Lady Macbeth

The Murder of the Guards

Written from the perspective of Lady Macbeth

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

The ticking of time sounds like sand hitting the bottom of an hourglass. Seconds, minutes and hours closing in until the blue sky cries bloody red and the earth becomes charred with raging fires.

I slip through the dark halls, my small boots barely making a sound against the wet concrete. Thunder cracks, startling me – but I must stay quiet.

Quiet. Quiet, quiet, quiet. What a peculiar concept. Why should I stay quiet?

But I must. Stay quiet.

Shhh, the wind says, shhh, sounds? the rain xx splashing on the window.

I am almost there – the coppery tang of fresh spilt blood lingers in the air. It grows stronger as I near Duncan's chamber-turned-coffin.

The guards. They lay drowning in their own blood. I recognise the first, the one with the hooked nose, whose brother once stumbled drunkenly into our hall during a meeting screaming about his dead lover. The young knave joined her in heaven...seemingly by fate ear infection, but no one needs to hear of such- not even my dormouse valour husband. The other is a bald egg-headed man - his shirt is soaked with blood, sticking to his pitiful body.

"My Lady," a choked voice came from one of the bodies, "Please, a strange sir came -"

"Speak no more." I whisper, searching for any sign of life from the either of the two men, there had been barely a movement when the guard spoke.

I should check for a pulse. Yes, then I will know for sure. As I slowly creep closer I can feel the tension and anxiety radiating from them.

I transfer both bloody daggers to one hand. My slender fingers press against Egg-head's wrist then his throat.

Dead.

But just to be sure I swiftly press one of the blades into his throat until I hear the satisfying sound of breaking through skin and cartilage until blood stains his white neck. I take the tips of my fingers, dip them in the quickly growing puddle of red like a quill in ink and smear. There, that's better, but I must wash my hands a little tonight.

I start prowl towards the other man. He squeaks and tries to shuffle away like a rabbit caught by a fox.

"Please, prithee, have mercy," he shrieks, through the blood in his mouth, "Help, please, someone help - "

I never knew a man's voice could get so high; it rings like daggers in my ears.

"Hold you tongue and speak no longer," I order, "I will crack open your ribs like a door. I will reach into your bleeding body and tear your heart out of your chest. All while you cry your petty, bloody, little tears." Pausing I add, "But that would be cruel, and ladies ought to not be cruel – so do not make your Lady make good on her words."

He whimpers. So, I step on his throat, the slight heel of my boots pressing into his skin.

The dagger that's still in my hand feels light and the sticky blood starts to bead and roll down the blade.

I plant it right in the man's chest, he groans loudly while I smile at the sound of human tissue parting. I stab him again and again and again; all I can see and feel is the glistening blood and the smooth handle of the dagger. Slowly I lose momentum and mine own arms receiveth rest from these unfeminine acts of murder. I look down to see the body full of deep cuts and gashes. I always thought that men's skin was tougher. His dark brown eyes are fully dilated and his mouth wide open and full like a loch of red water.

It is disappointing how easily our guards can be incapacitated and scared by a mere mistress. We will have to replace them with better ones.

I leave the dagger in its place in his chest as I slip away into the shadows with blood irregularly staining my 'pure' fair skin.