Descent to Madness
"A little water clears us of this deed"…
What a foolish notion. To think I once thought that it meant nothing, that our blind ambition and blatant cruelty would go unheeded, unpunished, unnoticed… I laugh at my own blindness now.
Nothing goes unnoticed.
Nothing goes unpunished.
Nothing can save me now…
I can still see it, still see him. His calm, peaceful features untainted by grim awareness; his greying locks fanned elegantly across richly coloured sheets, as light and free from burdens as his unlined face and his arms spread wide in utter relaxation, innocently and naively leaving his torso open, vulnerable, bloodied…
I still remember the mourning of a life lost to us forever, still remember the shocking similarities between beloved monarch and beloved father, still remember the cold, tainted, corrupting power that ruthlessly spiked my system like a fine wine, intoxicating both mind and manner with its tantalising whispers of greatness, leisure, control, security… I still remember brushing aside the foreboding, waving it away dismissively as if it were a pitiful weakness, not a warning. I foolishly scorned both my husband and myself, proclaiming the deed to be nothing, calling us both weak of resolve and faint of heart.
"A little water clears us of this deed" I uttered on that night, voice rife with contempt.
Oh, how I wish now that it were so…
They know.
I do not know how, I only know that they do, and they despise me for it. None of the servants – no maid, no messenger, no cook – dares look me in the eye, as if the blood is as visible on my face as on my hands.
But if they were to look, just once, they would see the remorse in my eyes – as clear as day, as obvious as the guilt that hangs over me like a shroud, driving away all warmth, all comfort. They'd see my attempts at penance if they only thought to look.
But they do not; they refuse to look me in the eye. They know, they judge, but they do not see. They cannot see the remorse that overwhelms me, drugs me, sickens me, poisons me…
I feel weakened, unwell. There are sharp pains in my chest, queasy gurglings in my gut, cold sweat on my palms, my brow. I feel shaky, off-balance…
I need assistance. I need help. Can they not see my frailty, my disease?
But of course they do not see. How can they when they refuse to even look at me?
Who would spare a glance at one as wretched and undeserving as I?
I cannot escape the loathing and judgement that envelopes me. It is everywhere: I see it in the fleeting glances shot me by the porter, hear it in the mindless gossiping of cook and cleaner alike. I cannot get away from this blatant condemnation.
Not even my Lord, my lover; my Macbeth dares look at me, disgusted as he is with my crimes. He distances himself, closing off into his own mind, his own plans for his own future, shutting away his thoughts and ambition from me. Even my own dear husband prefers his pondering and plots over looking upon his tainted, unclean bride.
I have tried – oh, how I have tried to rid myself of the unsightly stains. The blood that stained those once-white sheets crimson, that imbibed the shiny metal of those daggers, has dyed my hands pink with guilt.
Again and again I have spent hours, days even, trying in vain to rid myself of the stench of death, the sight of blood. But it won't come off. Why won't it come off?
Some one – Any one! – Please, just get it off!
He's here. Beside me, behind me, in the mirrors, in the halls, he is everywhere…
Haunting me, stalking me, hunting me down like a bird of prey hovers ominously above its next victim.
Duncan.
Sometimes he is merely standing there, silent, stoic, watching, waiting. Sometimes he screams, shouts unintelligibly in agony. At other times he speaks softly to me, whispering of my guilt, asking why I abused his trust so irreparably.
And yet, he is always bloodied, and he is always holding those accursed blades. Those godforsaken daggers of death, evil scythes of the reaper, bestowed unto ignorant man on the whim of a maddened, cruel deity.
The daggers, I can feel them pierce my heart as they did our late King's. Poisoned blades rend my every move in the eyes of my tormentors, alive or no.
The accusation in the vision's gaze, his voice, it severs my thoughts, cuts deep into my mind like those accursed daggers.
The whisperings of the servants inflict pain and sorrow as deep and scarring as any blade. Worse than some, for no one can see the deep wounds the harsh words make on my heart, my mind…
Blood.
Blood on my hands, the walls, the sheets, my hands… my hands…
My hands are reddened, bloodied, sullied, impure… They're rubbed raw with salts and soaps, yet still the blood is there. Its stench fills my delicate nose with memories and sick visions. The smell lingers over me, reminding me constantly of my guilt, my foolish crimes and petty ambition.
I just want that horrid scent to disperse, the blood on my hands to wash away, to leave me cleansed and atoned.
"A little water clears us of this deed"…
A little water…
Visions of death, of blood, of cold-hearted steel visit me in darkest night. Restless dreaming of a kind face, the unmarred profile of Duncan…
No… Not the King, someone else…
… Father?
Father, forgive me.
Father, why do you look upon me with such contempt, such… disappointment? Why do you glare at me so, your pitiless damnation piercing my poor heart like a knife, a dagger, blood staining your eyes, your clothes, your hands,
My hands…?
Clean. Clean. Clean.
I am unclean.
I must be clean. I must wash, bathe, cleanse, sate the tainted nature of my guilt with water, the purest and most forgiving of all the elements.
Water. Pure, refreshing, reviving water.
No matter how much I pour over my soiled skin, it does not wash away my dirtied conscience, does not forgive my bloodied soul.
I cannot drink, cannot swallow the fresh water offered me, for its purity and strength poisons me, it is toxic to my possessed, bloodthirsty spirit.
The water cannot wash away the blood, cannot erase the images of fallen King, of tarnished dagger, of blood staining both skin and steel. It cannot wash away my guilt.
The water cannot wipe my conscience clean.
Father, I see you. You watch me; take perverse pleasure in seeing my suffering.
Am I some sick jester to you? Am I a circus to observe at your own leisure?
Father, why do you look at me so?
Father, please forgive me.
Father, why do you loathe me so?
No, Father, please understand! All I did I did only to secure a future for myself and my husband, for our safety!...
Please, please forgive me…
No…
No…
NO!
Please, get away, stay away!
Vile beasts of Hell, leave me be!
They smell the blood, sense my guilt.
They know. They see.
My father stands in front of me, bloody dagger in hand, face filled with heartbroken disappointment.
Father?
A heavy step, a foot closer. Another, another…
Thunder rears its ugly head, roaring from the heavens and masking the ominous footfalls of my fast-approaching father.
In my own naïve faith, I do not see until almost too late. With a strangled cry he lunges, dagger swiping inches away from my heaving breast.
My shocked cry is drowned by another of Thunder's bloody oaths. I back away rapidly, dodging my own father's blows.
Why?
Why do you attack me, Father? Why must you look so betrayed, so utterly crestfallen? Why do you come after me with a sullied blade, already impregnated with another's lifeblood?
Stumbling backwards, I feel my legs press against a cold surface. The light emanating from behind me shines through your condemning eyes, driving through your unbeating heart as lightning flashes.
You lunge again, determined to drag me with you, down into the Hell I've earned through my actions.
My arms fling in front of me, my bloodstained hands crossed protectively over my heart.
Stay away!
Please, oh God please why won't you just stay away?
Another swipe of the phantom blade, too close for comfort. Another step backwards, away from the man I once loved more than any on Earth. One step too far.
A surprised scream tears itself from my lips as I keel backwards out into open air, the sound mingling with Thunder's laughter and your own harsh screech of outrage as you disappear from sight, dear Father.
Free fall; no confines, no visions, no thoughts.
Freedom at last.
I let out a breathless laugh as I realise that I am no longer to be accused or judged, I have repented.
A life for a life, in a way.
I am no longer guilty. The falling rain cleanses my hands of blood as the tears falling from my eyes cleanse my spirit.
I owe nothing.
I am free.
I am… Happy…
"Wherefore was that cry?" Macbeth asked absently, eyes warily scanning the scenery before him, conscious of the dwindling time.
Seyton shuffled his feet self-consciously, before uttering in a soft voice.
"The Queen, my lord… she's dead."
Macbeth's vigilance faltered briefly, his eyes closing in mourning, a single tear sliding from between clenched eyelids. When he opened them, his eyes were once again hardened for battle.
"She should have died hereafter: There would have been time for such a word." He muttered softly, silently bidding his beloved partner and long-lasting companion farewell.
Soon he and his associates turned and swept away towards their fates, Macbeth's tears forgotten and left to fall to the Earth, mingling with the rain that cleansed his wife's burdened heart.
AN ~
this is something I had to write for a school assignment of all things. Yes, my English teacher told me to write fanfiction, isn't that cool?
The pagebreaks are intentional.
There is a universal disclaimer in my profile, but to be frank, there's no way in hell that I'm Shakespeare, so I think I'm ok.
until next time!
Zanchev.