"What is the matter? Is everything alright?" Montano spoke concerningly, rushing into Desdemona's bedchamber. The room was softly lit by a few candles scattered throughout the room. The walls were a light green, embellished with dark green roses.

I stood in silence as he, Gratiano, Iago, and several others entered the room.

"So you came, Iago?" I spoke sarcastically. "You've done well, enough so that others can blame you for their murders."

"What's the matter?" Gratiano spoke again.

A thought came into my head, a long-lost memory of my mother. I could recall her gentle smile, wavy hair, slim figure, and her gentle, soothing voice. I remembered what she used to say to me: 'You never have to be afraid to do the right thing—God will always be with you.' She was right. Even in death, her grounded beliefs still impacted me to this day.

I needed to say something. Desdemona had died, and it was all because of my husband. Although I loved him dearly, he had taken his personal desires much too far. Only I knew, and I felt that I needed to right the wrongs he had committed.

So I accused him, "And if you are manly enough, admit he was wrong. He said you told him that Desdemona cheated on Cassio, but I know that you didn't. You aren't such a villain after all!" I choked back a sob, my eyes brimming with tears of overwhelming grief. It deeply hurt me inside to see Desdemona lying there. Dead. But this only fueled my motivation for revealing the truth. I continued, "Say something! I'm too devastated to talk now..." I wiped my eyes with my handkerchief. I then took a deep breath, taking in the rose scent of one of the candles. I smiled softly, remembering when I gave it to Desdemona on her nineteenth birthday.

Memories were not important now. I knew in my heart I needed to say something.

Iago defended, "I told him what I thought, and nothing more than what made sense or was true."

"But did you ever tell him she cheated on him?" I accused.

"I did."

"You lied to him! A horrible, wicked lie! I swear it was a lie! You said she slept with Cassio. You did say Cassio, correct?" I tried to reason with him.

"Yes, with Cassio. Now shut up!"

"I shall never. I have to speak. My mistress here lies murdered in her own bed–" My internal emotions and determination merged together into one as I spoke.

"No, heaven forbid!" the others cried, interrupting my thoughts.

I continued to interrogate him. "And your lies caused this murder."

"Don't stand there watching, everyone, it's true." Othello finally realized what had happened—Iago had manipulated him.

"That's a strange truth," Gratiano commented. I sighed in response. Yes, this did happen.

"How horrendous!" Montano cried, gaping at Desdemona.

"I can sense there is evil somewhere," I conceded. "I knew it was there from the beginning, and now I'll kill myself from grief. Oh, evil!" I was on the verge of crying once again, but I continued to stay strong. I can do this... I thought, reassuring myself it would be okay.

Iago was incredulous. "Are you kidding me?! I order you to go home!" He unsheathed and pointed his dagger at me, but I continued to stay firm, despite the possible consequences.

I softly glared at him, raising my hands to signal silence. "Everyone! Let me speak! Although I should obey my husband, I wouldn't now, Something was wrong with his mindset, and I needed to get to the bottom of this. I was the only one who knew the truth. "Perhaps I shall never go home, Iago."

The rest of my life went by in a blur. I revealed everything. The handkerchief. The truth of what happened to Cassio. Iago accused me of lying and stabbed me with the same dagger he took out when he ordered me to leave only minutes ago. Othello realized his wrongdoings, his heart practically breaking in overwhelming guilt and sorrow. But I knew I personally had done the right thing.

Wincing at the pain from Iago's stab, I sung softly to calm myself down, caressing Desdemona's soft hair for the last time. Not only was she my mistress, she was also a close friend to me, almost a sister...and now she had died by my own husband's hatred for Othello. "Willow, willow, willow..."

Turning to her husband, I spoke once again, knowing I had only seconds to live. "Oh, Moor, she never once cheated on you. She loved you unconditionally. I solemnly swear I am telling the truth, and while I say this, I die."

My body collapsed onto the bed and I fell limp, life leaving in those last words.

I had done my part—hopefully things would work out from then on.