One advantage of this almost-death is that I can be everywhere and see everything.
The disadvantage, of course, is that I can do nothing to influence what I see.
I have remained here, a ghost in Juliet’s chamber, since her return from the friar’s cell. I heard her tell Rosaline of a strange sleeping poison, I saw her reveal a dagger, and I witnessed the desperate moment in which Rosaline was driven to slap her hard. Relieved was I when Roz claimed Juliet’s weapon, but still I was compelled to stay and watch over my beloved, confused young cousin.
“Ah, well,” she whispers, as though she feels me here, “there are other daggers. I’ve one stashed here in the darkest corner of my wardrobe cabinet, beneath my satin
undergarment. Rosaline is welcome to the blade she took; I am fortunate the nurse did not detect it when she dug through this soft finery in search of bridal attire. I’ve hidden yet another blade beneath an ivy-filled urn upon the balcony. Rosaline, you’re welcome to the dagger, for the one on the balcony is longer, and this one concealed in the folds of my pale pink chemise be the sharpest of the three. I shall pray awhile before I drink. And then, a toast to my beloved I shall make.”
I watch as she uncorks the demon bottle. If the friar is true, tomorrow she shall be borne to the Capulet tomb, where she will stay dead but awhile, then awaken to kiss her husband, Romeo, the ghost of the flavor of this mysterious liquor still present on her lips.
“How shall it taste, I wonder?” she asks aloud.
And so she prays, then drinks her sleeping potion, not knowing if it is to be trusted. Mayhap she believes herself courageous for tempting Providence so boldly, but I see her action is more cowardly than brave. So childish is Juliet that the prospect of having to fight for what her heart desires frightens her enough to provoke a deed so dangerous.
I watch through the night.
And pray myself that the friar’s draught keeps its promise.
Daylight comes and with it the girl’s nurse. She calls out, but no answer does Juliet make. The nurse draws back the
bed curtains and sees the dismal scene. Juliet, her skin gone gray as a winter’s sunset, the gown she was to wear at her wedding still hung upon a peg beside the bed.
“Lady, lady, lady!” she cries, and reaches ’neath the cover to find that Juliet’s flesh is cold. “Help, help! My lady’s dead!”
Juliet’s mother comes now, and when she sees the pretty corpse, she falls to her knees by her daughter’s bed wailing, “O, me, my child, my only life.”
And here is my uncle, Juliet’s father, coming to collect the bride-to-be but finding instead a pretty corpse. His wife sobs, “She’s dead, she’s dead … .”
Capulet’s misery comes in a keening howl.
I long for a voice, for with it I would remind the man that ’twas only yesterday he called her baggage and threatened to toss her out of his house.
Well, she will be out of his house now, won’t she?
He loved her only when she took commands, and her lady mother was equally unreliable with her affections.
I would damn them both to hell, but as they huddle beside their dead child, I realize they are already there.