The Ophelia Complex

Perfect 

  /ˈpəːfɪkt/ 

Having all the required or desirable elements, qualities, or characteristics; as good as it is possible to be. 

The play is set to be put on at St Francis private school and it’s going to be perfect.  

It’s being written by three students, Vincent Dalton, Cerise Gable and Kit Marlowe. They start it one windy morning when the sun is just a smudge of light behind clouds. Outside is cold but their art room feels stuffy, partly on account of them being there for almost two days. The windows are fogged up and teachers have tried to check on them, but Cerise has barricaded them in with desk chairs. 

This itself isn’t unusual - the three of them have a reputation for being dedicated when it comes to their work. For his art final, Kit locked himself in his room with no food for days. Teachers thought it was a nervous breakdown, but his painting was so good the school considered bidding it off to a London art gallery. Cerise wrote the first draft of her novella shorthand, and by the end her fingers were so cramped she couldn’t flex them for a week.  

But this time is different. They’ve taken the red-penned “Close to perfection!” comments at the bottom of their work as a challenge. The play is going to be their best piece of work, proof that they’re capable of being exceptional. Capable of perfection.  

It starts in that art room, with fogged up windows and coffee that has gone cold. 

“The end’s the most important part.” Cerise is saying, pacing the room. “If it’s weak, the whole play collapses.” 

The rain outside picks up. The three of them are onto the final pages and their focus is knife sharp. 

“It needs to be gripping.” Cerise continues. “If the end’s rubbish, no one will remember it.” 
“On the contrary, they would remember it,” Vincent muses. He reaches out, takes her wrist very gently to stop her pacing. “Just for the wrong reasons.” 

“A massive shootout.” Kit suggests. He’s making a tower from paintbrushes - small spaces make him edgy. “Something action-packed.” 
“Endings should be a conclusion.” Cerise says. “Resolution.” 

“Killing a bunch of characters would be a conclusion.” 

“A cop out, more like.” Cerise says, raising an eyebrow. Kit aims a paintbrush at her, which Cerise catches deftly.  

“What would you want? Lovey-dovey marriage?” 

“Because I am such a romantic type.” Cerise says, but her and Kit are smiling. 

Vincent takes a step forward and wipes condensation from the window,  

“You know who has to star in it, right?” he says softly. 

Cerise and Kit look up. Walking across the grounds, golden hair a chrysanthemum against the sharp lines of her coat, is Ophelia Skies. Even in the downpour which makes everyone’s hair frizzy, she seems to glide through it. The drizzle softens her figure, smudges her face so she’s vague and glistening.  

“If we cast her, it will be perfect.” Vincent says. He almost sees it, snapping into place; their play, 200 pages of perfection, unfolding on stage. Ophelia, under a spotlight, eyes glistening.  

“Kit has a point.” Vincent says, turning around. “Not everyone dying, but one person. A single death would make a good resolution.” 
“It would?” Cerise asks. It’s hard, sometimes, to keep up with Vincent’s train of thought, though she’ll never show it. 

“Yes.” Vincent says. “After all, what’s can bring more closure than death?” 
 

Ophelia Skies has an uncanny ability to become whatever you want her to be. You spend ten minutes speaking to her at a party, raising your voice over the pounding music, and she lingers in your mind for weeks, like the dregs of coffee in a mug. Even when she was made Head Girl two years running, no one resented her for it. Kit calls it charisma, Cerise calls it generosity, Vincent thinks it’s more complicated. But everyone loves Ophelia. She’s who you send your first valentine to, the person you pick for your lacrosse team.  

Even that Friday, standing on the wooden stage with the play in hand, a draft from the old building fluttering her skirt, there was an unreal quality to her. A painting which hasn’t dried yet - if you move too fast, you’ll smudge away the sharp details. 

“And I’ll play Marie?” Ophelia asks. 

“Yes.” Cerise says. “The main character.” 

“It’s a psychological play.” Vincent says. “Exploring Marie’s past, previous husbands, secrets…” 

“We’re still working on some of it, but we thought we ought to start rehearsals.” Cerise says. 

“Looks good.” Ophelia says. 

“You want in?” Kit asks. 

Ophelia grins, “Sure. I’ll be your Marie.” 

It’s late, ridiculously late. Or it’s ridiculously early. It’s been a while since Kit’s been able to tell the difference. 

“You’re getting really fucking obsessed, mate.” He tells Vincent. 

“Obsessed?” Vincent spits. “Of course I am. How can you say that like it’s a bad thing?” 
“Because sometimes you take it too far!” 

Vincent runs up, shoves both hands on the arms of Kit’s chair. 

“And you don’t?” he hisses. 

Kit does- God knows Kit does. Kit gets stupid and philosophical and locks himself in his room for days. But there’s a line. There’s a line, standing between dedication - extreme dedication, but dedication nonetheless - and being downright crazy about something. Losing-your-mind kind of crazy. 

Kit’s always known about the line. Sometimes he’ll poke his foot over it, but only briefly. He always comes back. Vincent’s skin is grey, and his eyes are wide, and Kit thinks he’s stepped over that line without even realising it. 

“Just be careful.” Kit says.  

“There’s no place for caution in art.” Vincent says. “I thought you understood the price.” 
“Price?” 
“Of perfection.” 
Kit stands uncertainly, “Nothing can be perfect, Vince. Perfection exists in the intelligible realm. We’re in the sensible world. We can’t achieve-” 
“We’re going to bring the intelligible world here!” Vince shouts. “We’re Gods, Kit! We can create worlds with our minds! Wake UP!” 

Kit stares as Vince turns around. Something sinks, deep inside of him. 

“It's not right.” Cerise says. Her hair is frizzy, and she’s gazing at the script like it has an answer, if she just looks close enough. 

“I think it’s fine.” Ophelia says from the stage. 

“Marie wouldn’t say ‘excellent’. It’s not her, it’s not right.” 
“It’s just one word.” Ophelia says. “Will it change the play?” 

Vincent’s lips curl, “Of course it changes the play. Every word is carefully constructed, every detail considered-” 

“Vince.” Kit says. “Calm down. What about ‘wonderful’? ‘Great’?” 
“No.” Vincent says, standing so fast his chair falls back. “No, no, no-” 
“You’re Marie.” Cerise says suddenly to Ophelia. “What word would she use?” 
“I don’t-” 
“When you’re Marie, what word comes to mind?” Kit pushes. 

Ophelia gapes at them for a second. Then she presses her eyes shut. 

“She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t tell him how she feels - doesn’t trust him enough. So… she wouldn’t say anything. I think” 
“Don’t think.” Kit says, sharp. “Know.” 

“Okay,” Ophelia opens her eyes. “She’d say nothing.” 

“That’s good.” Cerise says, scribbling something down. “That’s good…” 

Ophelia feels the usual giddy high of grasping at something and managing to clasp onto the right answer. But there’s something dangerous there too. Something sharp and double edged she can’t quite put her finger on. 

Vincent wants their play to shake the ground. He wants their words to cut, wants the audience to be swept into the story without a chance to look back. He wants, for an hour and a half, to make something perfect. 

Here’s the thing; there’s love in their play, and he’s yet to feel that. He imagines it would be something tender, like the softest parts of a fruit. He imagines it spins you around, makes you feel light and grounded all at once.  

He can’t afford to feel that right now. He’s not sure he’ll ever feel that. But if their play’s going to be perfect, one of them must feel love, or part of it. And Cerise- well, they’re all a little in love with each other, really. But Cerise…Vincent, he can give her love, if only briefly. 

And then she’ll know. She’ll know, and she can write it. 

He does it when Kit leaves for the pub he’s been visiting increasingly. The two of them sit next to each other, writing. Vincent lets his arm push against hers.  

She looks up. He meets her gaze.  

They go to his room. Her arms wrap around his neck, her hair tumbles over his shoulders. He meets her mouth, tastes cigarettes and whiskey and something bitter. It crosses his mind that maybe they’d work outside of the play. Maybe there’s something that clicks, far off and hazy. 

But that’s not the point, not right now. 

He pushes back into her, hears her make a noise. Before they lay down on the bed, he rests his face on her shoulder and bites, hard enough to break skin. 

Ophelia gazes at the mirror. She stays very still. She’s been expecting, for a while now, to see it move; a twitch, a blink. Or maybe a grin, wide and manic. 

No, not manic. Marie would smile with her head down, a little coy. 

Ophelia sees her, sometimes. At night, before she drops off to sleep. Or when everyone's walking to class, and in the rush of heads, she’ll catch sight of Marie, a tumble of gold hair and that bashful smile. 

At night she dreams of her. She chases her, through twisting corridors and onto high towers. She wants to grab her and demand answers, how to become Marie. But she’s always a breadth out of reach. 

Ophelia sighs. Her reflection does the same. 

Then she tilts her head down and smiles, a small, coy smile. 

Cerise wrote and wrote and wrote, until her fingers bled. She’s been so busy writing she hasn’t eaten in days. Her arms are full of scratches, vicious and red. She can’t remember how they happened, but she thinks she did them. Her nails, at least, have chunks of skin lost in them. Maybe she did it to stay awake. 

There’s a bruise on her right shoulder, in the shape of teeth. 

Ophelia is on stage. The lights halos her. Her voice is dry and cracked and the words are Cerise’s, the ones she wrote after Vincent gave her everything then yanked it away. 

She understands why he did that now. Coming from Ophelia’s rosebud lips, they sound strong and heartbreaking and it's perfect. Everything, all of it, is perfect. 
Cerise begins to laugh. No one seems to notice. 

Ophelia stands in her room. The walls used to be dove grey, but now they’re choked full of words. 

All of Marie’s lines are written on the wall, over and over. It started by the left corner, but now they spill outwards. The first time she wrote in neat block letters. After a while, they turned into frantic scribbles, words that overlap each other. She can’t make much of it out- the wall is a confusion of black ink. It makes her room feel smaller. 

Ophelia doesn’t care. She thought writing out Marie’s words would purge some part of them, but it didn’t. It just trapped her deeper.  

She understands now. She’s surrounded, every side, by Marie, by not being Marie, by not being enough. 

“But I'm so close.” Ophelia whispers, and if Vincent had been there, he would have complimented her on how perfect her Marie voice was. 

Vincent, Cerise and Kit sit at the back. They barely breathe as the curtains rise, revealing Ophelia on stage- a modern-day Venus for the spotlights to worship. Her hair is tied in a glossy bun, her green eyes lined with kohl, and she looks perfect. 

She speaks, the lines once scribbled in black ink let loose like a flock of wild birds. Cerise feels something sore catch in her chest. 

The play begins. 

Kit feels the audience to his bones- their laughter bubbles on his lips, their sharp intake of breath fills his lungs. The person in front of him knocks her leg on a seat and he feels it on his own. Their play unfolds on stage like a flower. Fuck theory, fuck the intelligible realm; the three of them have created something perfect. 

Ophelia delivers her final monologue. Her eyes are red from crying, her voice thin and cracked. No one moves - the room sits still, waits for a conclusion. 

“I did what I could,” Marie says. “I did what I had to. For my life. For me-” 
The words shake, full of something repressed. Then a shot rings out. 

Ophelia freezes. Her eyes widen. Something dark blossoms through the front of her dress. 

She crumples to the ground. People scream. 

Vincent sits back, smiles a tired, satisfied smile. After everything, a perfect play needed a perfect end. 

No one had done it before, you see. No one had died for a play, not like this. Ophelia was Marie, to her bones, to her death. Her life was the play. 

“It’s perfect.” Vincent whispers, as the curtain drops and Ophelia’s body, broken and achingly young, disappears.