Macbeth
The mist hid the old, mossy bricks as if there was some kind of secret beyond. The dreaded wind threw itself at the tower walls, bleeding through the cracks making it even more bitter than before. Hanging over the fortress, the clouds darkened the atmosphere in which Lady Macbeth contemplated the power before her. With her ghost-like skin and self-assured posture, Lady Macbeth waited for her husband’s arrival.
Seconds later, the dark oak door burst open snuffing out all the candles in the process. Macbeth’s eyes were drawn towards his blood-stained hands as he crept silently into the room.
“The deed is done,” trembled the murderer, “This is sorry sight!” he said leaning further towards his hands.
“A foolish thought to say a sorry sight,” hissed Lady Macbeth angrily. The pain ebbed and flowed inside Macbeth regretting everything he had done. Lady Macbeth’s face wrinkled in distaste as the smoke from the fire place crept up her nose and burned the back of her throat.
“What have I done?” said Macbeth with his jaw wide open. He dropped the daggers and they landed with a clatter.
“Get some water and wash this filthy witness from your hands,” said Lady Macbeth furiously. “Why did you bring these daggers from the place? They must lie there. Go carry them and smear the sleepy grooms with blood.”
“I will go no more,” announced Macbeth. “I am afraid to think of what I have done; look again I dare not!” Lady Macbeth bent over and picked up the bloody daggers.
“Infirm of purpose!” shouted the soon to be queen with her once pale face that was now a light shade of pink. Snatching the daggers, she marched off towards the spiral staircase. “The sleeping and the dead are but as pictures! Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil!” she stormed up the stairs.