40 fandoms of Lent: Romeo and Juliet by Shakespeare
Romeo and Juliet by Shakespeare
PG13
Rosaline
After the play has ended, Romeo's first love Rosaline remembers.
He is dead. He is dead for love. But not for love of me.
The knife glimmers in the candle light, sending flickering shadow-monsters across the ceiling. It is cold and sharp and terrifying.
I have sent my maid away. I have no need of her ministrations tonight.
He is dead.
I put the black to my arm, admiring the way it glistens against my skin. He died from poison; it was she who died by the sword. Tentatively I scratch the surface of my arm, watching the deep blood drops collect in its path.
He is dead for love.
The knife is in my left, sinister, hand. I imagine plunging it deep into my breast, as she did. Of spilling every drop of my life's blood upon the ground, as she did.
But not for love of me.
His love - fickle, changeable as the seasons. He loves me - he loves me not - he loves me - he loves me not. He loves her. Her, not me. And for her he died.
I trace a pattern across my skin with the blade. Intertwining serpents. I shake my arm and let the blood drops fly, scattering, spattering like rain in April. A Spring romance. She was but fourteen years of age.
He is dead.
He is dead. She is dead. And I? I am alive. The choice is mine.
I choose to live.
PG13
Rosaline
After the play has ended, Romeo's first love Rosaline remembers.
He is dead. He is dead for love. But not for love of me.
The knife glimmers in the candle light, sending flickering shadow-monsters across the ceiling. It is cold and sharp and terrifying.
I have sent my maid away. I have no need of her ministrations tonight.
He is dead.
I put the black to my arm, admiring the way it glistens against my skin. He died from poison; it was she who died by the sword. Tentatively I scratch the surface of my arm, watching the deep blood drops collect in its path.
He is dead for love.
The knife is in my left, sinister, hand. I imagine plunging it deep into my breast, as she did. Of spilling every drop of my life's blood upon the ground, as she did.
But not for love of me.
His love - fickle, changeable as the seasons. He loves me - he loves me not - he loves me - he loves me not. He loves her. Her, not me. And for her he died.
I trace a pattern across my skin with the blade. Intertwining serpents. I shake my arm and let the blood drops fly, scattering, spattering like rain in April. A Spring romance. She was but fourteen years of age.
He is dead.
He is dead. She is dead. And I? I am alive. The choice is mine.
I choose to live.