“Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth!” I whispered to the mirror. Immediately I looked around, checking if anyone had heard. I could hear the rest of the company getting ready a couple dozen metres from where I was, alone, in the bathroom. It was just me.
Looking down, I made my way to the aisles behind the stage. “Are you ready, mate?’ asked James, a young boy who played the part of Lady Macbeth. It was comical to see him painted, and with his long velvet gown dragging on the floor, without him wearing his wig. His short boyish hair exposed his real identity. Becoming an actor had killed the magic of theatre, as James had just killed the fantasy of the great noblewoman. I would ever again be frightened by Lady Macbeth.
“Just looking over my lines, James.” I said, dryly, making it clear I was not up for a chat. I looked straight down to my stack of papers, the words “Scottish Play” written boldly on top. My eyes skimmed through the pages. I did not have to look over my lines. I had been doing this all my life, and it was all damned Macbeth. I started when I was a young boy, younger than James, painting my face, wearing lady perfume and being put into those hideous dresses. As I got older, I was excited to finally showcase that I was a real man, capable of playing a king or a knight. Anxiously I waited to play King Duncan: a brave, kind-hearted, manly leader. Instead, I was given the role of Macbeth. A role I had had for way too long. It was like they wanted me to be a woman forever. How emasculating! To act like that poor excuse of a man, who obeys his wife and does what he is told. Maybe this is why I hadn’t gotten married; I was too good of an actor, the ladies believed that was my real personality. I had no chance to show them I had what it took to be a good husband and put them in their place.
“Yeah, I’m new to the ‘Scottish Play’” I overheard from our new Macduff. The old one had died, poisoned by his own filth, which surprised no one in the company, considering how much he stank. “I’ve never done it before, my old company only did comedies.” The three witches nod, their eyes shining with interest. They were three brothers, all impressionable boys. Like me, they were hired because they came to the play constantly. We would see them every weekend, watching attentively and absorbing every word, the love of theatre clear in their faces. Long ago, they got me as well. I used to love it all so much, I was marvelled by it all. I had never thought about how shallow it all was.
On my first day, we were all gathered listening to the director, taking notes and writing down everything we could. I then asked out loud: “And who’s playing Macbeth?” Obnoxiously loud gasps reached my ears, and multiple shocked faces turned to me, looking in horror.
“We do not say that word!” “Didn’t you hear the play is cursed?” “Why did we hire the kid anyways, look at him, he knows nothing!” I heard them say, all talking to me at once. Believing that play was cursed, all loonies, they were. All the dark magic in the play had messed with their heads.
Standing far enough from the four, “Macbeth,” I whispered under my breath. It was a form of rebellion, I thought. A way to prove them wrong, show that there was no curse. Nothing bad was gonna happen. If it did, then good! I could not care less about what happened to this stupid company. They knew nothing. They undermined me constantly, and had been doing so since I started that. As if that wasn’t enough, they refused to do anything other than the stupid “Scottish Play”. What was Shakespeare thinking, writing a disgrace such as this? One that turned women into men and men into sissies. Unacceptable.
A loud siren roared through the theatre: the first call. The witches get into position. I wait alone, at the very end of the aisle, watching the hecticness take place. “Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth,” I say.
They prepare the barrel full of water for the thunder. “Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth.” I am too entranced in my chant to see anything else. “Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth.” People are running, dodging from something. “Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth.” The barrel is rolling down, reaching my direction. “Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth…”
Boom!
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