Lady Macbeth -

That night—that terrible, beautiful night—I made myself into a creature of pure purpose. When Duncan slept, looking so much like a weary grandfather than a king, I did not hesitate. I would have done it myself. Do you hear me? I would have driven the blade home, had he not resembled my father as he slept. That was my only mercy. One single thread of mortal womanhood, frayed but unbroken. And then Macbeth—my soldier, my coward—he came back with his hands painted red and his mind already beginning to come apart.

At first, I did not know. The doctor is too afraid to tell me, but I know now. I walk the corridors of this castle—this gilded tomb —with a candle, because I am terrified of the dark. I, who once summoned night to cloak my dagger. I, who laughed at the owl’s scream and the cricket’s cry. Now I cannot bear a shadow. I scrub my hands in my sleep. I see the spots of blood that are not there. I say the words I swore I would never say again: “Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?” Lady Macbeth

Do you remember the letter? The letter that arrived like a second skin, telling of three weird sisters and a prophecy that tasted like destiny. My husband—my dear husband—he was too full of the milk of human kindness. He wanted greatness, yes, but he wanted it to fall upon him like a gentle rain. He would be holy and he would be king. He could not see that the crown is not given. It is taken . I saw the shortest path. I saw the dagger in the dark. And I loved him for his weakness because it meant I would be his strength. Do you hear me

Here is my candle. Here is my gown. Here is the stain that will not wash out. And here is the end, approaching like a gentle sleep—or like a blade. I no longer know the difference. One single thread of mortal womanhood, frayed but unbroken