Monologues of the Left-Behinds

Two Monologues:

Montague

&

Nurse

Montague:

Peace is now upon Verona like there has never been before.

A leaden silence suffocates my normal haunts, I don't go out much.

Instead, I sit. Just sit.

I don't know why. It seems like the thing to do. My wife, my son – my loves. They are gone. What else is there to live for? I am old, too old. I will not have another child. Court life is uninteresting, parties dulled by the whispers that surround me.

Life has slowed, just barely brushing a stop.

As on stagnant water, a monotonous buzzing drowns even screams out – the steady reminder always overcomes all. One can almost feel the buzzing. At least I can.

The joys of Verona are dead, they are gone. I scowl at the poor, the happy, the old. I scowl at the roses, for they dare continue to bloom when my wife will no longer pluck them.

Benvolio sits often with me, but as much as we share, I want him, too, to go away. Leave me to my pain. He is a reminder of the son I once had, and I think if I forget Romeo, I – I think – hope - something will someday push the burden to the back of my heart, away from probing eyes. My eyes, in particular.

So the knife awaits me. It stole my wife. It's cousin, my son. The knife also stole my daughter-in-law's life, though I never knew her as such. Why am I so different?

But… no one will mourn for me. They are all too frightened to speak to me, they know the haunted look in my eyes and read it as a keep away sign. And because of it, I cannot kill myself, because if I do, all the blood will have been willingly taken away from this ancient, noble family. It will be my fault.

The knife will stay by my bed forever, forever because I am too afraid of the end of my forever on Earth. It taunts me, and I know I cannot give in. Because if it were not for the cruel, cruel knife, I wouldn't have it ever by my side, ready to take away the pain which it caused.

…The relief would be amazing. I long for it. But still, fear and pigheadedness keep it at my fingertips, and only there.

If I am lucky, I will die tomorrow or the day after.

Until then, I long - I fear - I utterly despise my end.

But mostly long.

Nurse:

My lady is dead.

My lady, not yet fourteen.

Full of love, of life.

There was so much she had never experienced.

It may have been her decision, but oh! That Romeo – if he hadn't swept her off her feet, made her really happy for the first time in her life! I both love him for what he felt for her, and hate him for having her feel it too.
If only she had followed the common path: marry, then love. Love in marriage results in trouble. Always does, always will. Too much passion – those who have no love, no passion – they are the esteemed ones. They watch out for their own well-being.

No longer do her shouts of joy or madness echo through the corridors, her lovely bedroom has been cleaned out.

And I? I have no job – I am living in the streets. What is there for me to do? The remaining Capulets are old; they have no need for the mourning nurse of a dead girl.

I don't know what it is about me. My own child died. Juliet, now! – more my child than anyone else in her life - She, too, is dead. My two beautiful girls have been swallowed by the earth.

Juliet is dead and I am alive – so I must be dead, too. I must be where Juliet is – she is my life. These thoughts stalk me; they creep up everywhere, especially at night, when I'm alone. Just alone. No young one to watch over, make sure she goes to bed. I sit up night after night, as if in a trance – a horrible nightmare.

So I haven't slept (Sleeping is for the weak).

So I haven't eaten (You can go a long time without food).

So I haven't stopped weeping (Who said it isn't okay?).

So Juliet's dead.

And so I'll drive myself until I am with her, wherever she may be.