Then, with a long, dragged-out sigh, the standing man places both hands around the sleeper’s throat and starts to choke.
I know what happens next because I know the play. Duncan dies in his bed at the hands of a man he trusted. Macbeth murders his king because someone he loved told him it was necessary, and because power makes parasites of us all.
The hands tighten. The sleeping man’s body jerks, once, twice, and then goes still. The killer holds on for much longer than necessary, like he recognizes that letting go means the sin is truly committed. Eventually, though, he releases his grip and steps back to examine what he’s done. His fingers are spread wide, trembling. It’s as though the dead man’s throat left invisible burns on his palms.
Around me, the audience watches without breathi
