Hamlet wasn't a prince. He was a rock star. And I was Ophelia. The one who had to watch him suffer. Hamlet's craziness had nothing to do with a lust for revenge. It was fame. I was the one who had to stand back, watching him being eaten by his ownstardom. Watching him collect friends like they were money in a bank, knowing none of them were legitamate. Watching him flirt with other women, only to realize that he was never really mine to begin with. And you wonder why Ophelia went crazy! She was the one who quietly watched Hamlet ruin himself, until the sequence of events became unbearable. She was just another woman in rags running around the castle. What could she do? Nothing. She was never Hamlet's to begin with. Nothing. She was so poor. Nothing
I never cared about how many instruments Hamlet played, or who his bandmates were, or how many fans he had. Actually, I never liked how he had fans. I knew they loved him, but not like I loved him. My love for Hamlet never cared about his fame or his music. I knew him before I knew his talent. And, I liked him before I liked his ambition. The fans seemed so fake to me. I hated it. I didn't want to share him with those retards in the front row, screaming their ignorant, little heads of. But, he loved it. He lived for it.
And it's what he lived for that killed me.