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Benvolio unfocused eyes are affixed on the ground in front of him. He is sitting with his knees to the grass, alone and silent. Below him is a solid slab of stone in the dirt, a gravestone.
Mercutio Escalus
1451 - 1468
A noble son, nephew, and friend,
united with god and heaven once more.
Benvolio’s cheeks are stained with dry tears, lips chapped together in a flat line. When he opens his mouth to breathe, his breath trembles and chest wavers. He is trembling, and a voice on his neck makes his hairs stand on end.
“Hey, crybaby,” Someone familiar sounds in Benvolio’s ear. “You’ve got something on your face.”
Benvolio stiffens in terror, teeth suddenly finding their place grinding together. He turns his head as if a rusted dolls, neck strained.
He is staring right at his dead best friend.
“What’s wrong? Are you gonna start begging for your dead mama next?” Mercutio’s smile is wide and crooked, dark and old blood stains his teeth and pools at his chin. His eyes are milky, and despite his lack of pupils Benvolio can feel them staring right at him. He does not blink once.
He cannot speak, throat suddenly tight and dry. It is not the first time his friends ghost has tormented him, and he suspects it won’t be the last as he’s face to corpse with him again.
When Mercutio speaks again, there’s a giggle behind the words. “Benvolio, as funny as it is to watch you squabble and choke, you’re boring when you don’t talk.” He tilts is head, urging him to respond.
“…please leave me alone.” Benvolio finally croaks, a sad and simply reply. Too boring, too weak. Mercutio scoffs audibly, lip snarling in disgust.
“What fun is that? Do you not like me, is that it?” Mercutio jeers, trying to lean towards Benvolio’s face when he looks away. “What kind of friend are you? Do you hate me that much, that you wish I’d just go back to being a lousy corpse? That’s what you want, Benvolio?”
“No,” Benvolio cannot keep looking at him or he fears he might puke. Mercutio’s face is distorted and wrong to match his demeanor. That isn’t what he looks like. That isn’t what he sounds like. “It’s not.”
“Then entertain me! It’s the least you could do. Stop moping and wasting my time! I’ve ought to go find some girls to party with instead!” Mercutio stands up and jabs his shoe into Benvolio’s side to taunt him. “Pretty girls Benny, why don’t we find a few girls to play with together?”
“Stop.” Benvolio speaks through gritted teeth and feels his face grow hot with tears and shame. He cannot help but feel embarrassed. He wishes Mercutio’s taunting was still funny. He wishes it didn’t make him nauseous.
He is not looking, but Benvolio hears a stifled laugh. “Stop? Haha!” Mercutio spits out a laugh, it is more venomous than it is playful. “You really are hilarious! Do you think anybody will listen if you cry and beg? It never worked before, so why do you keep crying and crying and crying?”
There are fresh tears following the path below Benvolio’s reddened eyes. He attempts to cover his face to bury his sobs, but Mercutio suddenly kicks him. His heeled boot against Benvolio’s chest, he looms down at him with an uncharacteristically dark expression.
“…Crybaby. I would laugh if I weren’t so appalled.” Mercutio spits blood, and cracks a smile. “Go on, get up. If you really want forgiveness, you’ve got to fight for it. Stand up and fight me like a man!” He cheers him on sadistically.
Benvolio’s head and back are against the ground and he heaves slightly, looking up at Mercutio with his jaw slack. He’s not real. He’s not real. The pressure on Benvolio’s chest is not real. He’s not real.
“…you’re… not real…” Benvolio manages, voice cracking.
Mercutio seems amused, giggling at the statement. “True. I’m as real as the nightmares that keep bound to your feet, and as real as the guilt that gnaws at your bosom.”
His words become almost garbled, Benvolio becomes affixed to the blood at the back of his throat.
“As the calmest autumn day in Verona, your skin is cold and the sky stagnant. There is no wind, no sun, and no sky. Only the moon, the mistress moon that plagues your dreams. Visions of a cloudless heaven, the woman in the moon extends a sluttish leg to taunt you.”
Benvolio’s mind is using Mercutio’s words to paint a blurry picture. He keeps losing focus, and his breath keeps getting caught in his throat. The story stops being compressible.
“A wretch, a red tipped heel, a ruby diamond,” Mercutio bends over, his breath lands on Benvolio’s face. “The whore of your nightmares grins, and she beckons- O’ Benvolio, give in and collapse into me. I am your fondest dream and your darkest nightmare. Fall and love me and die.”
Face to face with Mercutio’s dull white eyes and dry smirking lips, Benvolio sucks in a breath. He shoves Mercutio off of him and stands up in a stunted jump.
“Stop!” Benvolio shouts, finally finding his voice. “Stop, stop,” He hisses through tears still. “He wouldn’t do this me. He wouldn’t talk to me like this. It’s not.. him…“
There is silence then. Benvolio fleetingly believed Mercutio had disappeared for that second.
“…this isn’t what he was like… it’s all wrong…” Benvolio hushed through tears, sounding as if he were trying to convince himself. “You aren’t real…”
The apparition of Mercutio is still, and his expression blank. He stares at nothing right past Benvolio, and the features of his face wobble. When he speaks, his voice is low and wrong. “Are you sure?”
Benvolio covers his ears, trying to block out the sound of nothing as Mercutio taunted him with a smile. He desperately closes his eyes, attempting to remember what Mercutio really sounded like.
His laugh wasn’t like that. His smile wasn’t like that. He wasn’t so cruel. He wasn’t. He was beautiful, he was gentle. He didn’t look like this.
What did he look like?
What did he sound like?
Why can’t I remember?
With hands clasped over his ears and digging into his hair uselessly, he can still hear as clear as day—
“Open your eyes, gentle Benvolio. I’m right here.”
A hopeful cry escapes Benvolio’s lips, and he vulnerably lowers his hands. The figure that cups his face and blurs his vision, is nothing but a mess of colors and fuzzy sounds.
Mercutio’s hands clasp at Benvolio’s cheeks, wiping his tears. It feels like pollen or peace fuzz against his face. His voice is like static, like a siren singing under water.
Mercutio laughs. Benvolio can’t hear it.
He smiles. Benvolio can’t see it.
“Crybaby.”