Victor Frank Monologue
No matter how hard I try, they always come crawling back into my dreams, or should I say nightmares, the phenomenons, they’re ratchet, they’re horrible. They seem start with heat, light, and sound, sounds of crying, no, screaming. I stand there, as little as I was, crying, yelling out for my mum. I remember hearing her faintly yelling out for me, “Alistair! I’m here! I’m here!”. Piece by piece, I slowly remember, “I can’t find you mummy! I’m scared!”. As soon as I saw her, I saw the glimpse of a subtle smile. She started to run, she started to. Before she knew it, before I knew it, a bloody brute of a demon or simply man had bludgeoned her to death. As the cherry-red blood blossomed in the midst of me, I suddenly wake up with beads of sweat
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running off my forehead. I try to forget what the cards of fate have dealt me. The stars in the sky still shine bright, but nothing shines bright for long. It’s morning. My legs eek and creak as I stand up and yawn. They probably hurt because of the traveling I pursue, which is not how I prefer to live my day out, but it pays. My uncle Forbes, he’s why I here, why I’m alive. He saved me that awful night. Without him, I wouldn’t have a home, a life, my life. He has taught me everything I know. He’s my teacher, my second father. I keep what I have learned to myself, or else I would be considered an outcast for all the knowledge I have learned. For now, I am simply a messenger for my uncle, and for my village. I have gone over the vast green hills, through many villages, just to deliver messages, some meaning life or death. I don’t want to just be a messenger, I want to be a soldier, like my father was. To follow in his footsteps.
When my uncle’s ready for me to leave, I rush out as soon as I possibly can. It’s a relief to get away from all I have going on in my life. I pace myself as I go towards the stables. I can already smell the distinct scent of the horses. My horse, Bartley, always understands what is happening, but not today.
When I look at him, he looks at me without any expression, just a blank face. He doesn’t get up. The dapples on his shiny brown coat aren’t as recognizable as they once were. His shaky bones are visible through his skin. The stable keeper has told me he hasn’t gotten up or eaten from his trough in days. I’m worried for him, for me. If he isn’t capable for a single trek, then he must be put out of his misery. Yesterday, when the sun was in full motion over the foggy but visible fields, I went to the stables, Bartley, my horse, was gone, I knew what it had meant, but I won’t let it distract me from my duties of serving the people, my people.
When the night had gotten as dark as a barbaric beast’s soul, I sneak out of my bed, put on my rough woolen shirt, my sheepskin boots, and I most certainly cannot forget my bound secrecy. There is a gathering of the village elders, including my uncle. Not a soul knows where they’re meeting, but I do, on the stream’s bank in the forest, twisting and turning through the ruins of Blytheswood. Forbes wanted me to infiltrate the meeting, to understand what’s going on. I plan to go when the night emerges, and when the sun sets, not to deliver a message, but to seek a message to be spread out to everyone in great distance, even to those who live in the underlining of our great land.
The fiery torches illuminate the thick and hollow trunks of the trees in which they are placed. The many voices collaborate, they beg to differ, their tones yell to each of each’s points. For all is fixated on Macbeth, Thane of Glamis! They deliberate about his effort to protect us.
“But what about Banquo?” asks Forbes, my uncle.
“He shall get what he deserves—death!” a man regretfully shrieks.
Whoever shall fall into the position being Thane of Cawdor, must be the rightful ruler. If anyone should’ve received it, t’was Macbeth! Without thee, all might as well be dead or shaken with hate and deceit! Does Macbeth deserve this title? Does Banquo? Who more? There can only be one, through foul and fair! Foul for Macbeth, fair for Banquo in which it has cometh to be!
I hastily slip through the soggy, yet still firm trenches burrowed in the dark forest amidst me. I can’t quite perceive my way back to the horse. I can’t be spotted by the nobles, or my uncle. Their whispers slowly wither away as their torches flicker in the dark. My thoughts flicker in the dark as well, of what words have been thrown towards each noble, my thoughts vary in great depth.
Why can I not stop thinking about Macbeth? Is it his nobility? His perseverance? I can’t put my finger on it. But all I know is that I want to be like him one day. He has the life of a king! For Macbeth shall become king if I happen to see the day. He has a beautiful wife, Lady Macbeth. Whence will I get a broad as alluring as thee? If they shall become king and queen, then that would be truly a joyous day, but Duncan rules these lands. Maybe he will come to his senses and anoint thy king. Just maybe. I have heard tales from far and near about the Macbeths. They are one, they are what I want to have in life. He leaves for wars, she leads him towards, for it is almost as she’s the reason why he goes to war. To make plenty sure she’s always safe. As my father did for me and my loving mother.
The sun was rising in the misty green field from where I stand on the bank of the forest. From where my horse was tied, to the hollow trunk in which it was as barren as the field before me. It was peculiar, my horse wasn’t tied up anymore. When I took a stronger glance, I noticed through the slightest vision of my eyes, that Forbes was sitting on the mossy rocks stationed for where they have been for ages. I hesitantly walk towards him, unknowingly of which his intent were. Something was wrong, his eyes spoke a thousand words.
His face was dreaded with concern. What shall he tell me? He solemnly starts to speak, getting a little bit louder as he goes further on. He explains what has unravelled in the council. Although, I don’t need to be explained, for I have seen and heard them speak, contemplate, and all they have done. But this isn’t why he’s in a glum mood. Somehow, this council has brought up the matter of my father, and my mother.
I didn’t see my dad when he died, but I saw my sweet mother gruesomely murdered.
My father somehow and evidently prompted my uncle’s memories of him. I can’t explain it, but I have if you could say, an “inkling”, when I hear even the slightest notion of my great father. It’s as if I can see the peaks of the vast mountains, the grassy green hills running amidst me, or even the bellowing depths of this land where I stand. I want to be like my father, I need to be like my father. He was one of the reasons why me and my mother were alive, he fought for freedom, even with his freedom. Messenger, what a pity. More can be made out of me, much, much more.
But no matter what circumstance in any way of life, you must make the most of it. I want to seek revenge for my father, a hero of war, for my mother who was ravaged and killed in a raid of our village, slain before the eyes of an innocent child. Yet in reality, I couldn’t. I have no training, I have no courage, I have no parents. Will I have to sacrifice my life to be a hero, to be the avenger, or to be pushed aside as I once was? Can I do it? Could I do it? Would I do …show more content…
it?
When we reach the village I have a sensation of fright. The whispers yell from their mouths, “Duncan! Dead! Brutally murdered in his sleep! Shall thy king avenge his murder in his afterlife?” The treachery of his death staggers the people. I never thought in my wildest dreams, somebody or should I say something, since what beastly crime they’ve committed, would dare do such a deed.
My uncle was hit the hardest between the both of us. They somehow, somewhere, and in sometime knew each other. He isn’t quite fond of me asking him about it, but he always says, “Someday.” I don’t feel safe when I know even the king can be killed. How would this make anyone feel safe? I don’t want to think like that, especially in these dreadful times. I once ran a message to the king, from my uncle, but I ended up giving it to his son, Malcolm. Yet, I never exactly met the king, I still believed he was a good man, and a great king.
I’ve heard many things, but the elders have told us it seems to have been the guards who beastly murdered his majesty.
Forbes and I have talked about it, over and over. The guards couldn’t have possibly done it. The only reason why they would have done it is if they were paid, but who would pay enough for such a horrid task? It just can’t possibly be the guards. Anyways, if they weren’t paid, how else would they benefit from the death of our king? Someone killed him, but who? Why now? Something in the lands which we live in, isn’t the same, and never will be again.
They hurt, their simple, yet vibrant flames intensify. They howl at my expressionless face. It burns and burns. When it scorches my arm I scream, waking up from the dream of dread. My arm is red, it’s sore to the touch. I look at the tip of my hand, the skin from my arm is embedded in my nails. They tingle, with fright, or with grit? They seem to be getting worse, now I can’t even sleep peacefully.
When I get out of bed, I head into the next room, my uncle was just sitting there. Doing
nothing.
As I walk on by, he suddenly asks, “Your arm?”
“It’s nothing,” I shrug.
“We need to talk Alistair,” he shrugs back.
“Yessir!” fearing backlash.
To shorten his lecture, it’s come up again. He says I’m old enough for a wife. I don’t want one right now, and I haven’t wanted one. My life hasn’t called to me like that. A year ago the same situation came about. I couldn’t make up my mind. She was one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever gazed upon. She was as bright and lovely as an angel from above. I’ve known her even before the raid of our village, we grew apart as I left to study with my uncle for a couple years, until we rode back into town. She grew into a beautiful woman. I had almost forgot about her, yet she never for me. My uncle and her father talked about a marriage, but courtship before it. I backed down, I was a coward. She was heartbroken, how could she ever forgive me?
It was one of the toughest situations in my life, her or me. If it was her, we could’ve been happy, maybe her more than me. Kids, our own home, and our own responsibilities. But I chose to be by myself, no one to care for, no one to worry about me, and carry out just my own responsibilities to carry out. I didn’t want to hurt her. I probably ended up hurting myself more than her. I had to back out of it, I had too. Maybe it wasn’t that I didn’t just not want it, but I wasn’t capable of it, I undermined myself. Will I again?
running off my forehead. I try to forget what the cards of fate have dealt me. The stars in the sky still shine bright, but nothing shines bright for long. It’s morning. My legs eek and creak as I stand up and yawn. They probably hurt because of the traveling I pursue, which is not how I prefer to live my day out, but it pays. My uncle Forbes, he’s why I here, why I’m alive. He saved me that awful night. Without him, I wouldn’t have a home, a life, my life. He has taught me everything I know. He’s my teacher, my second father. I keep what I have learned to myself, or else I would be considered an outcast for all the knowledge I have learned. For now, I am simply a messenger for my uncle, and for my village. I have gone over the vast green hills, through many villages, just to deliver messages, some meaning life or death. I don’t want to just be a messenger, I want to be a soldier, like my father was. To follow in his footsteps.
When my uncle’s ready for me to leave, I rush out as soon as I possibly can. It’s a relief to get away from all I have going on in my life. I pace myself as I go towards the stables. I can already smell the distinct scent of the horses. My horse, Bartley, always understands what is happening, but not today.
When I look at him, he looks at me without any expression, just a blank face. He doesn’t get up. The dapples on his shiny brown coat aren’t as recognizable as they once were. His shaky bones are visible through his skin. The stable keeper has told me he hasn’t gotten up or eaten from his trough in days. I’m worried for him, for me. If he isn’t capable for a single trek, then he must be put out of his misery. Yesterday, when the sun was in full motion over the foggy but visible fields, I went to the stables, Bartley, my horse, was gone, I knew what it had meant, but I won’t let it distract me from my duties of serving the people, my people.
When the night had gotten as dark as a barbaric beast’s soul, I sneak out of my bed, put on my rough woolen shirt, my sheepskin boots, and I most certainly cannot forget my bound secrecy. There is a gathering of the village elders, including my uncle. Not a soul knows where they’re meeting, but I do, on the stream’s bank in the forest, twisting and turning through the ruins of Blytheswood. Forbes wanted me to infiltrate the meeting, to understand what’s going on. I plan to go when the night emerges, and when the sun sets, not to deliver a message, but to seek a message to be spread out to everyone in great distance, even to those who live in the underlining of our great land.
The fiery torches illuminate the thick and hollow trunks of the trees in which they are placed. The many voices collaborate, they beg to differ, their tones yell to each of each’s points. For all is fixated on Macbeth, Thane of Glamis! They deliberate about his effort to protect us.
“But what about Banquo?” asks Forbes, my uncle.
“He shall get what he deserves—death!” a man regretfully shrieks.
Whoever shall fall into the position being Thane of Cawdor, must be the rightful ruler. If anyone should’ve received it, t’was Macbeth! Without thee, all might as well be dead or shaken with hate and deceit! Does Macbeth deserve this title? Does Banquo? Who more? There can only be one, through foul and fair! Foul for Macbeth, fair for Banquo in which it has cometh to be!
I hastily slip through the soggy, yet still firm trenches burrowed in the dark forest amidst me. I can’t quite perceive my way back to the horse. I can’t be spotted by the nobles, or my uncle. Their whispers slowly wither away as their torches flicker in the dark. My thoughts flicker in the dark as well, of what words have been thrown towards each noble, my thoughts vary in great depth.
Why can I not stop thinking about Macbeth? Is it his nobility? His perseverance? I can’t put my finger on it. But all I know is that I want to be like him one day. He has the life of a king! For Macbeth shall become king if I happen to see the day. He has a beautiful wife, Lady Macbeth. Whence will I get a broad as alluring as thee? If they shall become king and queen, then that would be truly a joyous day, but Duncan rules these lands. Maybe he will come to his senses and anoint thy king. Just maybe. I have heard tales from far and near about the Macbeths. They are one, they are what I want to have in life. He leaves for wars, she leads him towards, for it is almost as she’s the reason why he goes to war. To make plenty sure she’s always safe. As my father did for me and my loving mother.
The sun was rising in the misty green field from where I stand on the bank of the forest. From where my horse was tied, to the hollow trunk in which it was as barren as the field before me. It was peculiar, my horse wasn’t tied up anymore. When I took a stronger glance, I noticed through the slightest vision of my eyes, that Forbes was sitting on the mossy rocks stationed for where they have been for ages. I hesitantly walk towards him, unknowingly of which his intent were. Something was wrong, his eyes spoke a thousand words.
His face was dreaded with concern. What shall he tell me? He solemnly starts to speak, getting a little bit louder as he goes further on. He explains what has unravelled in the council. Although, I don’t need to be explained, for I have seen and heard them speak, contemplate, and all they have done. But this isn’t why he’s in a glum mood. Somehow, this council has brought up the matter of my father, and my mother.
I didn’t see my dad when he died, but I saw my sweet mother gruesomely murdered.
My father somehow and evidently prompted my uncle’s memories of him. I can’t explain it, but I have if you could say, an “inkling”, when I hear even the slightest notion of my great father. It’s as if I can see the peaks of the vast mountains, the grassy green hills running amidst me, or even the bellowing depths of this land where I stand. I want to be like my father, I need to be like my father. He was one of the reasons why me and my mother were alive, he fought for freedom, even with his freedom. Messenger, what a pity. More can be made out of me, much, much more.
But no matter what circumstance in any way of life, you must make the most of it. I want to seek revenge for my father, a hero of war, for my mother who was ravaged and killed in a raid of our village, slain before the eyes of an innocent child. Yet in reality, I couldn’t. I have no training, I have no courage, I have no parents. Will I have to sacrifice my life to be a hero, to be the avenger, or to be pushed aside as I once was? Can I do it? Could I do it? Would I do …show more content…
it?
When we reach the village I have a sensation of fright. The whispers yell from their mouths, “Duncan! Dead! Brutally murdered in his sleep! Shall thy king avenge his murder in his afterlife?” The treachery of his death staggers the people. I never thought in my wildest dreams, somebody or should I say something, since what beastly crime they’ve committed, would dare do such a deed.
My uncle was hit the hardest between the both of us. They somehow, somewhere, and in sometime knew each other. He isn’t quite fond of me asking him about it, but he always says, “Someday.” I don’t feel safe when I know even the king can be killed. How would this make anyone feel safe? I don’t want to think like that, especially in these dreadful times. I once ran a message to the king, from my uncle, but I ended up giving it to his son, Malcolm. Yet, I never exactly met the king, I still believed he was a good man, and a great king.
I’ve heard many things, but the elders have told us it seems to have been the guards who beastly murdered his majesty.
Forbes and I have talked about it, over and over. The guards couldn’t have possibly done it. The only reason why they would have done it is if they were paid, but who would pay enough for such a horrid task? It just can’t possibly be the guards. Anyways, if they weren’t paid, how else would they benefit from the death of our king? Someone killed him, but who? Why now? Something in the lands which we live in, isn’t the same, and never will be again.
They hurt, their simple, yet vibrant flames intensify. They howl at my expressionless face. It burns and burns. When it scorches my arm I scream, waking up from the dream of dread. My arm is red, it’s sore to the touch. I look at the tip of my hand, the skin from my arm is embedded in my nails. They tingle, with fright, or with grit? They seem to be getting worse, now I can’t even sleep peacefully.
When I get out of bed, I head into the next room, my uncle was just sitting there. Doing
nothing.
As I walk on by, he suddenly asks, “Your arm?”
“It’s nothing,” I shrug.
“We need to talk Alistair,” he shrugs back.
“Yessir!” fearing backlash.
To shorten his lecture, it’s come up again. He says I’m old enough for a wife. I don’t want one right now, and I haven’t wanted one. My life hasn’t called to me like that. A year ago the same situation came about. I couldn’t make up my mind. She was one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever gazed upon. She was as bright and lovely as an angel from above. I’ve known her even before the raid of our village, we grew apart as I left to study with my uncle for a couple years, until we rode back into town. She grew into a beautiful woman. I had almost forgot about her, yet she never for me. My uncle and her father talked about a marriage, but courtship before it. I backed down, I was a coward. She was heartbroken, how could she ever forgive me?
It was one of the toughest situations in my life, her or me. If it was her, we could’ve been happy, maybe her more than me. Kids, our own home, and our own responsibilities. But I chose to be by myself, no one to care for, no one to worry about me, and carry out just my own responsibilities to carry out. I didn’t want to hurt her. I probably ended up hurting myself more than her. I had to back out of it, I had too. Maybe it wasn’t that I didn’t just not want it, but I wasn’t capable of it, I undermined myself. Will I again?