Seeing my wife sprawled across our bed, I feel my blood run cold. Her eyes have slowly glassed over, her mouth hanging agape, and I could see faint bruising around her throat, the faint impressions of my hands, forever embedded on her porcelain skin. My hands…..my hands. I looked down at things that took my wife away from me, and at that moment I loathed myself. I hated the way my voice sounded as I whispered her name, hated how my skin was the wrong color, hated how my breath was catching in the back of my throat. The sound of my sobbing was angering me even more than seeing her there- then seeing her dead.
God how I hated that I was breathing, that I could still breathe and she no longer could. Breathe in, breathe out. Letting my eyes look away from Desdemona, I closed my eye lids for the first time since she stopped inhaling, since she ceased to exist in my world. But sadly there was no escaping the nightmarish sight of her. She would forever be painted behind my eyes, and mingled with my nightmares. How did this happen?
I began to run through the slide show of all of our moments together that was inside my heart. That was inside a black place now surrounded by walls. Me telling her my life stories, her intently listening, giving her my dead mothers handkerchief, the glowing smile on her face, asking her to marry me, and her head rapidly nodding up and down, us…wait-that handkerchief, that damn handkerchief! That was the cause of all my problems. If she hadn't given it to Cassio she would still be here. No. That's not right. What had she been trying to tell me?
It was something about how she must have dropped it, but I can't really remember what she was trying to tell me. Instead of remembering her voice, that beautiful voice l could only seem to remember the voices that were in my head. She's lying to you, she doesn't love you, she likes Cassio, how would she- why would she love someone like me when she could love somebody like him?
Opening my eyes I saw him, Iago, the thing that had used me, used all of us, like puppets. He held the strings, and we danced for him. He was the real cause for my anger, my hatred, my dead wife. Why did he still get to breathe? I lunged at him, blade coming free from its sheath, and making its home in him. His breath caught, and I found that a smile had crept its way onto my face. His pain was my joy, his blood that was now dripping on my floor, brought me sheer pleasure. His pain was good enough for now, and his imprisonment would have to do. My mind made up, I took one last glance at my wife, and took the knife that was in my back pocket up to my throat.
My last thought being I'm coming Desdemona, I'm coming!