Emilia speaks:
As I reflect upon the events leading up to my death, I can understand why some may be inclined to lay the blame of the great tragedy on me. I was Iago's accomplice, in a technical fashion; I procured the handkerchief, I never questioned his motives...I sealed their death warrants with my blind faith. But tell me--what woman would wish to believe that her husband, the father of her children, could possess a heart so cold and unfeeling? Who would willingly admit that the man with whom she shares her life could be capable of manipulation and murder? Surely not I; even when I felt the cold steel of the blade penetrate my skin, even when I looked up to see Iago holding the sword handle, his eyes blank and devoid of compassion...even then, I doubted. Even then I looked about the room frantically, trying to locate my killer, unable to accept that my husband could take my life so casually. But he did. His hands were stained with the blood of many: myself, the fop Roderigo, the Moor...and Desdemona. Oh, even now that I have passed the boundaries of the physical world, my heart cries out for her. The dear innocent, murdered for a crime she did not commit. And I loved her so.
But did I love Iago? I cannot say...I still do not know. I respected his intelligence, I yearned for his approval, I desired his body...but did I love him? From a sensible perspective, it would be impossible for me to answer in the affirmative. Iago was an evil, murdering traitor, and it was he who tore my life from me, leaving my children motherless...yes, any rational person would simply make up her mind to hate him for all eternity. But I find that I cannot. My feelings for Iago are destined to remain a mystery that even the supposedly omniscient nature of the afterlife cannot fully unravel, and I no longer even attempt to define them.
But I often wonder how I evolved into the cynical, worldly creature that I was at the time of my death. Surely I wasn't born as such---no, the young Emilia was nothing if not an idealist. Then how did my airy dreams and fancies disappear so completely in just a few short years? I died at twenty-three; hardly a vast age. Thus, my complete transformation over a ten year period continues to perplex me. So I shall simply have to recount the story of those years, and perhaps all will become clear when I am through. Well, one can only hope.