Loss Of Innocence In Macbeth

(Walk back and forth)(She talks disheartened but slightly annoyed) “Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck.” What knowledge is there now that I can be innocent of ? Innocent, the eyes of one who has seen the corpse of a King, smoothly hacked like a piece of meat in the hands of a butcher, knowing it was those eyes, my eyes that watched the traitorous act come to pass on that merciless night. Yet I feel as if my soul has shattered into millions of shards, the jagged pieces piercing my heart agonizingly, I feel a pain I knew not existed.(Pick up Macbeth’s cape) How could the man who named me his “dearest partner of greatness” now diminish me to a simple chuck? (sarcastic chuckle)How did that man, whose love was caged within rails of my
I could not resist but let my mind be pierced with poison upon hearing the witches' prophecies. Like puppets held helplessly at the hands of their masters, I could not help but let my aspirations be clenched in the hands of Satan himself. Yet I should have known the conscience which I thought I had purged, washed away with little water, would slowly creep with hands like vines into my mind, defeating the titles and its rewards. My beloved husband - dearest Macbeth - for whom I have committed all these terrible deeds (gesture widely with hands to signify ‘all the terrible deeds’) has no longer any use for me. I “make [him] strange,” his “ dearest love” reduced to a blade of shattered glass that lay disjointed like the kingdom of
I am merely a pawn, a pawn in a game that has spiralled out of control, a game of life and death. My innocence surrendered to the ceaseless events, my sleep masked with tortured dreams like the shadows that cover the night sky. With the blanket of darkness, my tongue mutters for itself when I say the guilt of a man's blood is leached within the creases of my fold. I wash, I scrub, I tear at the flesh on my hands, desperate to cleanse myself of the blood spilled in the wake of murder. But the filthy witness remains, stained, never to be removed.(Use a scrubbing motion) “Out damned spot! Out I say.” Encased in my own conscience I stand unable to escape , unable to endure it alone while it tears my seam to seam from inside out. Can these hands ever be scrubbed off the guilt, while they are covered in the blood, still warm, of sleeping innocents? It was with these very hands I held the dagger that tore life to shreds, daggers which reap their revenge. How am I to stop this guilt, the foul opposite of holy innocence? My hands are defiled with blood, fingers with sin,lips with lies, as by man shall my blood be shed. A creature, a sinner like myself, has no right to love, I am an object of disgust, of loathing. A creature as such has no right to be loved and must cease to burden other’s lives with her presence. If I were to die