Blowing the torch out, I slowly open the door to the guest chambre. My eyes, are deemed useless by the sudden darkness can detect nothing, thus heightening my other senses. The air still has a faint musty smell under the harsher scent of lye that the maid used this morning. The chill of the room creeps over my body, the wind of the impending storm sweeping through the window, the icy flagstones beneath my slippers. However, these aspects are warm compared to the frigid stone that my heart has become. Remorse and agony of what I am here to do weigh heavy on my mind, but my feet carry me to Duncan's side. Every sound is amplified in my ears. The soft shuffling of my feet is a great crashing waterfall with every inch that I move. As my eyes become accustomed to the darkness like those of a cat, I manage to glimpse fearsome shadows flitting around me. These spirits are the only ones who know what great wrong I am about to commit. I can hear them whispering with each other condemning me. "Treason! They cry, treason, murder!" These gruesome ghosts surround me, twirling and dancing madly, they know who I am, and they know what I plan to do. I turn to the lone window where the eerie goddess of the moon watches me hungrily, she tells me what I must do. As I stare at the midnight scenery a great bolt of lightning splits the velvet sky above the moors. The sudden light blinds me and the wraiths and the divine entity vanish from my sight. A wave of conviction glides over me and I stride toward the dormant monarch. He is so peaceful, radiant in his recent victory, and even in this state I can see his pride in me, his kinsman. Nausea and guilt are a hard blow to my gut. The sour taste of bile builds in the back of my throat as I raise my daggers up to the moonlight. I run my finger along the edge of one of those smiling blades, it is sharper than any weapon in the armory of Satan. I pay for this careless wandering of my mind as the blade tears a shallow bite on my hand, bring my mind back to the task at hand. I suddenly realize that there is no time to lose, the liquor will only last on the men for the night. I bear down on my glorious King. The first dagger strikes his gut, his eyes flash wide open to stare at the treacherous ogre standing above him. His dying lungs manage one last gasp as he fights to speak. "Gracious Macbeth..." His eyes bore in to me, full of shock. "Long live the King!" I sneer as I drive the second blade through his heart. He surges foreword and is gone. As the dead weight of his corpse weighs down my body, spilling blood down my front, an exponentially greater weight is laid on my spirit. My mind goes numb as I stare at my doings. Dropping the carnage that was king, I scamper from with bed with my back to the wall, horrified of myself. The shades return, dark and whirling. This time, however, there is a gleaming white specter accompanying them. This phantom rises above me wearing a golden crown. The camber is lit with its fearful light as it hisses words full of poison. "Long live Macbeth!" Absolute terror numbs my mind as I grab the daggers and flee the scene. I scream in my head to never stop running, that I should run to the end of the earth and fling myself into the fires of hell. I charge as a fugitive through the halls of my own castle. I condemn myself to eternal damnation. What was this for? To be king? There is no honor in a title claimed in such a manner. I keep running from the spirit of death that shall chase me for the rest of my days.