What stain is this that plagues my royal palm? A sweet crimson will tell my forbidden tale, its vibrant hue screaming to the commoners and others of a nobler breed. The strongest soaps and hardest scrubs will not rid me of this telling mark, nor will the sweetest perfume ever take its pungent stench away. I can feel the its mocking itch as I long to scratch away its vile existence, but then the servants will take note. My lord stares with a crazed eye, I’m sure that he too can see the stain, the vibrant stain because of which our empire shall fall. Yet how could he not see the stains upon my palm when he is covered in such blood, the guilt of Duncan’s death, the ever-lasting badge of with which we shall be eternally condemned.
The dagger haunts us as well, the shining blade is etched deep into my fragile brain, the gleaming leer of guilt shines brighter than any beacon made by man. My lord carries the forsaken weapon on the hilt of his belt, scavenged from some lowly beggar, it is the crowning jewel of his new insanity.
To save the empire, which we have stolen from the Lord Duncan, to save that which I hold nearest to my heart, I will and shall cut the fragile string of life and cast away such petty thoughts of existence. The question thus becomes, to slit my throat with his accursed dagger and bring notice only towards my death… or tie the frayed rope around my neck to be tossed into the perilous void, unknowing of the servant’s screams. My guilt I shall relinquish when I lay into my dusty grave, to my love and Lord Macbeth, I say… Goodbye.