Lady Macbeth has always been a fascinating character to me. She's ambitious and power hungry, an unusual role for a female character, especially for the time period. She hardly seems human. When she's talking to Macbeth, her words are harsh and venomous, and she seems to have sexism issues. I wanted to explore her more as a character and give her a background that could explain why she is the way she is and humanize her a little more. I wanted to see what in her past could lead her to so much ambition and mental instability.

The truth is there's no memory she can pinpoint as the moment when it started. When she flips back through her memories, they only grow more and more blurred, more and more unfocused, and if she goes back far enough all she has are memories of ideas and concepts, with the occasional image thrown into the mix, its meaning worn away by time. Most of these images, concepts, ideas center around him – her father. He was a wiry man with thin hair the color of old straw. She remembers his face too well, the way his lip quivered frantically whenever his mouth wasn't moving, as if made nervous by the lack of activity, the yellowish eyes that followed her everywhere.

He'd wanted a male child, an heir to inherit his estate and possibly improve it. He never got one; he'd only got her, a weak, pale little girl child that he couldn't teach to hunt or fight. Her worth was purely in her potential suitors, and he let her know it, in shouting fits that left her face speckled with his spittle.

It wasn't long after he'd let her know the first time that the night time visits began. The first one confused her very much. She was lying half awake under her heavy blankets, drifting through strange half-dreams, when she heard a soft fumbling at the door and her father came in. She had a lock on her door, but there are some things that locks can't keep out. It happened many times, and now all she remembers is his crushing weight, the blankets smothering her weeping, and large calloused fingers wandering where no father's should. His hot breath in her ear told her things, how it was her fault, how since she was a girl she might as well be useful somehow, how she'd have to get used being handled by men like this eventually anyway. Many times she thought this would never have happened if she'd been different, if she hadn't been born a girl. His words were more stifling than his heavy body, and they're repeated, over and over and over again, until she herself believes them.

That was years ago, but it's still imprinted on her mind. She should have been a boy.

Now she holds the letter in her hand, crinkling up the dry paper as she reaches the end. For once, it's like fate handing them trump cards, a king and queen card, this prophecy of Macbeth's. If Macbeth acts now, they could win the game by the end of the year. He may only be a king of clubs rather than spades, but a king is a king. Raw power so near: if only she were a man, she could take if for herself. She doesn't want the queen of spades, she wants the king. She wants the card that could trump the game. She knows she can't have it though; her hand was dealt at birth. Fate is looking down on her, cackling at the cards it gave her. She feels watched, and suddenly it's not the eyes of fate watching her but the eyes of her father, drilling into her soul. He's laughing at her cards.

Words rise up from deep within her, like a bubble rising from the bottom of a lake, and inevitable burst out. "Come, you spirits that assist murderous thoughts, make me less like a woman and more like a man, and fill me from head to toe with deadly cruelty!" She's keening, but the words only echo around the empty chamber, and there's no response, only memories.

When her husband arrives, he announces himself quickly. "Duncan is coming here tonight."

Lady Macbeth crumples the letter up casually. "And when is he leaving?"

"He plans to leave tomorrow."

She smirks, seeing fate hand her an opportunity. "That day will never come," sShe tells him. "The king is coming, and he's got to be taken care of. Let me handle tonight's preparations, because tonight will change every night and day for the rest of our lives."

He seems unsure, but doesn't press the issue. "We will speak about this further."

"Leave all the rest to me."

So she convinces him, but later, after he's been properly fed and refreshed and socialized, he backs down. She tells him to do it and he cringes, flinching away from the idea like a frightened puppy dog. So she has to reach out with her words and wrap him around her little finger again.

The way he's acting, he reminds her of all of it; his quivering lip, covered with flecks of spittle remind her of her father, his restless pacing like the same manic energy. He's nothing like him though, not really. Her father was strong and cold, like metal, unfeeling and cruel. This man pacing before her is weak. He's killed how many men on the battlefield, men whose deaths were useless and trivial, and he can't kill one more whose death would matter? It's the cruelest kind of irony, it's life laughing at her, that she should have been married to the weakest man.

She challenges him. "Will you take the crown you want so badly, or will you live as a coward, always saying 'I can't' after you say 'I want to'?" She knows he wants to be king, and he can be; all he has to do is kill one more man. She rolls her eyes and flicks her tongue out in irritation. "When you dared to do it, that's when you were a man. And if you go one step further by doing what you dared to do before, you'll be that much more the man." She almost hisses at him, but she bites it back, swallowing her venom. "The time and place weren't right before, but you would have gone ahead with the murder anyhow. Now the time and place are just right, but they're almost too good for you."

"And if we fail?"

"We won't fail." Her voice is cold and hard.

Now she's in his chamber, looking at his sleeping form: Duncan the king. Suddenly she's not Lady Macbeth in the king's borrowed chambers. She's herself a little girl again, and it's her father in her chambers instead. She wants to strike out at him, but it's like all those years ago. She can't move. Her voice is stuck and her body freezes up, and all she can see is the way his eyes looked at her, drilling into her, seeing her as nothing, only a dirty little girl. She ought to hurt him, but she can't. She can't do it. He looks too much like her father, but her father never had this much blood on him, not even when he died.

So she just takes the daggers, and puts them in the hands of innocent people.

Now she's gained everything she possibly can; she can go no further. It's nothing like she wanted. She still watches herself toe the line every day, still glances over her shoulder when she walks around corners, watching for someone who isn't there. "If you get what you want and you're still not happy," she says to the air as she's waiting for her husband one day, "you've spent everything and gained nothing. It's better to be the person who gets murdered than to be the killer and be tormented with anxiety." She shivers slightly, not sure if she believes herself, and when Macbeth comes, he can barely console her.

There's a stain now, on the cards fate handed her, something dark that slowly growing. Fear, taking over her mind. Unhappiness. Dread. No one else must see this stain. Blood covers her hands, crimson staining white; something fearful rises inside her, threatening to overcome her, but she pushes it down, down, down deep inside her and locks it away behind her skeleton, refusing to think. Instead, she scrubs off the crimson stain, harsh with the cloth as if she's trying to reclaim her innocence.

The thing which threatened her could not stay locked away; it's risen up now, towering over her sanity. She knows it: it's her father, and he's coming for her. She can hear his voice in quiet moments, echoing down the hallway as if he's standing around the corner calling for her. When she sleeps she sees him the way she remembers him, strong harsh fingers, greasy straw hair, and he's finding her, ripping everything from her, destroying her. She takes to her feet, running, and when she wakes up it's never in the same place she went to sleep.

Everything is crumbling now. She's alone in this room, her clothing rotting and fraying away from her body even as she watches, and there he is, the figure of her father looming up before her. Her voice is strangled. Somehow, and she doesn't know where it came from, there's a dagger in her hand, and she makes the best use of it she can. She cuts it all away, everything that marks her as "woman", carving flesh away from flesh. Without these parts of herself, maybe it'll be okay. She won't be "woman" anymore. It hurts, but that's okay. The blood flows freely, staining not just her hands but her entire body. She turns her head, looking out across the stone landscape of the floor, and sees ebony strands of hair soaking up the redness. Her father isn't there anymore; he's gone and she's glad.

She really should have been a boy.