Ophelia was perfectly sane.
No man could ever make her run around naked or sing vulgar songs in front of the king of Denmark. Oh no, she was completely sane. She scoffed at the thought of the faces of the court just hours before, a strange mix of sympathy and terror, flowers with their delicate stems entwined around her pale fingers in the meadow by the stream.
They pitied her, yet she felt that at some level they were jealous of the freedom she had given herself. No one would ever dare to taunt the queen with her deeds of incest except someone whose mind had left the Christian realm.
No, she was not insane. She was simply tired of being pushed and pulled this way and that. Not by her brother, not by Hamlet, not even her late father. In the maze of the tall weeds, Ophelia’s thin frame bent over, the disease of grief sneaking into her bones. It infected her lungs, her heart and up her throat until a sob escaped and dragged thick tears from her eyes. The flowers were crushed in her fingers as she clenched her fists.
Throwing her head up to the blinding sky, she screamed as loud as she could, hoping that the heavens would hear her plea - for what she did not know. But she craved for something to happen. Slowly, the tears stopped and she was once again left in her own silence.
Slowly, the decimated flowers were released from her fingers, falling to the earth without bravado. With their movement, the disease spread to her brain and the poison idea choked her. She inhaled slowly and exhaled even slower.
Lifting her hand up to her face, she traced the creases in her palm with a reed. Her hand looked as if it belonged to an old woman, who had seen tragedy and beauty and death and life before she was buried in the ground, forever to stare at the heavens at her God above.
Thou shalt not. That was the true religion.
“THOU SHALT NOT!” She screamed the words again, hoping for someone to hear it.
Maybe it was a cry for help, maybe a battle cry, maybe the sounds of defeat. A blackness began to spread through her, a thick bile that started with her heart and pumped through her veins to infect her limbs. A mad giggle escaped her lips as she thought how proud Hamlet would be.
“I am just… like… him.”The last word was a coarse whisper, bringing back the dull sheen to her eyes. The black bile had reached her mind now and she was drowning in it, suffocating on it.
Another giggle left her lips and she grabbed fresh flowers  with haphazard swings of her arms. Braiding them messily in her hair, she hummed a tuneless ditty about nothing.
Nothing was easy, nothing was impending, nothing was unavoidable. Sighing contentedly and tearing the petals off of a daisy, she whispered a phrase over and over again, seeking for the truth in it, yet finding none at all.
“Thou shalt not.” The dull look returned to her face and after a quiet moment, it melted into anger. In a burst of action, she shot up and drunkenly grabbed handfuls of flowers. Her dress, muddied and frayed, scraped on the riverbank as she stood and ran erratically from the reeds. The colors of the trees and sky and flowers made her head spin and she threw her hands up to her head to block them out. The flowers were sent flying into the water, the lighter petals left to float momentarily in the fickle breeze, while the rue and thyme sank directly to the soiled floor.
Ophelia began to run along the river bed, hands now stretching before her towards some invisible destination.
The action was quick, unsure yet deliberate, as her foot slid over a rounded rock and in slow motion, Ophelia’s body fell into the river. The splash was quiet and her whole body began to absorb into the stream of water, her gown drinking in the water that surrounded her. 
Her hair was drawn about her in an angel’s halo, the chilling irony beginning to freeze her bones. She made no effort to move, although she felt the tugs of the river beginning to drag her down. With placid features among the brilliant flowers that framed her gentle face, she spoke her last words before her liberation.
“Thou shall...”