What do I see? Not a queen. Not a monster. Just a woman who loved her husband so much she unlearned every soft thing she was born with. And for what? He is a tyrant now, and he does not even look at me. He sends for the doctor, not for his wife. He plans his battles, not our future. I have become a footnote in my own catastrophe.
Then the sleepwalking began.
Give me the light. Give me the dark. Give me back the woman I killed to become this hollow, walking ghost. 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. What do I see
Out, I say.
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. Just a woman who loved her husband so