Dearest Macbeth,
Macbeth, think back to when fate was on our side.
When I read the letter about the witches from you, I was certain that you were going to be king. Even back when we were young, you seemed so brave, so strong, and there was nothing stopping us. When I married you, I promised myself we were going to get far. So unquestionable anger filled my head when you told me that you changed your mind; you were too kind, and worse, you seemed weak! Perfection was a mere stab away, Macbeth, could you not see? You had bravely stabbed hundreds of enemies before, which had made you the king’s kinsman and his host. We could get so much further, if you would just accept you ambitions and be a man, Macbeth.
I imagined our days would be sunshine filled mornings when you became king. The clouds would be humming1, and maybe our milk-fed children would be with us, growing strong to take over the kingdom when we grew old together. Oh, how I dreamt. But
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Nonetheless you did, and now you must take responsibility. You must stay brave, Macbeth, brave. I am writing this with the sound of running water from the tap. If it overflows, let it hit the cold floor. Let it splash and crash and thrash1 around this place I once called our home, and let it drown the ghastly images that fill me with terror at night-even if it means I drown too!
They won’t leave me, Macbeth. The thoughts, the blood, oh, the blood- I absolutely can’t erase the blood.2 Look! The blood, the bloody spot from my poor hand. 3 The scarlet splashes scorch4 deep into my hands and drips this this sinister emotion into the pit my stomach. Is it truly guilt? At night, I hear my voice ask for ‘thick night’ to come, and it is my voice from the night we killed Duncan. Be careful what you ask for! The black night is as thick as hell’s smoke,5 and I choke in the dark until I cannot stand it anymore; it makes me cry out Macbeth, what have we