Lady Macbeth

(a strange drabble)

It is night.

(what is night? what is the darkness that systematically spreads across the land, like ink on parchment after a careless movement that sends it spilling, spilling in great black droplets that stick to you long after the mess is gone. black droplets like blights upon your skin, permanent and impossible to remove. "out, damned spot!" like lady Macbeth screamed, as the blood stained her skin.)

The dark crept in while I looked away, while I stared with horror at the crimson liquid present on my hands, on my lips and on my skin. What have I done?

(the night is always with me, ever-present and constant, like the dust in the air and the dirt on the ground. hellish, feverish night, when the cloak of sunlight is pulled away, and all the illusions of goodness and happiness in the world are exposed, revealed the true nature of the world, inherently evil and dark. the moon, a false beacon of hope, flashes light in the obscurity, but it is a lie; the moon is simply a wolf in sheep's skin)

I didn't know, I couldn't have known. She wasn't supposed to be here, I told her not to come. She knew better, she knew what had to be done, what had to be done to protect her and to protect me. I warned her long ago, when I had first taken her into my arms, finally giving in to the single thing I had always longed for. She had promised then, when we had laid safely in each other's arms, she had sworn to me that she wouldn't disobey, that she keep this one promise for me, always.

(a wolf in sheep's skin, how ironic is that? a secret, hidden wolf in the moon, waiting until it is whole again, and then releasing itself upon the world. cruel and unusual punishment, to be sure.)

The tears start to creep down my cheeks, and I can see them on my cheeks, pink and whole once more. It is the fading light of a dying moon that reflects them to me, and I hate that silver orb so much in that one infinitesimal moment that I feel I should explode. I howl in my primal anger, and that in itself is an irony that I cannot escape.

(she is gone. gone, taken by the moon, taken by the fucking caged beast that the silver satellite encases, releasing it once a month when it fills the sky once more. she is gone, swallowed up by the moon, lost forever.)

I look back down to the ground, and there is a shred of magenta hair there, a silent tombstone in the blood-red sunrise. I fall to my knees, shattered.

(out, damned spot! out I say!)

The blood splattered onto my fleshy pink hands gleams in the light of the new morning, as the murderous moon creeps back into the shadows.

(yet who would have thought she to have so much blood in her?)

Disclaimer: Characters belong to J.K Rowling, Macbeth belongs to the Bard.