Editing DbS (section)

== TWENTY-FOUR ==
⚇乂⚇

'''ET TU, ROMEO?''' 

THE FIGHT DID NOT LAST long. While Paris may have been a formidable opponent to me, a not-so-experienced dueler, Romeo stopped him in his tracks quickly.

He finished him when he exclaimed with anger that, “Thou art a miserable Montague, indeed! Tis cowardice to stand over the fair Juliet to bring vengeance by thineself, even after death—.” A swift cut to his side, and Paris was dead.

Romeo, it seemed, didn’t even have the mental ability to fathom this, and it didn’t seem to bother him.

He looked to Juliet again, and I knew his eyes were glassy, as they often got when he thought or spoke of his love. A vial was extracted from his pocket. In a fluid motion, he uncorked it, tipping its contents into his mouth.

''“NO!”'' screamed Abigail beside me, dashing to her brother.

''Tis fair! A life for a life for a life for a life…'' my brain, ever independent, stopped talking for once.

Abigail reached Romeo, but quickly stepped back, and, upon backing herself into a tree, slid down on it, eyes on her brother at all times.

''He’s gone…'' the Scottish tint to my brain’s voice was gone for at least a little while. I stepped over to Romeo, ducking down to him and sniffing his breath quickly.

A sour scent filled my nose and I thought of a line from a play I’d heard years ago. ''The tartness of his face sours ripe grapes….''

Not a sound came from Abigail. She stared, watching Romeo, unblinking. Her dark hair had fallen into her face and she was unresponsive.

''Too many hath been slain….'' The thought passed my mind, a mourning tint to it, all comedy gone from my mind’s voice.

“Indeed,” said Abigail softly, tears welling up in her eyes. Her blue-green skirts once again swished as she got up and walked over to where Romeo and Juliet were.

On the ground lay a bouquet of flowers, all red except for two. “Mums,” whispered she, picking them up and twirling the two flowers’ stems in her hand.

''Tis means death,'' my brain said matter-of-factly.

I needed to say something to Abigail- comfort her, make sure she was okay, anything. And so, my brain spoke for me, in form of soliloquy.

“Tis truly a misfortunate event. If they hadn’t been sweeped up by angels…” my voice trailed off, and I wasn’t sure what I was even going to say next.

“T’would have been a beautiful relationship,” said Abigail, staring at the two. Her gaze was warm, full of sympathy, and, oddly enough, the tears had mostly gone away, although her cheeks were wet with the ones she hadn’t wiped away. ''Her appearance is in of likeness to Romeo’s…''

And then I took notice of how my friend had fallen. He was spread out, as if in the middle of skydiving. His eyes were shut and one of his legs was bent at an odd angle- as if he were simply dazed and about to get up. But what caught my attention were his hands. One held the empty bottle, which was now bone dry- I looked- the poison gone. The other was reaching out to the table, trying to be near to Juliet as possible.

It reached out but just fell short, fingers a few inches away from Juliet’s.

Juliet was lain out, hands on her stomach. Or at least, that’s how I imagined they were supposed to be. One long arm reached out towards the ground, where Romeo lay.

''Til death may we part.'' The vow in a wedding crossed my mind. And I hadn’t even ''been'' to a wedding before.   

It was a very somber fifteen minutes that Abigail and I stood there, studying the two. Neither of us spoke- nor did we feel we had to. My Shakespearean brain had done all the speaking I had wanted to do, and Abigail had responded accordingly.

''I wonder where Paris’ page went…'' I thought idly as I watched the pre-dawn light creep over the sky, the sun having not yet appeared but getting closer by the minute.

Abigail looked to me curiously, an elegant brow raised, but said nothing, staring, also, at the tops of the trees as the light reached across the sky like a child’s fingers, grabbing at anything it could get its hands on.

The trees glowed a sort of pine-ish green as the dim light touched them, an amber glow, not unlike the color Romeo’s eyes had been, appeared slowly on them, filling the small graveyard with a warm feel.

I looked up to the sky, which was still a sort of indigo color, and was surprised to see it was clear, the freckling of bright, glittery, stars clear as day, not one shadowed by a cloud. The moon was claw-shaped, almost like a cat’s, and curved peacefully up and around, its glow brighter than the one back home had been, casting a whitish glow on the chrysanthemums that Abigail held loosely. Not a bird chirped and no russle of leaves and underbrush was heard, no animal having the audacity to interrupt such a somber moment.  

I didn’t even hear the near-silent sound of shifting on velvet until I heard a voice, eerie in the silence but befitting to the scene.

“I never thought thee were’st a murdurer.”