Lady MacbethA Journal Entry
My husband is a fool. Indeed, despite all efforts to allow for his folly- he tries my patience. "Macbeth doth murder sleep," he cried, or some such madness. His hands stained rose red- a pretty colour for all its cause- he stands there, drenched in the colours of his deed and makes no move to hide such glaring evidence.
It is then that I noticed that his hands still bore the very daggers meant to incriminate Duncan's chamberlains. The fire of the night's wines burned within my belly, and its rage did more to soothe my temper than all the calming waters in the world. My lord then refuses to return to Duncan's chamber and finish his work, claiming fear. His face pale, and his red, red hands held shakily before him, he looked the very picture of a fool- a cowardly fool at that. I, a woman of once gentle nature, I alone seemed to understand and possess the strength of purpose required to do the deed. I who was prepared to sacrifice all that was necessary, stood before one who would not, and could not understand.
No matter, I took the instruments from my husband's limp grasp and stole away to Duncan's chambers. My feet fell so lightly, and the door opened so quietly, I have to wonder if I ever moved at all, if by some strange magic I simply floated down the passage and slipped through the crack under the door. The darkened room took on a strange colour, dizzy ooze of movement and hues. The fool chamberlains grunted in their sleep, and I smiled. I slip in to the inner rooms of the chamber, and breath. The smell of blood…I run a household, I oversee kitchens, I am not stranger to blood, but never so much, and never so fresh. The scent reached for me, curling in my nostrils, and clinging to my hair and gown- coppery, thick, and sharp. I do not like it, and even now with my fresh clothes and washed skin, the stench lingers. But still I did not falter, I approached the bed- my foot falls so light just moments before were heavy, weighed down as if filled by lead.
The very sight almost made me fear my husband-fool though he is. Stab wounds littered the belly of the lifeless Duncan, slashes too numerous to count crisscrossed along his face and torso. The man's face, one that was once so proud and dignified, was twisted in agony. How much had he felt of the blows that my husband dealt him, before he was allowed to die? I would not have to cut a new wound- there was more than enough spilt to serve my purpose here. I reached out both hands, and pressed them upon the jagged stab wounds. It was colder than I had expected- almost icy. I pulled back my hands and stared in wonder, red ran down my palms in rivulets. I had such white hands, so pale and small in the candlelight, I had never noticed before. The droplets, -a red which had been almost pleasing on the hands of my husband, pretty despite it's foul source- seemed darker, uglier, and more sinister, on my white, white hands. The smell was so strong I could hardly breath.
There was not enough blood for truly damning evidence, and so once again, I pressed my palms against his torso, 'till the blood welled up at the sides and spilled on to the backs of my wrists and hands.
I returned to the chamberlains, and coated their hands and faces with the blood. I made certain that their daggers were clenched tightly in their grasp. The red still covered my hands.
I fled the chamber; my footsteps were quick and light. The red seemed to be crawling up my arms.
"My hands are of your colour," I said to my husband, "but I shame to wear a heart so white."
White as my hands had been before this night.
"A little water clears us of this deed."
Oh but that it could.
My husband just stood there.
Perhaps it is not he who is the fool after all.