The diary of Francis Seyton.
The diary of Francis Seyton.
July the 1st 1607
One year hath passed, twelve months I have endured the backstabbing treachery of these troubled times, which are strange beyond all comprehension, and I but a humble servant am trapped inside a conflict of conscience and valour.
Many things, all alien to me have I seen or heard, my mind is in turmoil should I believe what I see? Merely a week ago brave king Macbeth was pronounced unwell.
When attending a banquet he was suggesting the iniquitous and muttering words dictated by Satan in a disturbing manner. Who would have thought? The king himself. When Macbeth was crowned I swore allegiance to him and his cause. Am I a servant of the devil? I fear so.
My fears were accentuated when the most tragic and appalling incident transpired.
For many weeks a doctor had been attending to lady Macbeth after a maid requested her attention as she was worried for the lady's well being. I was not informed of the reasoning behind the calling of the doctor but rumours were rife. With my mind a drift believing was not necessarily seeing and therefore I could not confirm any of the circulating gossip, which could so easily be false... but just as easily true.
I chose to postulate the rumour, actually closer to conspiracy theory of Macbeth and lady Macbeth's plot to replace Duncan whether through fair play or not to become of a royal stature, influenced by satanical forces, which will eventually lead them to exasperation.
I noticed lady Macbeth's rather mystifying ritual of rubbing her hands together religiously as if to be washing the, scrubbing them of her sins to a degree, I passed her chamber a few days ago to hear her say: " Here's the smell of blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand, oh, oh, oh!"
Foul whisperings were abroad, unnatural deeds do breed unnatural troubles; infected minds to their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets. With this and other accumulating evidence I put two and two together and came to a ...
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I noticed lady Macbeth's rather mystifying ritual of rubbing her hands together religiously as if to be washing the, scrubbing them of her sins to a degree, I passed her chamber a few days ago to hear her say: " Here's the smell of blood still: all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand, oh, oh, oh!"
Foul whisperings were abroad, unnatural deeds do breed unnatural troubles; infected minds to their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets. With this and other accumulating evidence I put two and two together and came to a conclusion.
Later that night I could not rest. A battle was underway in the depths of my mind, a bloody uproar against my murderous master. I could imagine only one way to rid me of the turbulent dreams distracting my sleep, to confront the demonic Queen and question her righteousness.
I dressed myself in my finest robes, brilliant gold buttons and glistening silver laces, if I were to die tonight I would rather depart this ominous place presentably with self respect.
I approached the chamber door, breathing erratically like the waves at sea in the most ferocious storm, crashing into my hull, untameable.
The door lays ahead dare I go forth? I approach the point of no return, when I must pass through the gates of hell and conquer the foul creature Cerberus, Satan's servant.
The carvings on the door seem alive, the writhing serpents spitting venom, intimidating, driving me away. But I must prevail, I thrust forward grinding my teeth, clenching my fists, a raging sweat takes over my body, the adrenaline driving me toward. I fight back the serpents and place my hand on the chamber door. It is locked.
I hear crying from within the room, which quietens down to a feeble murmur. I draw back and knock on the door, once, no reply, twice, silence, thrice, a blood curdling scream! Terror shoots through my veins like a galloping horse. Oh suck on my chocolate salty balls! Quickly I delve deep into my pocket and grasp my keys. Nervously I struggle to search through the brace and locate the key. Finally after what seemed like hours I set my hands on the key, and inserted it into the mortise lock. The key turned, another scream echoed through the corridor further emphasising my trepidation.
I fear what lies ahead, could this be the end of my short-lived existence. I summon the curraige from the depths of my heart and continue to open the now unlocked door, the final stand lies ahead, I worry gravely but I know I must go forth. Upon opening the door I see nothing, darkness and the only thing I fear more is the light for what it may bring.
Quietness now blankets the room an eerie darkness sends fear into the roots of my soul. I reach for the torch in the corner of the room, extinguished, sharing the same fate as lady Macbeth I fear. With my flint and tinderbox I strike and send a revealing light across the room. To my surprise I see the queen sat at her mirror, staring as if in a trance, vacant of reality. Preceding forward I notice makeup scattered over the floor, in a trail all the way to her seat. Looking at the mirror I see her reflection, a ruined figure with a pathetic look and makeup smudged by tears.
I stop and ask myself have I the audacity to question her, I see her hurting I have reservations of whether I am insensitive enough. No, I cannot.
Hoping I am unnoticed I turn, face the door and begin to walk away, regretting every stupid thought that entered my head, who am I to dispute the Queen? A mere I'll educated servant. My stupidity astounds me.
I hear a sharp slicing sound from within the room, like the edge my razor, cutting the cheek as I shave in the morning, a sound that sends shivers through my spine. I turn and run towards the queen, I hear her wheezing through a self-inflicted mortal wound, leaking air, spewing blood in her throat, I hear her life escaping and quickly grasp her hand preventing her from falling from her chair. I hear her faint gargled voice trying to break through, drowning in her own blood. Tears begin to well in my eyes and a scream bursts forth from my mouth like a wolf's cry. Slowly the life in her escapes, she lies coughing, choking and I am helpless, unable to assist, I feel so worthless, where is help?
For an eternity I stand with the queen dying in my arms. Blood covers the room in a viscous sheet, dark red, shining like a sheet of silk. I see the knife glinting in the dull light, blood stained on the floor, and the makeup on the queens face is ruined, ironic, what is on the outside has become what was on the inside, a broken woman. I hear footsteps, too late. As the queen draws her last breath's servants run into the room. They stand and stare at the bloody wreck of the queen and they too begin to cry, with their hands on their hearts, looking towards the floor it is obvious they are too late. Then without warning she exhales, her whole body becomes limp from head to toe, she is dead.
I lift her from the chair and place her on her bed. I cannot stand to look at her pretty face stained with blood so I lift up the white sheet covering her bed and place it over her body. One of my colleagues faints and collapses on the floor, obviously overcome by the horror that fills the room. I know that eventually I must leave and give the disparaging news to my master; I fear he will not take it kindly.
Yours truly,
Francis Seyton
