You know, I don't think it's ever said just how Lady Macbeth dies. Maybe it wasn't suicide….
Disclaimer: If I owned Macbeth, I'd be dead. Plain and simple. I'd have been in the grave several hundred years ago. Therefore, I am not Shakespeare, who does own Macbeth.
And also, this is my own interpretation of why Lady Macbeth screamed just before she died. My English class just finished reading the play, and I have the nagging suspicion still that her death maybe wasn't a suicide.
If you don't like this, that's fine. Just either say so nicely, or don't review. I really don't mind. I know some people would rather have an angry review than none, but that's not me.
Anyway, I don't mean to sound winey, or anything. So here's the story.
Her mind races.
She is lost in the horror and the guilt of murders of which she knew nothing and yet, is still responsible.
It is too much for the twisted soul.
She cries out, whirling away from the specters she knew in life, her heart running faster than her thoughts.
It is your fault! the apparitions hiss, backing her into a corner. Our blood be on your hands, treacherous wife of fallen Macbeth!
She trembles now, beyond all reason.
No. No, NO!
On the outside, she screams.
Inside, her heart can take no more.
She writhes, momentarily startled from her madness by the stuttering and sudden pain in her chest.
What, frail thing?! she gasps. Oh, stop this unfitting transgression!
The pain increases, her right hand clutches her breast, the left hand dangling numb and useless.
Staggering, she is backed into a corner.
Yet, even as the pain begins to recede, the spirits come again.
There is Duncan, eyes glittering with hatred, Banquo, expression cold as he lingers behind.
There also is Macduff's wife and son, the boy with a lack of understanding in his gaze, the mother with a poisonous and vicious venom in her colorless orbs.
You, she-devil! the ghosts snarl in horrific unison. You brought brave Macbeth to this treason. Thus our deaths are YOURS to suffer for!
The fear takes hold. She clutches at her head, and as the pain springs again behind her ribs, she lets out a wail; tries to run.
She barely makes a foot before she falls, legs and the rest of her all too weak to support.
Her heart flutters and jerks, twisting savagely within her breast so that she can barely breathe.
She tries to cry out, recalling vaguely that there is a doctor in the castle. It is the only thing she can recall, so far she has receded from sanity and the world of life.
And as the spasms of passing vitality continue to wrack her enfeebled body – even as the passing of sanity wracks her shattered mind – she realizes fully just what wrong she has done.
Breathing is near to impossible as the pain increases exponentially.
She's on her back now, shaking and convulsing on the floor it absolute agony.
There's no way it can get any worse.
Above her, the ghosts continue their taunts mercilessly.
You are the one to blame for all! they cry. You shall suffer now, and in the hereafter!
A final flare blinding, white-hot agonizing pain, her final choked and gasping moan.
It is Seyton who finds her, lying lifeless as she is, upon the cold floor of flagstone, her right hand still convulsed against her bosom, eyes open wide with fear and final pain.
It takes little to discern what killed her. 'Twas her own fiendish heart, at last giving way.
Seyton is no man's fool. But he is loyal to the king, whatever flaws the man may have. He does not question how the king and his lady came to power. He knows better.
As such, he does not now question what frightened his mistress's heart into stopping so. He knows she was unhinged toward the end. He has only now to report his findings to the king.
The Queen, my lord, is dead!
Yeah, I know Lady Macbeth's death is generally taken as a suicide, but the thought wouldn't leave me alone. Anyway, I hope it isn't too bad. Review, please!