Serpe Baixo Flor

After being cast as Lady Macbeth in an upcoming production, Sophie slowly begins to lose her mind....
I'm not going to be updating for a while. I'm going to complete it, then review it and change bits that don't work so much for me. As much as I want to just write something and then post it, it may not be my best work, and I want to make sure my writing is as good as it can be. Thank you for staying with 'Serpe Baixo Flor' so far. I will post the complete version whenever I finish it, but I'll keep this one up and have it as a first draft, maybe even a complete first draft one day.
Cheers again.
~Child of the Jago, 26th August 2012


2. Dreams


 "Hath he asked for me?"

"Know you not he has?"

                      -Macbeth and Lady Macbeth, Act I, scene vii


The alarm clock wakes me at six-thirty.  For a few moments, I lie in bed, eyes closed, still playing at being Lady Macbeth.

Every morning, when I open my eyes, I'm so sure I'll see a stone ceiling, high above me, a fireplace crackling, hear the servants already busy in the courtyard.  

Of course, all that really happens is that I see my cosy little flat on the outskirts of  London, because I can't afford a posh central-city one.  I see my skinny jeans and high heels, too modern for the Macbeths.  I smell the vague whiff of coffee that seems to permanently linger in my flat, and pretend it's really the servants preparing my morning meal.

This has been my morning routine for well over six months now, ever since I heard that a theatre up in the city centre was performing Macbeth.  I had to send in forms and videos and make calls and all sorts, but finally it was sorted.

They wanted to see me.

To audition.

For Lady Macbeth.  My dream may have faded into the recesses of night, but my real-life dream is only a train ride away.


Half an hour later I sit at my small table, dressed in my favourite jeans, heels, and the nicest top I own, a strappy turquoise-blue thing I got at a charity shop a few years ago.  My long, black hair has been brushed and clipped back into a ponytail, I've taken some time to put on five layers of midnight black mascara, outlining my large blue eyes, and my lips shine with my new pink lipstick.  I look the part; cool, calm, confident, every bit the professional and experienced actress.  But I'm so nervous.

I've wanted this part every since we studied Macbeth in school.  I guess I've always been fascinated by the strange and the mad.  No wonder Lady Macbeth appealed to me.  I guess I've always been a loner.  

Stuffing the last of my tea and toast into my mouth, I pick up my handbag and make for the door.  Can't miss my train.  Can't miss my audition.  My chance.


At seven forty-five am, I am on the train to Central London.  The only other people on the train are posh workmen in suits and women in their designer jackets.  Several elderly people gather at one end, tutting at the youngsters.

My stop is not until right at the very end, so I take a seat and sip my coffee.  Ugh.  It's too thin and too milky and yet somehow the bitter taste manages to seep through.  What have they used, coffee-flavoured dishwater?

To try and take my mind off the foul taste, I allow my thoughts to drift back to last night's dream.  Dreaming about life in the Thane of Cawdor's household is not uncommon for me -as I said before, this is my dream role-, and most times I somehow end up as Lady Macbeth, but the suicide theme...that's a new one.  I mean, I always knew she killed herself and maybe I'd even thought about it on occasion, but never dreamed it before.  I wonder why I did last night?

Audition nerves, I tell myself firmly, pulling away from macabre thoughts of death.

A mother with a screaming toddler comes and sits opposite me.  She nods absentmindedly, busy with her child. "Alright?"

"Morning." I reply, finishing off the lukewarm liquid in the polystyrene cup, giving an involuntary shudder. "God, that's even worse than their usual crap."

The tired-looking mum offers me a small smile. "That bad, eh?"

"Worst part is, this is the best coffee you can get, round 'ere."

She snorts. "Going by the smell of it, wouldn't even call it coffee."

Can't argue with her there.

She gets off at the next stop, and no-one else takes her place.  I sit alone, staring at me tattered, dog-eared copy of Macbeth, the same one I used in school, two years ago.  I read Lady Macbeth's words without really seeing them, nor taking them in.  I try to picture the audition in my mind's eye, but it won't work.

The insides of my stomach feel like churning cement, and the feeling only intensifies as the train pulls up to my stop.

An electronic voice announces,

"Please mind the gap when alighting from this train."

I step off.

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