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.
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