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The Death of a Montague

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“Good morning Benvolio!” one of my kinsmen called to me as I sauntered by the pristine Verona beach. Over the years, I discovered that a morning walk clears your head better than anything. Every day I walk around my beloved Verona, taking in the fresh light as it appears over the reddish clay of the Verona roofs. I love this more than anything in the world. Here, I cannot hear the clashing of swords bashing with the ferocity of a scorpion, or see the bitter expressions of the Capulet men just waiting to pounce.
I am shaken from my dreams of peace by a distant clanging that grows louder as I walk farther along the bustling street and draw closer to the square. The round, cobblestone, gathering place where farmers sell their brightly colored goods off of wooden carts. Yet as I sprint around a building, their owners abandon them as they press themselves to the edges of the square as an abhorrent, yet inescapable scene unfolds in the center of the square. My childish relatives raise their swords against some murderous Capulets once again.
I run towards the growing fray with many others, but I enter with a different purpose. “Stop this now!” I yell over the shouts and clangs that come from all around me, “This will only end in death!” I wedge myself between two of the fighters in an attempt to stop them, but soon the harsh voice of the madman Tybalt reaches my ears and I step aside to face him.
“How dare you insult me with your words of peace Benvolio! Montagues do not deserve to live!” His jabbing voice punches ahead of him as he sprints towards me, sword drawn. I can do nothing, but draw my own rapier and hope this pursuit ends soon. This wish becomes a reality as my uncle enters roaring into the fray like an elephant, knocking down all those who enter his path. As Tybalt turns his attention to him, I slip away from the fight and sit down on the steps of one of the houses surrounding the square. This senseless violence makes me feel as though one of these swords hit me over the head as I recall my most dreadful memory of my father.
My father always appeared to me as a large, proud man, with a round red face and head that missed almost all of his silver hair. He turned quickly to violence, yet his loyalty to his family remained unmatched and I loved him dearly. My mother was very different. She was tall, skinny, and her straight brown hair fell to her waist to match her loving chocolate eyes. Every night, she would sing softly to me, and I would fall asleep to her angelic voice and vast, affectionate smile.
One perfect, warm night, just past my tenth birthday, a breeze blew pleasantly as my parents and I walked these same Verona streets back from the theater, where we saw the opening night of a new opera. We enjoyed the tragedy and the comedy, the low notes of the basses and the piercing high notes of the sopranos that accompanied the spectacular opera, and my parents decided that we should relish the night air and walk home. As we walked down a narrow street between two of Verona’s clay houses joyously singing, we saw a member of the house of Capulet came swaying towards us, an empty bottle of gin in his hand. “Ah!” he hiccupped, “is it not one of the house of toads,” and he bit his thumb at my father.
“How dare you!” yelled my father, as his face grew redder with rage, and he pulled out his sword. The tipsy Capulet laughed, and his sword loosely hung at his side. My father charged the Capulet man, yet as he lifted his sword, the murderous Capulet shoved his sword through my father’s stomach, the point revealing itself to me through my father’s back. Blood spurted from the wound as my precious father choked and staggered backwards. His eyes lost all light as he fell, becoming as still and lifeless as a doll in an instant as the atrocious Capulet wove his way back up the street. My mother released a bloodcurdling scream as she rushed to my father’s side, her tears running down her face like a waterfall, soaking the top of her wine colored dress. I was as still as a statue. I could not bring myself to move as my father’s soul left this universe behind. It felt as though world ended, and only my mother and I survived. Soon my uncle arrived and rushed to my father’s side as my aunt cautiously followed him and carried my wailing mother away. The next thing I knew, I rushed to my father, I grabbed at him and yelled at him to wake up. My tears blinded me and my screams clogged my windpipe, making breathing impossible. Friar Lawrence arrived in the chaos and pulled me into a deep embrace. I struggled, but the iron cage of Friar Lawrence’s grip held me. He scooped me up and carried me through the streets towards my home. In this time, I vowed never to hurt anyone with a sword before I quickly fell asleep. 
The prince’s voice pulls me back to the present from this agonizing memory. “If any of you ever fight in the streets of Verona again, you shall die for your crimes,” he demands in his deep, commanding voice. He rides away on his white horse, surrounded by his subjects, as my aunt and uncle make their way through the crowd towards me.




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devan-tuck said...
today at 8:18 pm
Oh my goodness gracious, Romeo and Juliet fanfiction is something of which I will never tire of! Especially ones with such beautiful details, my goodness gracious! There's wonderful metaphors, everyone is in character, it's gorgeous!
 
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