A babe, whether boy or girl, is
growing within me as I presently write.
I know not why the realization that
I am with child has taken me so long to accept. I have felt ill for quite some
time and have not bled since September. My belly has even swollen some,
although it is only noticeable when I am undressed. However, it was not until
this week, when I felt something tumbling within me, when I knew I could not
deny it any longer.
I am carrying Hamlet’s child.
How
sad it makes me to imagine what life could have been like had Hamlet and I
conceived this child in wedlock. Instead of panicked, I would be thrilled to
give life to this child. The distressed tears in my eyes presently would
instead be tears of joy. I would love this child as much as I loved its father.
And Hamlet would be by my side, holding my hand and kissing my cheek, instead
of in England, unaware of his future fatherhood.
Oh,
what will I do?
I
know not what I shall do! In another life, I would surely love to have this child,
but not in this life. All I know is that I most certainly cannot give birth to
this child. An unmarried woman giving birth to the prince’s son or daughter? I
shudder at the thought of the difficult life awaiting me.
My mind is plagued with regretful
questions. Why did I let Hamlet into my bed? How could I have been so naïve?
Why did I not heed the advice my father and brother have always taught me?
Laertes. My poor brother. He is all
I have left in this world and I am going to shame him immensely. What will
become of him after it is known that his bawdy sister is carrying the prince’s
bastard child? As the last man in charge of me, he will most certainly suffer
the most, blamed for my faults. He is only eighteen, left with so many years
ahead of him. How could I live knowing I had ruined the rest of his life along
with mine?
I wish I could, but I know I cannot
have this child. What would become of me? Of the child? I know I cannot be a
fitting mother, especially not under the circumstances. How would I care for
the child? As a woman, unfortunately, I will find it difficult to provide for
us and I would not be able to marry a man who could. And Laertes, I know as
much as he loves me, he would not care for us. No respectable man would. My
life will be ruined and there is not much hope for the life of the child.
Is that life worth having?
Perhaps the question is no longer
whether to have or not to have the babe. Perhaps the question is whether it is
worth to live or not to live. Once the child is born, there is no return. Our
lives would lack companionship, friendship, and love from neighbors, friends,
and family. Lack of food and shelter are surely in our future without anyone to
care for us. The heartache we will suffer, the pain of a grueling life, cannot
surely be worse than the pain of death.
Death may be painless. Perchance to
die is to sleep, to dream. It is truly uncertain what lies after life has
left the body. The fear of the undiscovered afterlife is enough to keep one
fighting to live. But what if the suffering of life is worse than any afterlife
imaginable? If one can be brave enough to face the uncertainty…
I am left without any other resolve
then. Facing a life where I will have nothing but my child, and knowing that my
child will have a life barely worth living, I am left with only one solution to
save my child and me from a heinous future.
I must take my own life.
Although the thought is frightening,
it is the only solution that is comprehensible. I must plan my suicide. I
believe I know when to do it. Hamlet cannot know of the child so I must be
buried before his return. He is said to arrive a few days after his seventeenth
birthday and his birthday is only one week from today, on Saint Valentine’s
Day.
That
is the day I shall take my own life.
How ironic. On a day designed for
love, I will be destroying the result of the love Hamlet and I shared, or at
least what I believed to be love at the time when the child was conceived.
Nevertheless, the day commemorating the
father’s birth will also mark the death of the mother and child.
There is not much left to plan. I
own little and care not what becomes of my few belongings. Both my parents are
dead and I do not have a husband or any other children to worry about. I am
left with considering the only person I will leave behind.
Laertes.
He can never know the true reason
for my suicide. I know not what he will think of it, perhaps choosing to
believe that the grief from our father’s death was too much for me. I hope my
death, so close to that of our father’s, will not be too much for Laertes. All
I can do is make my death as easy to accept for him as I can.
I will have to make my death seem as
passive as possible, a suicide one would expect of a woman. I do not wish to
shock Laertes by having him believe I am breaking a woman’s role by taking my
life into my own hands, although that is exactly what I wish to do. Until the
very end of my life, I must play the dutiful role of a woman for my brother’s
sake.
Yes, I know where and how to do it
then. There is a weeping willow by a brook nearby the castle. I shall fall like
a tear from a branch of the tree into the stream below. Right before, I shall make
and overindulge in a sleeping potion my father used to make for my brother and
me when we were restless children at night. That way, it will seem as if I simply
fell and let myself drown, too ladylike to fight even until the end.
And I shall take my diary, the only evidence of the truth, with me so
that it can be destroyed in the depths of the river. My writing has been a
friend to me for some time, but I need it not where I am going. The secrets I
have shared here must remain secrets long after I have gone. I am thankful,
though, for the opportunity to be heard, even if it is by an inanimate object.
There
is one last chore I must do. I must pray for repentance, although I feel as if
no matter how much I ask it will not be enough. The Lord has given me a good
life and I know I am the one to have destroyed it through my own sinful
actions. I do not deny them. I gave my virtue to a man who did not deserve it
and now I must take my life to destroy the result of that error. I pray for
forgiveness for that too.
And
yet, though I regret my actions, I cannot find it in me to regret the love.
For
a moment, Hamlet and I were in love. Perhaps it was one sided, but at the time,
all I sensed and felt was love. When Hamlet would knock softly, I would let him
in as silently as possible, but our hearts would fill with such excitement to
be together that we could not help but smile and giggle. The moment the door
was closed, Hamlet would whisper sweet words into my ear, promises of the
future, comments of my beauty, and vows of love. I remember how he would look
deeply into my eyes as he brushed any loose strands of my hair behind my ear
before kissing me softly. And, except for the last time, we never lay together
without Hamlet ensuring me of his affection.
Now that is the very ecstasy of love
and I was lucky enough to have experienced it, if only for a while.
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