Our Dark Prince (The Scottish Play)

VII. ...Itʼs You and Me and a World to Burn

A/N: Warning – gore, violence, and blood below.

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5

"Come in, and put your sh*t on the floor," she started.

Donning a crimson fur coat, like in the primitive days of clan-based Scotland, Decarabia sauntered into a greasy backroom and propped her n*pple clamps and pumps on the cushions nearby. Pouring two glasses of water, crystalline and crystal clear to the touch, Decarabia motioned for him to sit down. Macbeth obliged.

"Blunt," he said, nodding at her, accepting the cool glass of water.

"It has been 900 years, Macbeth," Decarabia snapped. "I can be however blunt as I want to. You left me to rot in this world. I was yours, and you surrendered everything for your Portuguese slave b*tch. For your dark flower. 900 years. You gave me promise, and you left me waiting for 900 years. I can however blunt as I want to."

Macbeth traced the ridges of his scorched hand and stewed in silence. He clenched his fists, staring at her stoically.

"900 years," Macbeth said simply, dismissing Decarabiaʼs comments about his wife, tasting the way it sounded; that the great Scottish king was as old as time.

Decarabia, needless to say, wasnʼt having it.

"What the h*ll are you doing here?" she snapped. "Now, of all times?"

Macbeth pursed his lips.

"I need closure," he said simply.

"Screw you and your need for closure. It was 900 years ago."

"And yet time still cuts fresh wounds in your eyes, Decarabia," Macbeth retorted.

He paused, pursing his lips again.

"I saw a young girl run down the streets," he said. "She was no older than seventeen."

"Seventeen-year-old children are formally a part of society, Macbeth," Decarabia huffed.

"This girl was my kin," Macbeth replied. "I smelled it on her; I felt it, deep within my bones. The child I had with Marjorie died in infancy, and yet, I have a bloodline. I donʼt understand how this is even possible."

Pause.

"I need closure, Decarabia, please," he repeated.

Decarabia sighed in defeat.

"What do you want to know, Macbeth?" she asked simply.

He clenched his fists again.

"What happened after I died?" he replied.

She exhaled sharply, drawing in breath and then closing her eyes. The pain was ripe, blooming inside of her with a murderous vitriol, and for once, Macbeth could feel something. Something like pain. Not quite there, but still, a flesh wound. A fresh wound.

"You were decapitated in Scotland," Decarabia said simply. "Your wife committed suicide. Macduffʼs armies invaded your kingdom and consumed it in a blaze oʼ glory and gore. He succeeded until Fleance, whose father you murdered, was prepared to rule. Duncanʼs children – Duncan being the other son-of-a-b*tch you killed – they took Cawdor and Glamis.

"Fleance, the king, he broke bread with the rebels. They traveled back to Dunsinane Hill and burned the three witches at the stake, including your wifeʼs remains. Anyone suspected of witch-craft, really. The English put their foot down about it and covered it up just as quickly. Well, ʼcause of that and the fact your name is cursed."