Romeo did not understand what was happening when Tybalt thrust the sword into Mercutio; he could not quite encompass it. Tybalt, whom he had hoped to make amends with—and then, "I am hurt." He and his small entourage of followers, distant relatives to Romeo now after his marriage, kinsmen that had not stopped the blood pouring out of Mercutio but had run, because they did not know.

A teenager hugged Mercutio's torso, staining her cheeks and clothes with his blood while Benvolio stared in desperation. Romeo viewed the girl crying over Mercutio's body dimly, the girl's salty tears filling Romeo's cup of rage till it overflowed. Mercutio dead! Brave, charming, sly, trickster Mercutio!

He went in a rage, of course, tracking Tybalt and the followers, and then shouted words, punches, a bloody sword sticking out of Tybalt's chest—another girl now, one whom Romeo thought Tybalt favored at times, collapsing over the body, crying hysterically and cursing Romeo's name to his ears. Another girl, not just another body, another kinsmen dead by Romeo's own hand.

Fortune's fool, indeed.