Lies of a Story Teller

Macbeth: Act 2, Scene 1

ATTENTION:

This is a collection of short stories I've written. They have nothing to do with each other and go in no particular order. Read what sounds interesting to you. Some are older, some are newer, so some of the writing isn't my best. I'd still love to hear what you have to say on any of them, though! -FO97

 

 

An English assignment where we were supposed to rewrite a scene of Macbeth. This is the scene where Macbeth murders Duncan. I was really happy with it and thought I'd share.

Banquo and his young son, Fleance, walk on down the corridors back to their beds. I watch them go with an almost wistful longing. Banquo is a great man with few uncertainties. I envy him for his loyalty, intelligence, and valiance. My thoughts wander as I begin to imagine Banquo in the same position as I am in now. Would he participate in such a perfidious act? Would he construct the perfect stratagem to better himself? I try to tell myself that he would, but in the darkest corner of my conscience, I know that he would never.

In mental and physical defeat, I lean against the wall and slump my way to the floor. There I hold my head in my hands, gently rocking myself back and forth. The king’s corridor is completely silent. An honest person would be in bed. And honest person would not scheme. An honest person would be content with their life.

But that is one thing that I do not have: honesty.

I have succeeded thus far in making my outward appearance belie my nefarious plans, but I think that I cannot keep the ruse up much longer.

I wipe clammy sweat from my brow and the palms of my hands. I shake violently, almost as if with an illness. I am cold inside and out. My vision blurs as unspilled tears cloud my sight. I take a shuddering breath.

A dagger is suspended in the air before me. I jump and bang my head harshly on the stone wall. I do not take my eyes off the anomalous sight before me, though, and wait for some unseen hand of God to drive the blade into my black heart. But nothing happens. The small knife simply hangs listlessly in the air before me, twirling as if tied to a string, though I can see no thread. I am so bewildered by this phenomenon that I reach out to grab it. I am further mystified when my hand passes through it as if through air. I sit back with awe as I realize my mind must be playing tricks on me. I scrutinize the weapon further by pulling out a dagger of my own and holding it up the apparition. The two look exactly the same in size and in make.

“I was just planning to put to use a weapon just like you,” I murmur to the dagger. Blood splotches appear that had not been there before, and I know then that my eyes must be not working. Either way, the dagger dissolves into nothingness, leaving me once more alone with my thoughts. I stand, slowly stretching the tired muscles in my back and legs. The corridor’s darkness prevails, and even the small noises I make seem to echo obscenely throughout its stone walls. I wonder at the curious sight of the dagger. Is my mind so corrupted by my homicidal thoughts that I am beginning to see hallucinations? Am I mad? With greed? Hate? Grief?

I jump in panic as the ringing of a bell chimes through the cold walls. It sounds so loud to me that I had think in my brain fevered state that somebody must have snuck up in the dark while I was occupied. I understand after a moment. It is my signal. It is my lady telling me that it is time to perform the deed.

“Hear it not, Duncan,” I say aloud, “For it summons you either to Heaven or to Hell.”

I know that I cannot stay any longer for the longer I linger, the duller my courage becomes so I walk, trance-like down the hall and to the doors of Duncan’s room. I do not meet any people on my long and dazed journey to Duncan’s wide oak doors. With little effort, I swing one door open and enter. The room is almost completely dark. Only a very small candle burns and it is set on the floor next to a pair of daggers; both have been left for me by my wife with whom I have constructed this collusion. On either side of the door are two servants who are drunkenly unconscious. On the wall is a massive four poster bed.  I can see a dark shape lying in it.

 I shut the door behind me as quietly as I can. My hands are shaking so badly that I fumble with the daggers for a moment before I am able to pick them up, one in each hand. I begin to walk away, and in my sorry state, I forget the candle. I turn back to get it and at the last second decide that I do not want to see myself as I kill the king. I leave the candle behind.

Ba-dump. . .ba-dump. . .ba-dump. . .

My heart hammers in my chest. I breathe heavily, and sweat drips into my eyes. I walk on tiptoes to the bed, making every step soundless.

Ba-dump. . .ba-dump. . .ba-dump. . .

I take a step closer to the bed. I can see King Duncan’s face lying blissfully unaware. He has a beard of iron grey, and his face is weathered with laugh lines and crinkles at his eyes.

Ba-dump. . .ba-dump. . .ba-dump. . .

I startle in acute fear as the king abruptly shifts and rolls over in his sleep. My heart jumps about like a frantic rabbit for several moments after, and I must wait for the shaking in my limbs to decrease before I can continue. I take another two steps closer until I am above Duncan's body.

Ba-dump. . .ba-dump. . .ba-dump. . .

 I cannot tell if it is Duncan’s heart or my own that pounds so loudly. Surely it is mine, for how could I hear another’s heartbeat? And is not Duncan’s heart as good as stopped? My dagger protruding from his chest? And what is this blood that covers my hand? This red life force? The deed is done? It is finished?

And I know that it is. I know that I have stabbed the king, cruelly ending his life while he slept. I have ended the life of my kin, my friend, and my king. I have murdered, and now I am finished.