chin, following my gaze. "If it's all meaningless already," he breathes, "Then why bother making up with Macy like you did? Or your sister?"

"That's... that's different."

"Is it, really?"

"Yes!" I turn back towards him, and despite the darkness swirling in his eyes, I snap at him, "It is. My relationships with Macy and Kat are things that actually kind of matter. They'll last after-" I pause, biting my lip, then continue- "after I'm gone."

A cool breeze brimming with the heaviness of rain blows through, making Mor's cape flap around him. Only two weeks ago, I would've found this sight menacing, but now I'm becoming used to it. However, I am surprised by the look on the Reaper's face - one of thought and the slightest sliver of empathy - as he shifts to look at me straight-on.

"Even if nobody remembers your acts, Lila, you still deserve to be happy before you die," Mor rasps. "Your legacy does not define your life."

That sounds like something a heroine from some dystopian YA novel would say to the villain in self-confidence. But somehow, coming from Mor, who has never shown me this much kindness, it's more than seven corny words. It's advice worth listening to, but I'm not done arguing yet.

"It's not just that," I continue, my voice weaker than before, "It's not just about things I can control." I leave the sentence at that, expecting him in all his strange omnipotence to understand what I'm referencing.

He raises his brows again, and I realize that perhaps there are some things he doesn't know.

"My PTSD is getting better, but it's not going away anytime soon. I take meds, but they don't help. If I get anywhere near something that reminds me of the crash, I have a panic attack and flashback until I'm shaking. Sometimes it's totally unexpected too - like I'll see Will's old locker and suddenly feel like a freshman again...." Shaking my head with the knowledge that I'm rambling, I finish, "I don't know what other triggers lay out there. If I suddenly had an attack during the play, it'd be the final nail in the coffin. I'd be socially dead." And really dead too, by that point. I'm expecting Mor to comment on my choice of metaphor, but he just sighs.

"You do have a point, I suppose. It's wise to stay away from such things." He purses his lips and actually rocks back on his heels, which is so human a motion my heart skips a beat. "But you can't live your life in fear. You never know, maybe the experience will be worth any negativity you feel along the way."

"You're acting rather human today."

Bitterness flashes through his eyes, but it's gone before I can tell if it's directed at me or not. Just like that, any wisp of sympathy he was giving me has vanished, replaced by his normal glare of complacency and amusement. I instantly regret pointing out his vulnerability. Maybe, if we had just kept talking, something good could come out, like information, perhaps. More cracks in the lock on his vault of secrets.

But now, Mor is mysterious again, turning back towards the football field, and yet I can't help but wonder where the sudden darkness that sprung up and promptly disappeared came from.

"It's all this time I'm spending around you and your fellow humans," he finally scoffs in reply, "You're making me soft."

"But you've known other humans before me," I start slowly. I know I'm walking a fragile line, a social high-wire, but the curiosity gnaws away at me the more I think about it. "Your charges. I remember your business card said you were a 'Junior Reaper'. Have you not been doing this long enough to be immune to the wiles of humanity?"

Mor barks a laugh straight from the devil himself and replies, "Stop trying to get information on the afterlife out of me."

"Can't I know a single thing?" I ask. "All I know of Heaven and Hell is what they taught me at church on Easter and Christmas. I want to know what's ahead of me."

"But don't you see? That's exactly it. We're not allowed to tell anything to our charges, elsewise they could be more reluctant to move on." He side-eyes me, then says dryly, "Although, I don't know if that would ever be a problem with you anyway."

"That's exactly it," I echo in my best imitation of Mor's deep husk of a voice. "Nothing you say is going to change how I feel. All I want anymore is to see Will, and if I have to be resigned to my fate in order to do that, then so be it."

The way I say it is understating all the complex emotions that haunt my every movement. But how else am I supposed to explain that constant feeling of dread and dead silence, the knowledge that I'm a lonely shell of what I could be? How do I describe waking up in the middle of the night, shaking violently, drenched in sweat and tangled in sheets? I can tell someone my stomach hurts and they'll just say, "Is it that bad?". I've shown people that I'm running on thin ice and they just reply, "Even if you fall through, the water can't be that cold."

"Just tell me how the afterlife works. Tell me about the angels," I plead, "And then, maybe I'll trust you more, and then I'll be an even easier person to work with!"

Mor is as quiet as the night. He watches the storm clouds blend over the horizon, sending shadows across the valley, an early winter twilight bringing the sun to its knees. Finally, he says, "You've spent too much time out here. I'm sure almost everyone has auditioned by now."

I'm not one to push, but when I see an opportunity, I grab it. So I reply, "I- I'll only try out if you answer my question. You mentioned the council before, and some guy named Thanatos, but that's not enough. "

From somewhere within the school, I can hear the dark tinkling of our mistuned piano. Almost in continuum, a flock of Canadian geese come flying across the dark sky above, squawking like the heavens are on fire, and then Mor stares me straight in the eyes.

"Everything is real. Every God, though not all of them have believers anymore, and the Abrahamic God as well. Angels are there, too," he explains, "And reapers tend to think of them as self-righteous fools, but I don't see why. Really, they're the spirits of those who saved another's life."

I think of Will, and quickly scan my memories, trying to find a time that my boyfriend physically saved a life. But I don't remember any such things, so that cancels out his chances of being an angel. "And what if you've never saved a life?" I ask. "I never have."

"Well, first, the Fates find out when and how you die. And then you go to Heaven - or, wherever you believe in. If you don't believe in anything, I suppose you just leave completely-" He frowns at this thought - "and that's it. As I told you in Finland, if spirits aren't satisfied, they become ghosts; if they are, they're brought before the council, who judges where they go. Most go to the place they want to, though every now and then you'll get a Drug Lord or killer who is sent elsewhere."

"Who is on the council?"

"Three pagan gods of death - Hel, Norse deity of the dead; Anubis, Egyptian god of the dead; and Thanatos." Mor's frown evolves into a glower when he mentions the final one, the one who I remember approved my assignment to him. The way he says all three of their names, however, elicits a sense of power and resentment. "They are my bosses. They are who assign the reapers their charges based on their region. And they are the reason I can't tell you any more past that."

I know he's leaving something big out. I can feel it. But I don't ask anymore, knowing that, with Mor's stubbornness and snark, nothing will come of it.

My mind soars with the newly developed knowledge I do have. This means that as long as Will was satisfied, he would be in heaven right now. I just can't tell whether that's a possibility or not; Will was a happy, kind, cooperative person, and for that reason I can't see him resisting death, but he was also a rebellious dreamer at heart.

At that moment, from the town square, where The Church of the Eternal Heart lays sagging and settling, I can hear bells ringing. Based on the chimes, it's 3:30, and auditions were supposed to end by 3:35 at the latest. I glance towards the cold glass doors, then back towards Mor. Now, his seriousness is gone and a grim smile is once again plastered on his face.

"I'd say that's your warning to get back inside."

"I-"

He tilts his head down and looks at me patronizingly. "I didn't peg you as someone who would go back on her word. We had a deal."

"Well, uh, technically, we never shook on it, so-"

Mor puts his hands on my shoulders, steers me around, and pushes me towards the door, his cold, tight grip like an iron clamp. Now behind me, he says, "You'll be fine. Good luck."

And just like that, he's gone. I feel his freezing presence fade away like water draining in an ice bath. I whirl, but the only thing around me is an empty sidewalk to the parking lot and a few dead bushes. Down a small hill and across the lawn, the Ridge still sits god-like, waiting for the football team to avenge it. And across from the school, downtown is staring at me, almost urging me, "Go audition, Lila!"

Slowly, I face the doors and tug on the cool metal. My school opens up to me easily, but I can't say I do the same. Down the hall, I see Veronica and her minions leaving towards the main exit, which helps me slump with relief.

Veronica is leaving, Lila, I think to myself. Now it's just you and the stage. And somewhere in Heaven, Will and Papa and everyone you've ever lost is watching, hopeful.

I think of how uncharacteristically serious Mor acted today, the words he said to me before he left. You'll be fine. If the reaper, who can't seem to ever put a cap on his endless faucet of macabre wit, believes I can do it, then I know I can at least believe in myself, too...

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Only minutes later, I'm walking onto the stage, the last one left to try their hand at this Elizabethan roulette. Mr. Summers and Violet are sitting at a table near the pit; when I reach the edge, they both look up from their papers and smile.

"Lila!" Mr. Summers exclaims, removing his glasses and peering at me, "Last but not least, I see."

I make a soft noise somewhere between a chuckle and a groan, and reply, "Yeah. I wasn't feeling well, but I decided to go try my best anyway."

"Well, good for you and your work ethic!" My teacher's smile stretches into a grin, and next to him, two shallow dimples appear in Violet's round cheeks.

Mr. Summers is around my mom's age, with a slim face, dark eyes, and brown hair that he gels over. He's vaguely good-looking, but only in a near-middle aged man kind of way. The warm look he almost always has on his face is evident of his kindness and good humor, like the fun Uncle who lets you eat ice cream for breakfast and captures your imagination with stories of his world travels. Except he's not my uncle, he's just the AP Brit. Lit and American Lit. teacher, and he's not always happy. As I take a deep breath, his smile falters.

"I know I said this already," he says, "But I apologize for our choice of production this year. It wasn't under my control."

"It's fine." I think he's telling me this because he feels bad for me.

Violet and Mr. Summers look at each other, and I can practically read the mental conversation they're having - one that consists of, "Oh, poor Lila, her boyfriend's dead, and now she has to do a play about death!"

It's then that I almost run again, not able to take and savor the pity their hearts are bleeding out. But Will would've wanted me to stay. Will would've been sitting out there in the hall, waiting for me to finish so he can tell me everything will be all right. And everything I do now, I do for him, it seems. So I take a deep breath.

"I'll be trying out for the part of Ophelia," I say firmly, "And I'm ready."

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5 hours and 5 minutes later, as I'm sitting on the couch eating Cocoa Krispies and mindlessly watching Hoarding: Buried Alive, my phone buzzes. When I look to see what it is, the edges of my lips curl up. The cast list has been released already. Jordan Costello is Hamlet, Veronica is Gertrude, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Jenna and Alexis, and I am Ophelia.

Will would be proud of me. He would lift me off my feet and spin me around with lights dancing in his eyes. But though he can't do that anymore, I can still feel him watching down on me, smiling in gratification.

Once I see him again, I'll tell him everything, and we can relive our glory days of singing songs from the 70s, wearing cheap costumes and dancing the night away on a bowing old stage. For now, I'll just have to brave Shakespeare by myself. Something may be rotten in the state of Denmark, but in Ashdown, things are finally looking up.  

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A/N: What will happen now that Lila is Ophelia? Will the play go horribly wrong? Only time will tell...

I'm not a huge fan of Shakespeare - though, then again, I've only read Macbeth and Romeo + Juliet - so I'm not quite sure how Hamlet works. All my info came from Wikipedia and an old OVA for the anime Black Butler xD If I got something wrong, I'm sorry!

(Uh... update, a year later: we actually ended up reading Hamlet in my Honors British Literature class and I read the lines for Ophelia!! I probably wasn't as good as Lila haha)

If for some reason you're still reading this, thank you so much! Please vote and comment! Positive vibes, stay awesome! (:

xoxo, Athena

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