Queen Of Hearts
Rosalie & Emmett
My hands are of your colour; but I shame / To wear a heart so white. Her record is perfect; his is not.
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Come, come, come, come, give me your hand. What's / done cannot be undone.
She remembers how he came to her, hands held out like Macbeth-soon-to-be-king, lips the bright red of berries and satin. She remembers closing the door, peeling off the sodden clothes, throwing them into the trash with shreds of yellowed love letters and today's mail.
She remembers the glazed look in his eyes, the way he trembled as he fought to keep his fingers from his mouth, the sweet scent that was more intoxicating to him than she could imagine. She remembers sitting on the edge of the bed, putting her arms around him, looking over the hunched shoulders as her hands twined with his.
She remembers the sticky feel of the blood drying on her skin, inextricably linking the two of them for all eternity.
Her heart, like the noblewoman's, was sorely charged – but no Lady Macbeth had ever held her husband and been grateful for that damned spot, for the proof that he had come back to her.
Things without all remedy / Should be without regard: what's done is done. – Lady Macbeth