Finally a sob racked through her small body, making her shake, a gasp escaping her lips unwillingly. Wrapping her arms around her body, she buried her head into her knees, her raven hair spilling around her, coating her world in darkness. 'I wish.'

She was unsure of how much time had passed when she finally stopped crying. It might have been minutes; it might have been hours. The steady thumping of her heart and the soft tapping of the rain as it hit the walls were the only ways of counting time as it passed. She took a slow, unsteady breath as she looked up once more, her red and teary eyes wincing in the cold glare of the light that was pouring through the window, 'much like the rain outside.'

The girl was young. Fourteen? Fifteen? 'Around that age'. She was obviously very beautiful, though her face and eyes held wisdom and experience not often known by someone so young. She was pale, though her skin was soft; 'where it was not bruised.'

She bit her bloody lip to stop herself from crying once more, leaning back against the richly covered wall behind her. Shadows darted around in the room, distorted reflections flying throughout the cold air- 'the fire was not lit.'

She shifted slightly, unable to cry any longer. It was as if her eyes had run out of tears. 'Maybe they have.'

Her father had been angry. 'Even mother wouldn't cross him.'

Was it her fault? Had she done something? Had she said something? 'What have I done?'

She stared blankly at the window in front of her, unseeing, thinking. It could be politics, it could be her brother, it could be her mother, it could be the weather- 'it was me. I never do anything right. Father is always angry at me.'

She was not acting as a woman should. 'Why should women be different?'

She was not practising her French. 'I do not need to learn French.'

She was not perfect at the piano. 'I can play simple melodies.'

She was not courting the correct male. 'Macbeth was my choice. My. Choice.'

She was not able to ride in a woman's saddle. 'Nobody minded except him'

Yelling, shouting, 'hitting, slapping', crying, growling, 'sobbing, grabbing', hating- again and again and again. Over and over. More and more.

'What have I done to father? Not the stuff father does to me.'


Crimson liquid spreads along the white rug like fire among wood. A body lays among it. Twitching. A knife in it's chest. The murderer long gone.

A door creaks. A pale foot steps forward. A young woman's jaw silently drops.

A harsh whisper escapes from the throat- eyes spotting offspring. Begging, pleading. 'Insulting, hurting?'

Raven hair moves as a jaw is pushed into the air. 'Defiance.' Blue eye meets blue eye. The younger passes the door, the elder father shall only pass this world. 'Dying, slipping.'


Lady Macbeth would have done it. 'Would have- could have?' The fear was still there. The raw, passionate fear for her deceased father was still there. And she hated that. She hated that she was feeling fear- something a woman had. She hated that almost as much as she hated him. She didn't want to be helpless, or weak- she wanted to prove to him and the world that she wasn't everything he'd told her she was.

But, when faced with the actual task, she couldn't. 'Couldn't, wouldn't…'

And then she had to go, look at the nameless corpse… and she could almost hear a choking voice, begging to be saved. She could almost smell the sour taste in the air, mingled with death and hate that she'd always remember. She could almost feel the atmosphere freeze as someone walked above her grave.

'And I turned and walked away… again.'