Interior Monologue on Lady Macbeth Essay

755 Words4 Pages
First came the pride, an overwhelming sense of achievement, an accomplishment due to great ambition, but slowly and enduringly surged a world of guilt and confusion, the conscience which I once thought diminished, began to grow, soon defeating the title and its rewards. Slowly the unforgotten memories from that merciless night overcame me and I succumbed to the incessant and horrific images, the bloody dagger, a lifeless corpse. I wash, I scrub, I tear at the flesh on my hands, trying desperately to cleanse myself of the blood. But the filthy witness remains, stained, never to be removed.

I believe there are two kinds of people in life; the kind that let things happen and the kind that make things happen. I prefer to think of myself
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And so, I signed my own death warrant, I ‘poured mine spirits into thine ear', I persuaded my innocent husband to commit a crime which I and not he, deserved to pay the price for.

I am a murderer. Perhaps the crime was not committed by my hands, but it was intended by my mind. It was my will that worked through Macbeth when he drew the treacherous blade and plunged it into the heart of the unsuspecting king. I, his other half, his soul mate, the love of his life, taunted him of being a coward, questioning his reputable manliness, and like a puppet he moved as I pulled the strings.

I am lost in the turmoil of my own mind, the faithful spirits that ‘tend on mortal thoughts', deserted me long ago. I repudiated my fundamental social aspect of being a woman and a wife. I did the unthinkable and gave away my woman hood, my femininity, my tenderness. And what for? To stop the ‘compunctious visiting of nature' which now ‘shake my fell purpose', haunting me into the night, moving me unwillingly as I sleep.

Forced to lie awake, alone and scared, too afraid to fall asleep, horrifying images intrude my mind, disturbing what little sanctity I have left. I feel that I am going insane, I am losing control over my body, my thought, my actions. When I look at my hands, I do not see the soft, milky skin of an aristocratic lady, but the calloused,

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