Loneliness can kill in ways far crueller than any blade. I find it morbidly curious, to be surrounded by people, to be able to feel the flesh of my dearest love against my palm and still feel isolation pricking at the borders of my psyche.
Even the remembrance of the event makes my gut clench and stomach churn. The nauseating blend of horror and dizzying sorrow as he shouted at empty air, face red with an invisible strain and throat hoarse in his demented passion.
To feign ignorance is inarguably cowardly, but nowadays to be labeled as such seems rather redundant; honour matters naught to a woman damned. It would be an extraordinary falsehood to deny my role in Macbeth's blatant inner turmoil, yet even now my hesitance stops me from going to him like I used to, sharing the skeletons in our closets that just wont stay in the grave as they rightfully should.
So here I find myself, gazing out at the Stygian skies, feeling oddly philosophical. If given the chance to turn back Father Time, I wonder if I would do things differently, had I known that paradise was hell to those who endure it alone. The fine silks and sparkling jewels; would I miss them more than my husband? It chills me that I do not know.
The irony has a bitter taste and I scowl, fiddling with loose threads at the seams on my sleeves, plucking at them one by one. Duncan was dead and he is at peace; here I sit, my chest rising with each breath, and doomed never to be at peace again; chambers away my husband rages. Listening to him descend into an agonized sort of mania heightens my own slipping understanding of reality.
My fingers are trembling and my scowl deepens. This remorse is growing roots around my ribcage and sprouting nightshade along my collarbones; my lungs expand and I feel a quiet hysteria settling in comfortably. I search for calm like a needle to a lodestone, knowing it was my own actions that have led to this calamity and mental ruin. How cruel must the fates be that I caused this and to have me know it.
Outside the cold stones of the castle, carrion crows begin to land on the palisade. They shift restlessly, beady black eyes locked on the tower.
I'm no Shakespeare but I thought I'd share this. A bit I wrote for English class, a take on how Lady Macbeth feels after the disastrous dinner where her husband sees Banquo's ghosts in his empty chair. We were to choose one symbol, a bravo to you if you find it.
-Lady Kryptonite