This was written for my English class, in which we had to write a non-tragic ending to the play. I'm turning it in on Friday so if anyone has any suggestions on how to make it better, let me know!
The apothecary was neither a brave man nor an honorable man, but he was a smart man. Not the bookish type that one would find wandering aimlessly through the libraries in Rome or staring with wonder at the ceilings of Sistine Chapel, pondering the meaning of life. He was never one for philosophy and reading hardly suited him, but he knew people. In particular, he knew the young man standing in front of him.
Not his name or family, of course; the man was much too far lost, wandering in the affairs of his own mind, to bother with such pleasantries. Instead, he appeared at his door with bloodshot eyes and a face pouring down with sweat, asking for a deadly poison.
It was his experience that men only came to him looking that and asking for that for two reasons: either to kill or be killed. Either way didn't bode well if the authorities became involved in the matter and started asking too many questions. That wasn't to say he hadn't been involved in such schemes before, for he was a rather poor man, but he didn't like it.
He scratched his chin thoughtfully, eying the rumpled clothing and mussed hair of the youth. Truthfully, the man didn't look much better off than he was and hardly bore the look a wealthy man. "And pray tell, what is it you want the poison for, boy?"
The lad hardly blinked at his informal speech or gruff tone and merely spoke in an almost droning monotone, "My business is my own, but I'll pay you good money for it. You could use that." He glanced around at the ramshackle house and almost caving-in ceiling as he spoke the last, wrinkling his nose with a hint of distaste.
The apothecary snorted. Bribery then, was it? And disgust for a lower class? He had hardly thought the boy capable of it, seemingly a walking corpse, speaking tonelessly, asking only for a potion to finish the death that already seemed to have claimed his mind. "You do me wrong if you think me so foolish as that," he said. "Selling deadly drinks is illegal; you must know this as well as I do. Do you think my poverty would turn me so easily from the law?"
The boy seemed to harden slightly then, standing straighter and taller, pulling himself to his full height. He reached a hand inside his pocket to produce a hand filled with gold coins, glinting as the sunlight hit them. "You're starving," the boy said in a stronger voice, pointing with his other hand to the apothecary's rail-thin body. "You're wasting away here with no reason, no point to your life at all. When you die, you'll leave no legacy behind, nothing worthwhile. These coins can save you."
The apothecary stared at the coins, counting them, taking in the extent of their worth. He was burdened, as poor men are, with a lust for money, the shine of gold in his fingers, and the boy knew it. He looked up into dark eyes. Perhaps he'd underestimated the lad. He was smarter than he'd thought, and not entirely incapable of looking alive. Still, he was not to be outdone so easily.
He still had no wish to apprehended by the law. Odder still, however, was the fact that he didn't wish the boy to be apprehended by the law either and certainly not tried for murder, or drink the poison himself and die, if that was his intent. He had never felt this draw to help his customers, like he felt it was his fate to help them, to stop their deaths.
But he wanted those coins. He scratched his chin again, looking for another option, for he was a clever man. He smiled suddenly, having come upon it. Poisons were easy to make, that was true, but easier still was mere colored water that might bubble or carry a strange odor, but harm no one. This he would make.
"I'll give you the poison then, boy, but against my wishes, mind you. It's not right, but I need the money. Come on in, and I'll mix it up." He turned on his heel and walked inside with a mock sigh, but not before snatching the coins from the boy's hand.
Indoors, it was darker and danker, with only one foggy window that let pale sunlight stream through in one line of floating dust. The boy stood awkwardly by the door, surveying the one room with a clear dislike.
The apothecary shook his head, mixing the leaves with the water, stirring, then filtering. The boy clearly was not used to poverty. High class likely. Well, it was even better than that he was giving him fake poison then. High class families did not take kindly to murders, or suicides for that matter. They lived too well to just call them death and get on with it; they were always ready to jump on the nearest suspect. It was how feuds started.
Within a matter of minutes it was done and he put the grayish liquid into a small vial, handing it to the boy who took it and turned to go. "Use it carefully, boy, mark my words. It's a dangerous substance!"
The boy turned back to nod slightly before hurrying on down the street, evidently impatient to get to wherever it was he was heading.
The apothecary laughed as he shut the door, pleased with his trickery. He was a dishonest man, but perhaps his dishonesty would save a life. In any case, he wished the boy the best of luck, and returned to counting his coins.
The pale moon hung with luminescence in the dark sky, lighting the churchyard with an eerie, waxen glow. The tombs of all the larger families in Verona dotted the area, standing tall and erect amidst the smaller gravestones, proud. But was death something to be proud of, to have a family so large, with so many of them dead that you needed a tomb of grandeur to keep them all in?
Romeo walked quickly but quietly, stepping carefully to keep the silence. Who knew what should become of him, disturbing graves after the fall of darkness, when the night keeps the peace of the dead? He couldn't help it, though. Coming during the day wouldn't do; it would be too easy for him to be seen, and besides, the night was what held his heart. The night, the dark, and the dead.
He would see his love, his wife, his Juliet one last time, before he too perished into the empty void beyond life. Perhaps he would meet her there and they would have a better life, not so star-crossed, for there would be no stars there, nothing to control their fates.
He clenched his hand inside his pocket, gripping the deadly vial with a shaking fist. He would kill himself to defy this cruel fate that had met him. He would show fate, once and for all, that he was the master of his destiny, nothing else, just him!
He found the Capulet tomb easily, the letters of their name, the name which was both his enemy and his one love, engraved in bold script on the tomb. He stared for a moment at the tall, grand structure before stepping forward, past the stone columns that stood on either side.
He put his hand out, touching the cold stone, cold like death. Quickly he slammed his fist forward, knocking into the door with speed and strength. It bounced open with surprising ease, unleashing the stench of death and decay, of corpses lying unnaturally still in the dark.
Taking one more breath of fresh air, Romeo stepped forward into the tomb, making sure the door would stay open behind him, to let in the moonlight. He swallowed, glancing at the bodies all lying in their affirmed places, searching for Juliet.
He found her at last, lying still with a gauzy sheet pulled up over her lovely face. He rushed towards her and peeled it back slowly, removing it away from her skin, angry. She shouldn't have been covered; she was too lovely to be covered with a dusting sheet, masking her beauty and her light! She shouldn't have been put in a tomb with rotting corpses to bear the horror and terror of endless night! She shouldn't have been kept in this dark, dank place, burying her from the light of the sun until she grew pale and faded! She needed light and warmth to live; she needed out of here!
He fell to his knees beside her, head falling forward, resting on her stomach, shaking and choking with sobs. He wanted to take her into day, out of dark, out of death! He was vaguely aware that he wasn't thinking clearly, but to do so seemed nearly an impossibility when his vision was blurred with tears and his hands were shaking with small tremors that seemed as if they would never stop.
At last he stopped, trying to calm himself, and looked again at her face. So fair, so beautiful. Her cheeks were still rosy and bright; even death could not diminish her beauty. She should not have met her death so young, when she had barely yet lived. But that would be his fate also.
They'd known each other for such a short time, but they were tied so eternally; he would see to that. They would meet the same fate, for those short days together had bound them to each other. He smiled almost, thinking of the time they'd spent together, their wedding. Those short, happy days.
He sighed and stood, bending down to kiss her lips lightly, one last time. Her lips still felt warm and sweet like honey, but he knew it was an illusion; she was gone. He took the vial from his pocket and opened it, raising the foul thing to his lips and took a drink.
He waited. And waited. Well, perhaps it took a while. He paced, walking in hard, fast steps around Juliet's still body. Once, twice, three circles around. Nothing happened. He grew impatient. Was the poison a false, then? Oh, untrue apothecary, paid in coins of great worth, but all for nothing!
Well, poison was not the only way to die, though it was the choicest. He pulled his dagger from his belt and held it to his chest. It was difficult to keep it steady, trying to choose what the quickest path to his heart.
There was a sound, a gasping breath, coming from...Juliet? He turned his gaze to her and saw her eyes fluttering open, blinking in confusion. Throwing the dagger to the ground, he ran to her side. "Juliet, is it you? Are you truly alive or only a ghost, a figment of my crazed imagination?"
She looked for him, blinking as her eyes steadied and focused on him, smiling sweetly. "You came, Romeo. You're here, just like Friar Laurence said you would be! I was worried, but...I knew you'd come. But you look surprised. Did you not receive his letter?"
"I received no letter, only the news of your death. But you're not dead, thank the stars in the heavens! Juliet, you're not dead!" He grabbed her warm hands in his and pulled her into a sitting position, then wrapped his arms tightly around her, pulling her close to him. She wasn't dead. And being with her now, knowing what he could have lost, made it more wonderful than ever before.
The sky was dark and without a star, but the moon shone with a bright blaze, and the moon was his friend. It showed him that there was still light left in the world, and life went on. Dawn would break again. Paris hadn't been able to sleep. He was tired and felt in a daze, but that restful peace would not come to him, no matter how long he laid upon his soft bed, staring upward in vain at a ceiling he couldn't see, waiting for morning's light.
Walking made him feel better. It was a constant motion, calming and easing him from the tension of a love lost before it had sprung to life. He thought of Juliet often, mourning the loss that had seemed to darken Verona, leaving all their lives hanging, just waiting for it to turn out untrue, for her to return to them. But she wasn't coming back.
It was true that he hadn't known her well, had spoken to her little and been spoken to by her even less. But he'd watched her from across rooms, observing the way her smile seemed to brighten things, the way she bit her lip when she was nervous, arched her brows when she was puzzled. He'd been looking forward to a long life with her, a life that would never be.
He would move on; he knew that. He would never forget her, but he would no longer feel so burdened by her death, so weighted down with sorrow. Someday he would marry happily to someone else, and this time it would not go so awry.
But he wasn't ready for that yet. He was mourning still, finding himself with white flowers in his hands and walking through the churchyard, amongst the graves, to go to her and strew her grave with flowers, to ornament her with the same beauty she so easily bore in life.
It wasn't far to the Capulets' tomb, and he soon found himself nearly upon it—but wait, the door was already opened wide for all the world to see! He let out a sharp cry, for what shamefulness was this? Grave-robbers come to steal her jewels away, defile her fairness? Could the dead not rest in peace anymore?
There were voices, echoing softly from inside. He stepped to the side, trying to shield himself from their eyes while he peeked in. It was Romeo, that blasted Montague! And another, too, it was...Juliet? He turned away into the night, beginning to doubt his own eyes. It was some strange dream only; he'd not slept in too long.
Everything felt so real, though, the cold stone at his back, the ground beneath his feet, the chilled night air. It couldn't be a dream. That meant Juliet was alive...alive! He smiled, nearly laughed in joy; she wasn't lost to him after all. But Romeo, what was he doing there?
He put his hand on the hilt of his sword and stepped quickly into the tomb, brandishing it out in front of him, metal ringing as it was released from its sheath. "Unhand her, you—" He broke off rather hastily as he saw that they were locked in a tight embrace. A Montague and a Capulet embracing, madness.
They turned to look at him then, a puzzled expression on Romeo's face and a more surprised one gracing Juliet's delicate features.
"Paris!" she exclaimed at last. She glanced at Romeo, worry beginning to show itself in her darting eyes. "Romeo, this is Paris, my...he...we were supposed to get married, before I drank the potion. To fake my death so I wouldn't have to marry him, since I already married you," she said, glancing between both of them, trying to formulate an explanation.
"Married?" he half stuttered in reply, shocked and unsure of what to think. "You're married?" Her plan was beginning to make sense to him now, though it still seemed difficult to believe. She'd pretended willingness to marry him, so no one would suspect. She'd drank the potion in order to be locked in the tomb; it was just what she wanted. Then Romeo would come for her, as he had.
Part of him was hurt that she'd chosen Romeo, her sworn enemy, over him. Was he really so distasteful to her that she would rather be with Romeo, of all people? Another part of him was angry at Romeo; he must have tricked her into it, with sweet words and promises he never meant to keep. Another part of him, though, admired her, for the audacity in her plan, only to be with the one she loved.
Would he have done the same, had he been in a similar situation, but with her as his love? He wasn't sure, but he was beginning to doubt it. She was looking up at Romeo again, perhaps with some apprehension, but there was a smile, a reassurance in her eyes. Like she knew somehow that everything would be alright as long as they were together.
It was almost sickening as he realized he'd never felt that way with anyone, let alone her. He didn't know her. He didn't love her. Their engagement was an empty contract, nothing real, nothing substantial. It would have been cruel to make her go through with it.
"Will you fight with me for her?" Romeo was asking him now, looking him honestly in the eye. His voice was tired, though; he didn't want to fight, but he'd do it a million times just to be with Juliet, his one true love.
Paris sighed, a weary defeated sigh. As much as he'd like to fight Romeo, he wouldn't. They had a love beyond him; he couldn't bring himself to split them up if he tried. He shook his head. "No, take her and go. I won't detain you."
Romeo nodded and glanced down at Juliet, waiting for her response. She nodded at him and they walked forward, towards the door to the tomb. They would leave, and he would never see Juliet again. Or at least, not in a very long time.
She stopped in front of him, though, smiling slightly. "Thank you, Paris," she spoke with sincerity. "You're a good man."
He nodded with little ado, but her words meant more to him than she would know. He watched them leave, then, walking hand in hand across the churchyard, on to the street beyond. Once they were gone, he walked out as well, closing the door to the tomb behind him. He would miss her, but he didn't regret letting them go, for what was love, if not embracing your enemy?