I have been so stupid.

How could I not see Iago's falseness? Why did I not question him when he asked me to steal Desdemona's handkerchief? Oh, Desdemona, I pray you hear my thousand apologies from your place in heaven, as your ears will ne'er hear again while lying murdered by your husband, Othello.

If ever a tragic fool walked this Earth—but then, how can I judge him? I, myself, was fooled, as we all were—honest Iago, that was what everybody called him. Nobody was aware of the demon lurking inside.

And yet, forgive Othello I cannot. He killed my mistress, the perpetually faithful Desdemona—he, her own husband! "Nay, lay thee down and roar," I told him not long ago, "for thou hast kill'd the sweet innocent that e'er did lift up eye." I meant it.

Oh, she was so good! Pure and sweet as honey, ne'er sinned all her life. What just God would decree that such atrocities should happen to Desdemona? Well, perhaps it's best not to think of that, as I lie here dying—for once, I must be hopeful, for hope is all I have now.

I've been such a coward all my life. I did what Iago told me to do, not once questioning him. What terrible irony it is that I am slain just when I, finally, show some courage?

I think of the last time I spoke to my poor mistress, when she talked of the cruelty of men and Barbara, her mother's maid, who sang a song called willow that spoke of her love for her husband, which she died singing as he killed her.

"What did thy song bode, lady?" I asked Desdemona futilely in what I knew to be my last few minutes of life. "Hark, canst thou hear me? I will play the swan and die in music." For I, too, have been slain by my husband, sweet mistress. "Willow, willow, willow—Moor, she was chaste; she loved thee, cruel Moor; So come my soul to bliss, as I speak true; So speaking as I think, I die, I die…"

But in my last moments, something changed. I felt sympathy for the unfortunate Moor. Despite his faults, I knew he loved Desdemona with all his heart; he was not truly the villain—my husband was, a demon in human form. I did not wish to admit it, even at my deathbed, because then I would be all the more responsible for her death. I was an accomplice. After all, did I not steal her handkerchief for him?

I thought I had disposed of my cowardice the moment I testified against my monstrosity of a husband; I was wrong. Only seconds before my death did I show true courage. I only hoped that God could overlook that and forgive me for my role in Iago's sick game—and I hoped he could forgive Othello, too; a good soul who had been twisted by a demon seed. I knew that Desdemona would; she loved him so.

Hope coursed through my phantom veins as I left Earth, waiting to fall into Desdemona's open arms.