First Came the Pride

First came the pride, an overwhelming sense of achievement, an accomplishment due to our ambition, but slowly and turned to a world of guilt and confusion, the conscience which I once thought vanished, began to grow, soon lowering what I originally planned to be. Slowly the unforgotten memories from that merciless night overcame me and I surrendered to the nonstop and horrific images, the bloody dagger, a lifeless corpse. I wash, I scrub, I tear at the skinon 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 as a person who writes her destiny not awaits it. So I ask myself, is it such a crime to want the best for you and your better half? Was it such a terrible deed, to desire after power and status?

The victory, our status, my position, my power has fast become a reality, a reality which was being threatened by the growing suspicion of Banquo. It had to be done, his murder, seemed the only way, his murder the saviour of my success. But now seeing the error in my ways, the fraud in my thought. The guilt of one man's blood was almost unbearable, the guilt of another is inescapable, growing, I am forced to bear it, alone I must I endure it while it tears at me from inside.

My only concern was getting into the castle, becoming queen. I failed to see what I was getting myself and Macbeth into.