look not so pale

Will my hands never be clean? I wash, and wash, and wash, and wash, and wash... and yet they are coated still in the blood of Duncan. I wished never to see nor touch such a substance again, yet I feel it under my nails, between my fingers. It lives in every groove and crevice of this cursed skin that's stained red. I wished the first wrinkles on my hands would be caused by age - instead they are onset by their constant swimming in the throb that once was the old King. I have caught myself praying for coagulation, anything but this constant slick and drip of life I helped to take. 

I smell it everywhere I go. Everything reeks of Duncan's exsanguination - my hair, my clothing, my bed. Have I been sleeping? I know not. How long has this torment gone on? All I can remember, all I can bring myself to do is scrub my hands. They must get clean. I cannot take any more of the blood. Nowhere has proved to be an escape. 

Perhaps that is because there is not any escape.

I have long since lost what little distinction remained between Hell and reality. 

the thane of fife had a wife

I have received the most morbid of news. I once thought I knew hysteria, but no, I am sure this is it. Mabeth heard tell of Macduff fleeing the country, perhaps to seek out Duncan's son, and hence set into action an utterly heinous act. He sent assassins to Lady Macduff who, along with her son, resided unprotected in their home.

Sirrah

The lady and her child were slaughtered in the most brutal way. O, what fresh Hell! Why would he not have sent them after Macduff himself? His trail cannot have been that hard to sniff out, and yet an innocent woman and boy were killed for naught.

I am simply appalled at this deed. I understand Macbeth's desire to remain King, but this pure tyranny in no way solidified his status. If anything it simply bought him his own damnation.

what has Macbeth become?

I am afraid much time has passed and I am at a loss of where to begin. How can I possibly relay all of what has felt like a lifetime going by in these last weeks?

Macbeth and I rule Scotland. We were crowned King and Queen shortly after Duncan's death, finally in our rightful place on the throne. The crown atop my head is a ring of not just authority, but immortality. Its weight has snuffed out the bothersome flame that called me again and again to revisit my deeds that fateful night.

I continue to fear for my husband and his pitiful behaviour. In our time as rulers he has been plagued by paranoia. I am capable of nothing that will rid him of this panic that we will lose the throne as soon as we have attained it. Macbeth does not sleep, he rarely eats, and often becomes delirious. Accosted by his alleged hallucinations of daggers and kings, it is all I can do to keep these events from being detected. We cannot afford any instilment of doubt in our court (speaking of court, we have reason to believe Macduff is avoiding it). When he is not out of his mind, he is almost violent in his desire to keep what I made him achieve for us. I do not understand how he is starved for a power he already possesses thanks to my design.

my hands were of his colour

The King is dead. Duncan breathes no more. 

I feared on more than one occasion that Macbeth would not be the person capable of carrying out the deed; it appeared that the intentions had gone to rest within him. I drugged the guards so heavily I for a moment was not sure if I had laid upon them a deadly frost. The daggers were placed at the ready for my husband's use when I did leave the chamber. I waited anxiously for him for what seemed an age. Doubt flickered more than I cared to admit, but Macbeth succeeded and quickly stumbled out, bordering on hysteria.

He was not in his rightful state and had failed to leave the daggers behind with the King's attendants as I had instructed. I insisted he had to return and finish the job but he refused to look once more upon what he had done. His mind is too plagued by softness and conscience, qualities that may prove to hold us both back in future. I myself had to wrench them from his hands and return the scene, far more unholy than it were when I had left it. The floor was slippery with blood, a sight and texture I pray I never have to behold again. My hands and forearms were coated with the King's liquid pulse, but I swallowed the bile and did what had to be done as any true man would have.

However, I am unsure if I succeeded in convincing Macbeth these events are not to be dwelled upon. Such memories will drive us mad and we can not afford any distraction moving forward.

make thick my blood

I do not have much time. I have just received word that Macbeth is on his way. He sent a messenger to inform me that he is returning from battle with King Duncan himself! Upon my word, the very King and company, going to be here, in my house... next to no preparations are those that I have time to make. I have decided that this will be the last night Duncan will sleep in castle Inverness. The only way for Macbeth and I to excel is if the king is no more so we may attain his standing.

We shall be as a beautiful welcoming flower but we will be as the poisonous snake that lies waiting to strike beneath it. My husband has to see that this is the only way for us to finally grasp what we need. I have been perusing dagger sales as fast as the time permits so that we are well prepared.
If he cannot be the man of which he is required then I will commit the bloody deed myself. 

Pray for me that it does not come to that.

awaiting his return

I received a letter from my beloved this morning. Its contents were no great surprise as I knew he would succeed in battle.He asserted his joy at becoming the Thane of Cawdor now in addition to Glamis - I hope he shares the same wish as I to further our status. My Macbeth certainly has the vision, but I find myself questioning whether or not he has the bravery to do whatever it takes to continue our potential journey up the ranks. Battlefield promotions will only take us so far. 

If it were so possible I myself would take matters into mine own hands, but as a woman I must rely on my husband. I resent following along by his coattails, but what choice do I have? All I find myself able to do is plant seeds to further drive his ambition. I pray each night that they will grow into vines that strangle his cowardice.