How Did Lady Macbeth Die

The sound of the rain was a dramatic cacophony of tap-plop-drip-tap-plop-drip. It poured down with incredible speed. It was as if God was gradually releasing an ocean onto the world. Cars were pulled over. People ran towards any source of shelter. Roads were flooding. All the people stood still and just stared, caught in a trance.

Myra sat by the Living Room window, curled up into the corner of the sofa, resting her chin on her arm. Strands of her long, brown hair draped casually across her shoulder. Her eyes were the darkest shade of brown, almost black. They were glazed over, nearly unblinking. Reflected within them was the window frame and the hellacious downpour of rain. It wasn’t quite dusk yet. There was still a vague sense of the sun existing somewhere. The rain was the only sound in existence, and Myra was transfixed by it.  

Her roommates were gone for the weekend. Tara and Bethany were cousins and life-long best friends. They went out of town for the weekend to attend a wedding. Myra, unlike her roommates, was an introvert and required frequent silence so she could function.  

Bethany always had the television on, Tara felt the need to play Pop music and sing along constantly. She had a lovely voice, but Myra despised Pop music. Her roommates were kind people, but completely oblivious to the needs of an introvert. Myra hated complaining, so she learned to tune them out. Tara tried to remember not play her music too loud, and Bethany tried to remember to keep the TV volume down, but it was always them and her, the little weirdo who didn’t follow Pop culture.

When Tara gleefully announced that another cousin was getting married, Myra gave the required, socially accepted smile, and mumbled, “Oh, how nice.”

“Bethany and I are going to spend the weekend up there! We’re helping with the Bachelorette party!”

Tara was bouncing around like a kid waiting for Christmas morning. She was practically squealing with delight. But, throughout this fluttery release of information, all Myra heard was “the house will be empty this weekend.”  

At last! Blissful silence!  

Tara and Bethany left for the airport early, Friday morning, right before Myra left for work. She worked in technical support for a major grocery store chain. The chain had over 2,000 stores and a massive Technology Department. Myra’s job was to work with store clerks when their Front-End equipment stopped working. It was a nerve-wracking job as Myra didn’t have much experience with computer networking, but it was far better than working in one of the stores. A store was where she began after her career in architecture failed.

Myra felt as if a part of her was destroyed during the Recession of 2007 – 2009. She had been working in a small Los Angeles design firm at the time that the recession hit. Fewer and fewer jobs came in. Soon, it became unbearably expensive to live there during that time. Myra returned to her hometown in Ohio and got a job working at a grocery store. It was humiliating to be working at a grocery store with a Bachelor of Architecture degree, but she didn’t know what else to do. After years of struggling to get an architecture job in any of the nearby firms, Myra applied for a job within the Technology Department of the retail company that had hired her and learned how to provide technical support to the stores. She didn’t really like the job, but it was a step up.

The room in which they placed her felt like a beehive. Rows upon rows of cubicles. She remembered her desk by counting rows and looking for the district map mounted on the outside wall of one of the cubicles. Then she knew to turn left and count three desks over to take her spot in the technology hive. Myra could hear the buzzing voices of the hive. She melted into her little cubicle, opened numerous applications, signed into her phone, and added her own voice to the buzz.  

Myra worked very hard to quickly learn Computer Networking. She paid very close attention and always asked lots of questions. Myra could dissect a building in her head, envision it in plan and section at the same time, but she didn’t have a clue as to how computers worked. As a result, her new job was quite terrifying.

That Friday, her calls were routine: register won’t boot, pinpad giving error messages, self-checkout machine won’t weigh, hand scanner has a broken handle. Her second to last call that day was the one that became unbearably difficult.  A store recuperating from a lengthy power outage was trying to get everything back online. Myra was still new to working the commands and navigating the network. She was on the call for over an hour. She had to get assistance from other departments, specialists…it was a huge, concentrated effort to get the store and the registers working again.

Thank God this week is almost over.  

The last call was someone unhappy about the slow service for their problem. They were demanding a supervisor. Myra used the private messaging system utilized by the entire Technology Department to talk to each other during calls for assistance or to communicate stores being down. A supervisor messaged his extension so she could transfer the call to him.  

A few minutes later, when Myra was just starting to log off all of her applications, the supervisor messaged her.

I need you to escalate this call. We need to get the tech out there as soon as possible. I’m not really trained in the Front-End problems, I was trained in Desktop, so can you do that for me?

Each of the supervisors had worked in taking calls at some point, but not in all the call areas. He was probably an expert in Desktop support but had no idea how to get a technician out faster for Front-End services.  

Myra responded: This call is already at a Priority 2, but it’s late, they probably won’t be there until tomorrow morning.

They want them out there tonight. Make it a Priority 1.

She took a deep, exhausted sigh, opened the call, changed its priority, and then reassigned to the technician—or so she thought. There was more than one way to change the priority. One option pages the technician so they know that the service is urgent. The other option pages what is referred to as “The Crisis Team.” This type of paging was reserved for extreme circumstances. The store cannot function at all. All standard troubleshooting has failed. The technician can’t fix it. The higher-level teams can’t fix it. When that happens, the Crisis Team steps in to save the day.  

Myra set the second type of priority but was unaware of what had happened. Within less than a minute a new message came from the supervisor.

Myra, why did you page the crisis team? They’re messaging me confused as to why they’re needed for a register not booting.

What? Oh, I see what I did. I can fix that.

She was horrified and trembling.

Myra, defer the call, let me take over.

No, I know what I did wrong, I can fix it. It won’t take long.

Myra, defer the call now. I’m taking over.

Myra begrudgingly handed over the call. She signed off her phone and left, completely deflated. Throughout the drive home, she trembled, desperately trying to control her emotions. Myra was an expert at hiding everything that bothered her. Self-control was her lifelong obsession.

When Myra got home, she went straight to her bedroom. Contained within her little sanctuary was a very big secret. In the back corner of one of her dresser drawers was a small box. This small box was the holder of Myra’s secret to self-control—razor blades.  

The first steps to maintaining her self-control were to take out the top blade, a small towel, package of large bandages, and a bottle of rubbing alcohol, all nestled in that same corner. Then she laid down the towel on the hardwood floor, sat down behind it, took the top razor blade from the box, and held it over the towel. She flipped up the lid to the rubbing alcohol, picked it up, and squirted a good amount over the blade. Myra’s eyes were fighting back tears. She wouldn’t allow them to come. Instead, she lifted up the hem of her shirt, took two short swipes across her stomach. Her eyes squeezed just a bit, and she sucked in some air briefly at the shock from the sharp pain.  

The next phase was to watch it bleed for a bit. Then came the relief. Instead of crying, she would bleed. Sometimes from the stomach, other times from her hips or inner thighs—always in a place where no one could see. This was for herself and no one else.

The third phase was to clean the wound and cover it with a bandage. By this time the tension had been released and there was no further need to watch herself bleed. She changed into an old t-shirt and leggings, brushed her hair, and drifted to the kitchen. Myra open a bottle of wine, picked out a glass, reheated some leftovers and wandered into the living room. Two glasses of wine later, the rain began. This is when Myra leaned onto the arm of the sofa and went into her trance.

Time no longer existed. Her body was completely drained of energy and emotion. The rain poured like tears from Heaven, a balm for her tired soul. It eventually slowed to a soft, seductive drizzle.  

Myra’s reverie was jarringly interrupted by a loud knocking at the door.  

“Who in the world…”

Perhaps it was the exhaustion combined with the alcohol that made her not care how she looked, or the fact that she was obviously not wearing a bra as she opened the front door. Someone quite handsome stood on the front porch. He was wearing a long raincoat and carried a dripping umbrella. The man was about thirty, tall and slender. His hair was very dark, and his eyes were a piercing pale blue. And here she was, without makeup, braless, dressed like a slob. Of course.

“Hi,” he began awkwardly, with a deep but soft voice. “I’m Tom Walker, I’m here to see Tara.”

“Oh, you must be mistaken, Tara’s out of town for the weekend.” Well I didn’t exactly just tell this strange man that I’m home alone.

“Today is the 7th isn’t it?” He was either a terrific actor or genuinely confused.

“Yes.”

He took out a cell phone, pulled up an email, and showed it to Myra. She immediately recognized Tara’s email address and her standard, excitable speech. It was typed in her usual abbreviated text lingo mannerism, exactly what she always did.  

She made out part of the message: Gr8 mtng you 2day. Dying 2 get 2 know u better. Let’s talk. Come over 2 my place on Friday, the 7th! .

Myra looked up at Tom, who didn’t have a bit of deception in those blue eyes. Tom put his phone away, paused, then glanced up, concern spread all over his face.

“Uhm, you’re bleeding.”

Myra jerked her head down and gasped. She had not done so great a job with the bandaging, some blood had leaked out and was now staining her shirt. Myra ran from the door, completely forgetting about Tom. She dashed into her bedroom, rebandaged the wound, double-checking to make certain the wound wasn’t worse than usual. Myra changed into a clean shirt and suddenly remembered Tom.

He yelled from the front door, “Is everything okay? Do you need help?”

Myra, thoroughly embarrassed, came back to the front door. It was still open. Tom stood just outside the door. Myra felt bad about her manners.

“Please come in. You seem safe enough. It seems my ditzy roommate gave you the wrong date, or completely forgot to tell you that she was going out of town this weekend.”

Tom walked in, leaned his umbrella in the corner, stood dripping on the door mat for a minute and said, “Oh, where did she go?”

“Florida. One of her multitudes of cousins is getting married. Let me take your jacket.”

Tom couldn’t help but to again glance towards her stomach. “Are you ok? You were bleeding.”

“Uh, yeah, don’t worry about it.”

He took one step closer to her, not in a threatening way, but as if trying to cross a bridge into friendship and concern. “Do you need a doctor?”

“No, I swear, it’s nothing. Here, sit down. I’ll get you something hot to drink. I don’t have coffee, but I have tea?”

“Sure, I’ll take some tea.” Tom did not look like a tea drinker, but Myra desperately wanted to busy herself. She needed a reason to not look at Tom, and it seemed rude to just send him on his way after driving over here in that storm.

“I’m sorry about Tara,” she said.

“Don’t be, I’m not disappointed. She seemed nice, attractive, but I’m fairly certain we don’t have much in common.”

Tom followed Myra into the kitchen. She busied herself with boiling water, fetching a mug, pulling out tea bags, wiping down some invisible spill, anything other than looking at Tom.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He prodded gently.

“Talk about what?”

“The reason you cut yourself.”

Myra’s head snapped around. Her arms wrapped around her chest, subconsciously hugging herself, while she stared at him, struggling immensely to hide her fear of discovery.

“It’s ok,” He continued, “My best friend in high school was a cutter. I knew quite a few cutters in college. You all have the same body language. The same look in your eyes.”

“And what look is that?” She nearly whispered, her voice trembling softly, deep in her throat.

“I’m not sure how to describe it. Not exactly scared or nervous. A combination of things. Like someone hanging by a thread that’s about to snap, so you cut to bleed and make yourself lighter. Not physically lighter, but emotionally lighter.”

“Lighter, yes.” Myra mumbled quietly, amazed that she could admit such a thing to someone she had known for no more than ten minutes.

They stood in the kitchen, saying nothing. She wordlessly showed him selections of tea. He chose her personal favorite, Peppermint.  

“My name is Myra, by the way.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Myra.”

As the kettle whistled, the rain started pouring again. They glanced up at the ceiling as if expecting it to be made of glass, revealing the frantic splattering of rain drops. Myra led him to their Living Room. He sat in an armchair across from the sofa. She returned to the sofa, pulled her legs up under her, trying to distance herself from Tom as much as possible. They sat like that for a few minutes. He sipped his tea. Myra occasionally looked towards him then nervously darted her eyes to anyplace other than him.

“Sorry. I’m not good at conversation. That’s Tara’s thing.”

“I believe it. When we spoke, I could barely get a word in edge-wise.” He took another sip of tea and set the mug down next to her wine glass on the coffee table. Tom smiled and picked up Macbeth. “You read Shakespeare?”

“Yes. I was going to relax tonight and re-read it. Wonderful play. Had a miserable day at work. I needed a quiet evening.”

“Is that why you…”

Myra glanced at him; her face full of alarm. Tom stopped. He changed tactic.

“So, what’s your favorite part of Macbeth.”

“Well,” she visibly relaxed, put her feet on the floor, and faced him, “I can’t really say why, but I like the part where Lady Macbeth is sleepwalking and trying to wash the blood off of her hands. I don’t think the play is quite clear, but I can’t tell if she’s sleep-walking because she’s worried that she’ll be found out or if she’s feeling guilty?”

“Perhaps it’s both.”

“Yes, perhaps.”

“Maybe part of her wants to be found out. You can’t keep a secret like that forever.”

Myra was completely uncertain if he were talking about Lady Macbeth or herself with that last comment.

“Maybe she’s afraid,” Myra continued, “Of losing control. She wants to be strong.”

“Maybe she is strong,” Tom said leaning forward, “but she’s still human and has weaknesses. Maybe if she had cried and confided in someone, she wouldn’t have killed herself.”

“Is that how it went down? Shakespeare was so ambiguous about it. It doesn’t say how she died. One of Macbeth’s officers announced that she was dead. It’s never revealed how.”

“Does it matter?” Tom asked, rising. “She died. She took that secret to her grave and never found relief.”

There was silence again. All they could hear was that intense rhythmic pounding of rain. Tap-plop-drip-tap-plop-drip. Myra turned her head to once again gaze out the window. She didn’t notice her hand gently touch her carefully concealed wound or when Tom sat down on the other end of the sofa, still giving her plenty of space. He opened the book, flipped through a few pages and began to read out loud.

“And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow; a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

Tap-plop-drip-tap-plop-drip.

“Can you stay for a while,” Myra asked without looking at him.

“As long as you’d like.”

“Let’s talk. I think it’s time I talked.”

We might never know how Lady Macbeth died, but Myra was about to be reborn.