Look at me, just digging up all kinds of odd things from years ago XD This is from a good 3+ years ago. It's a short piece on the death of Lady Macbeth, of the play "Macbeth."
My teacher loved it so that she would not take no for an answer regarding my reading it to the class. She read it to them herself o.O;;
(Note: I place no claim on any characters of "Macbeth.")
Macbeth: The Lady
She tosses and turns in bed, throwing the sheets about her slim body in a tangled web of confusion. The demons dancing behind the shut eyes are apparent from her deeply wrinkled brow and the beads of sweat beginning to form along her hairline. Suddenly, she sits up, eyes open in an unawakened stare, locked on something visible to her and her alone.
She trembles, drawing back like a caged animal, and stares blankly at her hands in pure horror. With a sharp cry, she begins clawing at those hands, tearing at the skin as if to tear it all to pieces.
At last she falls back onto the bed, great choking sobs shaking her body, and holds her arms out in front of her, staring- never blinking –at what she saw there, what made those hands alien to the rest of her body. At last feeling her defeat, she let both arms drop to her sides.
“What is this?” the Lady asked aloud, pulling the book closer to her own face. It was open, each side containing writing as of that in a journal. Only, on the right side chaos had taken over, the writing streaking from all sides, becoming larger and smaller without warning. And repeating only the same line over and over: ‘What’s done is done.’
“A sick joke perhaps? A game played by him without sense?” She traced a finger over the words, shivering slightly. “No, this is mine own writing, mine own paper. No one else”
She dropped the book, jumping slightly at the clatter, and moved to sit on the edge of her bed. “What is it you want?” she asked of someone not visible. Her eyes widening, she leapt back further onto the bed, pulling blankets over herself all the while staring at someone or something unable to be seen.
“These hands, they are what you want; I am innocent. The hands know the deed,” she whispered softly, carefully. “I am innocent.” She glanced at her hands and gave a sharp cry when they twitched to life and began to move toward her slender throat.
A low whimper escaped her open mouth, but only beckoned on the hands, not deterring in the least. The fingers slipped over her skin easily, coming to have a firm hold. They tightened.
The Lady’s eyes widened to the full extent, her chest heaving to catch each breath. She gasped out- painfully -at last, “I…am innocent.”
She struggled to her feet, her eyes locked on the far wall, the wall with her very own large window. Somehow, a smile managed its way to her lips, almost in a sinister triumph. She grasped hold of the wall and leaned far out into the sky, still staring ahead as if following. The hands tightened further still, as the Lady released.
An icy breeze blew harshly into the now-unoccupied room, ruffling the pages of the book on the floor until it was open once more to the final two pages. On the right, the scrawls of that one line, and a single drop of blood. On the left, silky smooth writing, tense in its foreshadowing lesson:
Each night a visit from I know not what. I awake in the morn to find fresh wounds on my hands, long grazes which could only come from mine own nails, and trails of blood leading about the room and stopping at my pillow. Always the blood. I shut my eyes and see an ocean of red, the tears of those I have helped to slaughter. I open them to find the remains on my hands, steadfast in their refusal to be washed away.
I was a Lady and was loved by all and slept soundly every night. I am Queen and know not a single restful night. What is this? Is this the power I had been led to believe was all I wanted? Is it? And was it I who wanted it?
In the beginning I believed so. I wished nothing more than power for myself and my husband, and to be loved and respected by everyone. I realize now that it was not my doing, no, but that of some greater power. The hands that write this seem to be part of my body well enough, and yet they have helped to destroy lives and carry still the stains of those victims’ blood.
Was it I who wished to have the courage of a man? I, who had for so long been innocent of all crimes. Still, even now, I believe I am innocent. The blood is there, the demons appear, but the deeds are not mine own.
Tell me then, who is responsible? For whom do I toss and turn at night? Who is it who has made my hands rebel against me so? Let me wash clean the blood…the blood…
A single clear scream is the only answer, the only possible vengeance for one turned in on herself. And in the end, there is only the blood.