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But I? I am awake. I am always awake now.
You think you know me. You have heard the story—the whisper of a woman who traded her milk for gall, who called upon the spirits to unsex her, who dashed the brains of her own smiling babe rather than break an oath. You imagine me striding through Inverness like a queen carved from winter, my heart as hollow and cold as a crypt. But you are wrong. I was never cold. I was burning .
Here is my candle. Here is my gown. Here is the stain that will not wash out. And here is the end, approaching like a gentle sleep—or like a blade. I no longer know the difference. Lady Macbeth
How young I was. How monstrously, magnificently young.
Duncan’s blood. Not a river. Not an ocean. Just one old man’s quiet, astonished bleeding. And it has filled the world. You think you know me
They will remember me as the villain. The witch-queen. The dark mother of murder. But I will tell you the truth: I was afraid. I was so afraid of being small, of being powerless, of being the woman who watches her husband fail and says nothing. So I became the storm. And the storm has swallowed me whole.
Out, I say.
At first, I did not know. The doctor is too afraid to tell me, but I know now. I walk the corridors of this castle—this gilded tomb —with a candle, because I am terrified of the dark. I, who once summoned night to cloak my dagger. I, who laughed at the owl’s scream and the cricket’s cry. Now I cannot bear a shadow. I scrub my hands in my sleep. I see the spots of blood that are not there. I say the words I swore I would never say again: “Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?”
What do I see? Not a queen. Not a monster. Just a woman who loved her husband so much she unlearned every soft thing she was born with. And for what? He is a tyrant now, and he does not even look at me. He sends for the doctor, not for his wife. He plans his battles, not our future. I have become a footnote in my own catastrophe. But you are wrong
Then the sleepwalking began.

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