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.
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