D13 // Ophelia Alice Darling

Oh dear, what nonsense I'm talking! You mustn't take me too literally! Or too logically, for that matter. It seems everyone is constantly interrupting me to exclaim about how frivolous or scatty I'm being and while I hardly ever agree — but, mind you, hardly ever is not quite never and it's important to be precise about your words and say what you mean. And I do! Or at least I mean what I say and that's the same thing, you know, or in any case it's hardly ever not — it's often rather difficult to deny accusations of childishness when my thoughts get all twisted 'round until the only thing I know for sure is that ferrets are certainly ferrets. That's no excuse for everyone to handle me with kid gloves though, as if I were still a small girl who knows such a very little, no matter what silliness my words mix themselves up into!

But I do suppose it's somewhat true: I am sixteen and romantic. There is a part of me that thinks every sunset is the end of the world. But that's okay, because funerals — even though I've never really known anyone who has died; no matter how often Cora demands an execution, people only ever seem to lose their heads in the figurative sense — are meant to be celebrations of lives lived, not the mourning of lives lost. So I smile as I imagine the earth catching fire and burning up each night in a violent apocalypse of flames, because people who grow up underground don't really know what night looks like (or sunset, for that matter). The absence of mechanical light and the quiet hum of technology reverberating through the walls that lulls me to sleep — these are what I know as the gateway to Nod. The wanderers who come and speak of stars and moons as if they are something more than a science lesson, I can hardly believe them, but I do so love to try.

For, you see, I've learned several things of these sorts in my lessons, and though I've rarely a very good opportunity for showing off my knowledge — as often there is no one around who is particularly interested in listening — it's still good practice to say and think them over, even if only to one's self. Often times I must confess to being rather glad when there is no one around to listen, as some things I say don't sound at all to be the right words. They can be as difficult to keep straight as curtsying while falling through the air! Fancy that! How ever would one manage such a thing? It's like when I repeat the multiplication tables, reciting how four times five is twelve, four times six is thirteen, four times seven is — and I realize that oh dear! No, that's all wrong, I'm certain. I shall never get to twenty at that rate! And, oh, then it doesn't matter how calmly I cross my hands in my lap and try to say "How doth the little crocodile —" my voice sounds strange and hoarse and the words don't come the same as they used to. It's as though I'm suddenly sitting in Professor Speks' classroom, having been called upon for an answer and although I'd held my hand in the air voluntarily and known exactly the correct and most impressively interesting thing to say, it gets all jumbled up whenever he says, "Yes. Miss Darling?"

My eyelashes begin fluttering as my fingers twirl themselves through the ends of my hair, in search of something to hold onto because otherwise I'm terribly afraid I might be in danger of falling right over and out of my seat from the lightheadedness that follows my dreamy sigh when — darling. He called me darling! Just thinking about it now sends me tumbling to the floor! And oh! If I fell, would he catch me? Only, I'm a good deal taller than him, I think, and I'm rather afraid it's quite possible that I would very well knock him over too and then I shall have no other option but to die from mortification! Or worse yet, he wouldn't care to help me at all and would just move right out of the way to watch stoically as I collided with the ground, reprimanding me for having such neglectfully low blood pressure. Now that would be an apocalypse to put sunsets to shame! Then again, I'm fairly certain the whole world burns up just the same way whenever he looks at me with those sky blue eyes as wisps of cloud-smoke drift out his lips while talking about the world Above Ground. It's as if I can see Outside simply by looking at him!

Jace says Professor Speks is "stodgy" — as well as several other crude adjectives that I shan't be caught repeating — and that I shouldn't call him a professor at all, but I daresay we wouldn't even know the meanings of such impressive words as stodgy if it weren't for him. During those conversations, I begin to think that perhaps other people are onto something when they say it might be rather nice if Jace were to talk a little less from time to time. I put forth such a genuine effort not to make him feel self-conscious about his romantic interests, but he rarely seems to return the favor. Why, I can hardly go out on a date with a boy from my Earth Science class without Jace giving me that look. Maybe it's because of the time I made him practice kissing with me — my mother says I shouldn't have done that, but I couldn't stomach the thought of my first real kiss being wretched — although I hardly see the problem with it. I'm in something of a habit of kissing practically everyone as I say hello, so what difference should it make if I'm kissing cheeks or foreheads or lips? They're all rather close together and in all the dizzy excitement of hugging and talking, it's difficult to be too particular about which facial features one comes in contact with.

Besides, no one really seems to mind. I do my best to be reasonably polite to everyone I meet and I don't believe I've ever once encountered a complaint about that. I've certainly been told things like "Ophelia, you're hugging me too tightly!" or "Ophelia, must we spin 'round in so very many circles?" but never "Ophelia, I'm terribly uncomfortable with the way you're kissing my cheeks at the present time and would appreciate it if you could please refrain from doing so again in the future." In fact, I fret over my manners so much that when I met Malakai — oh, let's see, we couldn't have been much older than eight or nine when I skipped a grade and was put into his class — and discovered how terrified he is of cats, I stayed up all night sewing Dinah a pair of mouse ears to wear around him so he wouldn't run quite so quickly away from me in school. While I don't believe the new ears made Mally dislike Dinah any less, I do think it helped him like me a little more. Still, he persistently avoided me until Chess Rochdale began picking on him.

I only remember thinking how that boy seems to have a great many teeth. You see, the Rochdale boy only grinned when he saw me and so I was always a little startled to see him. He looked very goodnatured, I thought, but still — those teeth! — I felt he ought to be treated with respect. "Chestibor," I began, rather timidly, as I did not at all know whether he would like the name. Later I would learn that this wasn't the correct name to address him with at all. However, he only grinned a little wider. Come, he's pleased so far, I mistakenly thought and went on. "Would you tell me please, which way Malakai and I ought to walk from here?" This seemed to me to be the most polite thing to say, seeing as how I couldn't very well just ask him to leave my friend alone. However, I couldn't see how he could possibly be offended by a suggestion for us to leave him alone. In fact, I thought he might be rather delighted, but that was before I had come to realize how he seems to find a great deal of entertainment in teasing people.

"That depends a good deal on where you want to get to," said Chestibor. It seemed a particularly clever thing to say and I very nearly altogether forgot what our situation was until I felt Mally give a fearful little tug to my sleeve. He has always been such a tiny boy that I suppose from his (quite literal!) viewpoint, everyone must feel one kind of intimidating or another. "I don't much care where —" I began to reply, only to find myself interrupted. "Then it doesn't matter which way you walk," said the Rochdale boy. "— so long as I get somewhere," I added as an explanation, taking Mally's hand in mine as I prepared to lead him away in a proper escape. "Oh, you're sure to do that," was the response, "if only you walk long enough." While I felt that such a thing could not be denied, I found myself entirely too concerned about the ever-tightening pressure of Mally's fingers around my own and — before I could give another thought to the bully's curious logic or my own sense of politeness — I started to walk on in the direction that was the particular opposite of Chestibor Rochdale.

After that, Malakai seemed to grow tentatively fond of me and oh! I began to learn a great many interesting things about him. Everyone in class seemed to think it odd how he could fall fast asleep no matter what the time or place was and would often declare how they didn't approve of his habits one bit! However, I have always found it fascinating and even find myself thinking from time to time how perhaps I might like him best when he's asleep. When I sleep, it is a very dull affair for everyone except myself. My dreams may be filled with suns and stars, cloud rabbits and fields of technicolor mushrooms, but anyone else would only see the way my mouth hangs open against my pillow as I snore softly, a bit of drool creeping out the corner of my lips. How utterly humiliating!

The way Malakai sleeps is something altogether different and I can't honestly say that I'm not more than just a little envious. It begins with a subtle twitching in his fingers or toes and then — it's as if I'm having visions right along with him! When he picks up a cup of dreamy tea or wanders across one of the Sandman's pet cats, I can truly see the reach of his hands or the frantic stuttering of his footsteps as his feet kick against the air, scurrying across an otherworldly ground where nothingness becomes something tangible. Then, sometimes, he'll begin to speak; those are my favorites of his dreams. I remember once when he sang in his sleep, a soft and steady murmur of "Twinkle, twinkle, twinkle, twinkle—" and went on so long that Jace had to pinch him to make him stop. I cried out even more loudly than Mally did, anguished with disappointment.

From time to time he will tell stories, perplexing yet lovely sleep-mumblings about sisters living in the bottom of a treacle-well — and they were very ill, seeing as how they couldn't have lived on nothing more than treacle and been otherwise — drawing all manner of things. "Everything that begins with an M," Malakai had said with a yawn, although he was very certainly already asleep, "such as mousetraps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness. You know you say things are 'much of muchness'?" I hadn't ever said or even heard of such a thing, but I remember nodding (although he surely couldn't have known it) not having wanted to interrupt. "Did you ever see such a thing as a drawing of muchness?" I hadn't, but it went without question that I wanted to. After all, I fancy myself to be of the general opinion that I should rather like to see everything I haven't.

His literal bedtime stories and ability to carry on conversations even while being unconscious make it seem to me that he never comes to a particular stop. It's as though he's living twice as much life as everyone else and I suppose that is the true meaning of "much of muchness," so perhaps I really have seen such a thing. Certainly, if ever there were something with more muchness than Malakai, I haven't seen it. I rather wish I could be so fabulously full of much, but instead I'm all too often told that I'm too much and how that's why I find myself in such precariously unfortunate situations — like when Jace scolded me for apologizing to Chess after taking Mally's hand and running straight away!

Jace said that hadn't been such a particularly bad idea of mine and that I had even done a rather proper thing in intervening, but oh! I do so hate people being upset with me and my thoughts just turned round and round until the next thing I knew I was standing in front of Chess Rochdale once more — quite dizzy, I should say — inquiring as to whether or not he were mad with me. "Oh, you can't help that," said Chess, "we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad." Now, I was practically certain that wasn't what I had meant to say at all, but I've always been so easily distracted by my own thoughts that my curiosity beat my factuality right out and I found myself asking: "How do you know I'm mad?" I do believe this was the particular moment when Chess decided to switch from teasing Mally to teasing me. Perhaps he liked the way I always seemed terribly impressed with his cleverness, putting a great deal more thought into actually answering his riddles, or maybe his motives were more curious than I could possibly imagine. In any case, thinking back on it, he made a very good point with his reply and I really ought to have paid more attention. "You must be," the Rochdale boy reasoned with a grin that seemed to remain with me for some time even after he was gone, "or you wouldn't have come here." Honestly, now! I'm not mad, but there really are several very convincing arguments for the contrary.

You see, I generally give myself very good advice, although I seldom follow it. All my life I have done quite well with telling myself what I ought to do and what I ought not to do, only, it seems I've never had a particular talent for listening to any of it. Perhaps I might have heard some of the more important suggestions if Jace weren't always so very busy talking. After all, it's rather difficult for anyone to hear much over him, particularly when one spends as much time with him as I do. There simply wasn't substantial time for me to properly develop the skill of listening to myself, seeing as how Jace and I have been married ever since I was exactly five-years-old. My parents were very insistent that I not take the name Ophelia Wheaton, however, and I do suppose they were not entirely wrong that I'm much better suited to the name of Darling, but no matter what my name is, Jace Wheaton will always be my "awfully wedded husband."

That particular day had been my fifth birthday and I was — most predictably — the one who proposed: blunt, decisive, and leaving such a very little room for the idea that participation might be the least bit optional. "Let’s get married." Jace may talk more than I do, but his thoughts and words rarely settle into such concrete ideas, they just dance through the air with an aimless insistence that's as steady, yet unguided as his drum beats. Dinah was our "aff-affish… aficionado" for the ceremony ("Officiator, Pheels," Jace had corrected), making certain that my first kiss really was the most important one of my life. I would deny that later, but only to make a point. Honestly, I may have been five, but I understood perfectly well what I was requesting of him: I should think I had known from the very first time I met Jace — surrounded by paper flowers and his incessant chattering that immediately declared us as one sort of soul mates or another — that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him.

Indeed, there's very little that Jace and I haven't done together, from first kisses (my initial thought was about how odd it was for both of our mouths to be moving with not a single word coming out) to swapping secrets. In this subterranean Underland, we have discovered our own sky — lit up with glow-in-the-dark stars that surely reach much higher than the ceiling of my bedroom — and how a little bit of imagination is nothing to be ashamed off, no matter how often we're told we'll lose our heads if we don't hold our tongues! So many nights have been whiled away between the two of us, sprawled out on the floor of my room in a pile of decidedly frilly patchwork lace blankets and haphazardly entwined limbs, babbling about every piece of stuff and nonsense that might flit through our silly heads.

Those homemade blankets of mine might be tattered and raggedy to those who look too closely — assemblages of mismatched lace, mended wears and tears, and improvised dye jobs — but Jace never judged me for it. Ever since I began sewing, not one awful word has ever left his mouth about anything I've stitched together. In fact, I tried to test him once, presenting him with a particularly embarrassing shirt that read SAVE A DRUM, BANG A DRUMMER in bright purple ink with a careful, but utterly inaccurate drawing of a snare drum and sticks beneath. For all his blushing and a smile that would be rather an understatement to describe as awkwardly forced, he still thanked me and a few days later even seemed genuinely pleased to have received the gift.

So I continue my frivolous endeavors, constantly making new stuffed animals for my collection from old sheets and shirts too threadbare to be recycled. As a result there are precisely fifty-two cotton-stuffed creatures piled on top of my bed: Little Bill the lizard, an enormous puppy with large round eyes, both Fish and Frog-Footmen, a rather miserable Mock Turtle, and a pig who once very nearly had his precious nose carried off by an unusually large saucepan! However, my particular favorite is a patchwork cat my mother made me when I was just a tiny baby. Dinah. Ever since I can remember I've hauled her quite literally everywhere with me, holding entire conversations and finding myself the subject of far more than one skeptical glance.

("Oh, Dinah!" I would say as I tossed her Up, Up, so very far Up Above me each night as I lay in bed after my mother and father tucked me in, hoping that she might touch the sky as I have so often wished I could. "There are no mice in the air, I'm afraid, but you might catch a bat and that's very like a mouse, you know. But do cats eat bats, I wonder?" And here I always began to get very sleepy, and would go on saying to myself, in a dreamy sort of way as my parents shut my bedroom door with a laugh, "Do cats eat bats? Do cats eat bats?" and sometimes, "Do bats eat cats?" For, you see, as I couldn't answer either question, it didn't much matter which way I put it. As I was dozing off, and had just begun to dream that I was walking hand in hand with Dinah, they might even hear me mumbling very earnestly, "Now, Dinah, tell me the truth: did you ever eat a bat?")

Yet my quiet and unassuming parents — who quite honestly have never known what to do with my wildly overactive imagination — never discouraged me. Most often they simply nod and smile before sending me on my way, but that doesn't stop them from doing what little they can. My mother helps to inspect and manufacture the District uniforms, always bringing home thread and thimbles. (I've taken to carrying one around in my pocket at all times, because one never knows when the need for a thimble might arise; why, I'd even say it's elegant enough to be given as a prize! It might be easy to think of such a thing as being absurd, but oh! Something like winning a caucus-race can be such a solemn affair that perhaps a thimble or some comfits might encourage a cheer or two.) My father, whose hair has admittedly become very white since the days before I was born and who has grown perhaps uncommonly fat for Thirteen — alas, you are old, father William! — works for maintenance helping out with material recycling, bringing home old fabric for me that would otherwise be thrown into the incinerators.

Despite my personal benefit, both of my parent's jobs sound horrendously dull and I often find myself fretting over the idea that one day I'll end up assigned to similar work. How dreadfully savage! I can't possibly imagine how miserable I should be spending the rest of my days sorting old uniforms and checking for rips and tears in the fabric. That seems rather the exact opposite of what I should like to do! Then again, I can't hardly bring myself to hope for anything except the idea that one of these days I might wake Up to find myself lying on the bank of a faraway pond — the grass will be rustling in the wind and the pool rippling to the waving of the reeds — with my head resting in Jace's lap as he gently brushes away leaves that have fluttered down from the trees onto my face. As my eyes open to a new reality, he'll exclaim about what a long sleep I've had as I tell him all about my curious dream of a place called District Thirteen and my strange adventures there.