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Everyone knows this story, we are well acquainted with the tragedy that is Romeo and Juliet, they haunt Verona’s streets in a way my love could never.
I was ten years old when my father died and I was shipped to Verona, to my uncle's home.
It was there that I met my best friend, my cousin. Romeo Montague was many things, he was wild and reckless and free but he had a quieter side, he could listen and he could understand. We confided many secrets to each other over the years, some silly and some not.
I remember Romeo scooting closer to me, whispering under the blankets long after we were sent to bed. “Wouldn't it be such a great thing? To be in love?”
I had no answer for that, for I knew nothing of love. It was one of those things that my father never seemed to mention. And my mother, well, she hadn't been there to fill the space.
With Romeo came someone else.
With Romeo came Mercutio, brazen, lively, cunning Mercutio who refused to accept defeat.
We studied together in our earlier years, the three of us, half asleep, listening to a tutor drone on and on about senseless things that no child cared about.
But we were content.
We had our fun, faking sword fights and chasing each other through the streets. We got into the occasional scuffle with a Capulet, Tybalt more often than not.
I never understood the feud. What was this fight about? Why was it so serious that children were jumping each other in the streets?
The years drifted by in long drawn out summers that faded into crisp autumns and frigid winters that warmed in balmy springs.
Somewhere along the line, I think when I was about thirteen, Mercutio became more than just Romeo's friend. He became someone I trusted.
We spent the summer of my sixteenth year laid out under a fig tree, talking and talking about anything that crossed our minds.
By now Romeo had only become more of a romantic. I doubt he loves any of those girls, not truly, but he was in love with the idea of love. He was in love with the concept of caring for someone enough to die for them.
I felt it meant more if you loved a person enough to live for them. Because I did that every day.
Sometimes I woke up and my head was full of hate, ridiculing everything I've ever done. Sometimes I woke up and my heart was empty, numb, as if I didn't deserve the emotions that Romeo embraced so easily. Sometimes I woke up and my heart was heavy, leaden, full of the notion that no one cared.
I don't remember when I began to feel that way, nor do I remember why.
But suddenly everything was too much. The people were too loud. I was too little. The people were all bigger, grander, better than me.
It was Mercutio who found me, my face in my hands, struggling to breathe through sobs, a blade clutched in my hands like a lifeline.
He sat down beside me, reached towards my hands, pried the blade from them and laid his head on my shoulder. “What's wrong, Benny?”
“I don't know.”
“Well it has to be something. So tell me what's on your mind.”
“Everyone is so much better than me.”
He laughs at that. Really laughs
“Benny, you're the best of them. Stop your tears now, c'mon. Sit with me. Be merry.”
“I can't just be merry, Merc. It's not that simple.”
“You can try,” he said.
“I have tried.”
He presses his lips together. “Well then what could make you merry?”
I don't have an answer. It's getting harder and harder to find any contentment in this world. It used to be so easy, a book, a toy, a game, and all the worries fade away, not anymore. Now they close in tighter and tighter until I don't know how to breathe anymore and maybe it's my own fault.
Mercutio sits with me for what feels like hours, or is hours, I'm not sure. It's dark when we finally begin the walk back.
Romeo greets us at the door. “Where have you been all evening? I was almost worried.’
I try to think of some excuse, anything that sounds better than ‘I tried to kill myslef’. “Errands,” Mercutio says.
I just nod. Why argue with that?
“This is a horrible idea.” I insisted.
Romeo just slapped my back and melted back into the crowd of guests. Capulet guests.
What were they thinking? Mercutio was one thing, he was related to the Prince, his attendance was an honor. But Romeo? A Montague? At the Capulet house? It would almost surely end in disaster.
I was right.
I knew it the second Romeo professed his love again. I had a sick feeling in my gut as he spoke of gentle eyes and dark hair and it only grew as I watched him sneak over the fence.
“It'll probably last a week, at best.” Mercutio said. “We both know how he is.”
“Yeah.”
He nudged my shoulder. “What's the matter, Benny?”
“Nothing.”
I press my eyes shut and try to force myself to breathe, anything to quell the feeling of dread crawling up my throat.
There's a warm hand intertwined with mind, pulling me along, and it sends a strange flutter through my chest. I let him guide me along, fucking behind houses until we make it home. He doesn't say anything when he leaves me at the door, just kind of smiles. There's a different light in his eyes, something that seems familiar.
He has the same look as he lays there bleeding. I don't know what to do but hold him and pray that he doesn't slip away. “You can't die.” I insisted, more to myself than him.
Mercutio winces. “I don't know. But- fuck.” He closes his his eyes, breathing turning ragged. “I love you. Did you know that? And not in a way I should. Please don't hate me, I don't think I could ever live with myself if you did.”
The irony in that is that he didn't live, that he slipped away before I could say it back.
I could say I tried to stop Romeo but it would be a lie. I let him go, let him stab that blade through Tybalt just as Tybalt had Mercutio. God above forgive me for that pettiness. Days stretch into weeks once he's gone. There is no more talking, no more jokes. No more Romeo. He's alive though, at the least. Knowing he's alive is better than sitting beside a grave.
But I still sit.
I sit and I pray. I pray that God understands that I loved him, that he forgives me for doing it. If it was really so horrible why would you let me feel it? I pray that Mercutio is happy, wherever he is. I pray most of all that he knows I love him, even if I never got to say it.
The message comes in the early morning.
Romeo Montague is dead. So is Juliet. And Paris as well. So much death for just a few months.
The dinner table is silent. Just Romeo’s father staring at his plate. We don't speak. I barely eat. He isn't my uncle now, he is Romeo's father. My uncle chatted with me, checked my studies, and asked how I was. This man does nothing but grieve his son.
I'm there when the golden statue is raised. Juliet, rose clutched to her chest, eyes closed peacefully. I'm thankful that she isn't staring. I don't know if I could handle it.
Romeo doesn't get a statue. He gets his name set in stone beside her's. I'm sure he would like it though, the romantic he was.
I still sit beside the grave. Sometimes I talk, more often I pray that God does not punish me for what I'm planning to do. Because the air is getting thicker and thicker, filling my lungs like I'm drowning. Everything feels oppressive, heavy on my shoulders.
Mercutio’s not there to pull the knife away this time.