I came upon the Montagues in the very place where Rosaline’s letter said she was to be employed as a barmaid. I was dressed perfectly for some cheerful violence in a fine green tunic, donning my best-loved cap, the scarlet velvet with its stiff plumage of raven feathers.
Swordplay, ’twas all it was, I swear it.
Swordplay, and arrogance, and honor, and heat, all combined to take a life. Men as boys on a summer’s day, swinging danger in an arc, balancing hatred on a rapier’s blade.
And in the midst of all that bluster, Romeo did beg for peace. He turned his back to me, a gesture of trust. He e’en enlisted Benvolio’s level head and courageous hand in putting an end to the combat. Down deep, I
think I would have welcomed the respite, but I did not wish to be the one to relent.
So we fought, Mercutio and I. Well-matched, we were, till Romeo did intercede, coming betwixt Mercutio and me to shield his friend. At the sight of that, I did boil with envy, for I knew that in all the world I had not one friend who would do the same for me.
’Twas then I thrust the weapon that found its way ’neath Romeo’s arm to Mercutio’s heart.
On my oath, ’twas as if the point of my own sword had punctured me as well. I felt it pierce some part of me unprotected by skin. And I ran … though I soon returned.
My fellows urged me stay away, but I could not bring myself to do so. The image of Romeo’s back turned to me, the knowledge that he had offered me faith, did impel me to this place.
This place where I killed Mercutio.
This place where now I lie dying.
Truly, I had come back only to profess my regret as well as my culpability, though I knew that e’en my most sincere contrition would fall sadly short. For Romeo was beyond sense—he thought I came to boast, and knowing me, who could blame him?
We fought.
I fell.
And Romeo fled.
He believed that wrong to be his right. But no murder
is of value, no kill worthwhile. I pray Romeo will one day learn that truth.
Presently, the citizens come in righteous fury, calling for the prince.
O, in what will they dress me for my funeral? I pray they bury me in good style. My breath comes so small; still, I am still not still.
0, Death doth stalk me slowly.
When will come that final, guilty breath with which to end my story,
To let my soul depart and chase Mercutio’s to heaven, to our
undeserved glory?