Jonah O'brien, Grade 12, Belgrave Heights Christian School -
I am alone.
I’m addicted to the ideas the witches predicted even as I’m afflicted with thoughts that have me conflicted, convicted of the events they depicted, but still I’m restricted with my heart contradicted.
My lady Macbeth is close to breathing her last breath, on the verge of passing from life to death, I’m trying to ignore the strife between me and my wife that cuts us like a knife. Against our enemies she would strike, we are so close yet so far from alike. What I want she needs, and she’s willing to do the deeds that will help us succeed, in me she’s sowing the seeds of ambition to exceed our current position. She’s the tactician of this mission, the one responsible for the abolition of our opposition. My heart and my soul are fractured, enraptured by the prophecies and captured by the events we manufactured. I’m filled with regret, my wife to whom I’m in debt is my only asset, beset by Macduff’s impending threat that’s got me in a cold sweat.
My thoughts may have rhyme but I can’t find any reason cause my mind has entered its darkest season, due to the unease in committing the treason of this opportunity we’re seizing as I lie awake in a night that’s freezing - haunted by dreams of Duncan bleeding, taunted by the idea of my love leaving, preparing myself for future grieving. Banquo is with our Lord, gored by my assassin’s sword on my own accord, but his likeness restored pushes me further toward discord into terrain unexplored and away from concord with the hordes by which I should be adored. I recall my time as thane of Glamis, untempted by the glamour I rose above the clamors and stammers that assaulted me like hammers by those who consulted me and spoke with exaltancy about dreams of extravagancy until the witches’ visions led to my ascendancy despite my tendency for dependency on my wife’s attendancy.
Right, no more sleight of hand, I’ve failed this rite of passage, others write that I have no right to right these wrongs, quite rightly. Writing’s on the wall, in hindsight I see the darkness out of sight and hope I’ve given some insight into the lack of foresight and many oversights that led to my plight despite my fight to stay in the light and out of the night... goodnight.
I am alone.
Only known as the king without a throne. Thrown away my shot - blown it, can’t atone for it, none condone it, I will die on my own.
I will not be my own death. I will not die a fool. I will not die a failure.
If Macbeth is to be no more, it is to be at war, as that is all he is good for.