Ella Baker-beart, Grade 11, Immanuel College
He laid sprawled out, his face as white as snow and his eyes wide as can be, but no life existed upon them. Moments before, Macbeths men charged before us with weapons that could only hold one fate-death. And so my father, a noble man fought upon those soldiers in the deep of the woods, where the roots were knotted and the decomposition of leaves made the air thick. But as the soldiers held him down and began to perform the deed Macbeth wished upon him, I stood still. My heart knocked against my chest so rapidly, it felt as if it was to leap out in front of me and roll onto the floor. I wanted to gasp and screech “MURDER, MURDER”, but as I stood there my blood ran cold and I stood frozen, as if my feet had become as solid as concrete. However I knew also that if I did not sprint to safety, I would suffer a similar fate.
I fled to the only other place I knew, a little cottage across the riverside that held a woman who knew my father. She was benevolent and offered safety to a young, frightened and shocked little boy. And so I sat there in a stationary manner, starring at the concrete wall that had cracks and marks all up towards the ceiling, and began to recount the past events, all that has befallen since those ghastly witches uttered those three fatal prophecies. “But thee mine son shall be king, our lord has placed this blessing upon us”, muttered my father not long before his soul left him. But my faith in the good lord has shifted. What lord would place the very equivalent title on a man who I once thought to be noble and change him into the murderer he is. I saw rage. Macbeth helped to defend Scotland against Norway, alongside his loyal king, displaying his noble manner. And now he slaughters the lives of innocents. I do pray for Macduff, for both he and I are alone. My father died in cold blood, and Macbeth deserves to suffer a similar fate.
Information has passed the village that Macduff has since brought Malcolm to Scotland, along with 10 thousand soldiers of his soldiers to slay the cynical tyrant. However I must be the man to slay Macbeth, for he has taken away the only family I have. I will live on as an orphan, my mother died a noble women in child birth and now my father no longer walks his earth. In my dreams I see him, my father dying over and over again, the wind howls like a wolf as he falls to the ground as the sharp weapon slices his throat. I begin to breakout in sweat, small droplets dripping off my forehead. Justice must be served or I might as well be deemed as crazy as the man himself, or else I might become unhinged over the obsession of his potential death.