Sta.sh
“A plague o' both your houses!”
Scarcely two months ago, I would have counted the words as simply the mad ravings of a man in the throes of death, a cruel glimpse into the future without his beloved Juliet and the tentative child’s steps to a truce between the long-feuding Capulet and Montague families. After all, Mercutio could never realize the true ramifications of such a heartless turn of tongue, could he?
Whatever the answer, I will not find it chasing long-faded phantoms of those who will never reply. The plague that had been wished upon us with his final breath had indeed come to pass. It is everywhere, it seemed; one could not leave home, for it was crawling among the sewer rats; over week-old bread and fruits rotting in their abandoned stalls in the Venice marketplace; it was a flutter of shadow reaching tendril-esque fingers towards the prey, a deadly lover’s caress. Darkness and decay now brooded silently where once joy and light-hearted folly had reigned supreme, cold gales of wind now carrying the cries of ravens instead of the laughter of young ones; there isn’t even reprieve from the ravages of the dreaded disease outside of the city, for there is no longer a way out. What manner of foul demon has been loosed upon our fair home?
It was, I remind myself bitterly, an unfortunate side affect of the strange affair of the star-crossed lovers, Romeo and Juliet. I will admit to rage, amongst my grief – the Lord of the house died shortly after their funeral, and Balthasar just fell scarce two hours ago, ranting and raving at the unseen spirit of Tybalt, screaming obscenities not even worthy of mention before halting, at a sudden ceasefire. We have lost much in the exalted House of Montague; the Capulets have faired no better, I fear. They have lost two loved ones for every one felled in our home; I can almost hear the threads that hold our peace together snapping, as they undoubtedly shall.
The horrid disease has not stuck me yet, and I fear this blessed curse shall remain upon my soul, leaving me to watch as the others become mere scraps for vermin and carrion, dried and hollow as Venice herself has become. I have seen it, in the hallways; a shadow dressed in gay apparel, sliding along the walls stealthy as a cat. I have not lost my mind; indeed, I would fear the loss of it, for an absence of sanity is one of the first signs that one has become another victim. But I have watched the men and maidens that surround me spiral into madness, clawing at burns and sores that don’t exist, speaking with the shadowy apparitions of their minds and even refusing food, fancying it poisoned or tainted by the Plague. A cruel irony; it is not the nourishment which would kill them, but their own minds. Fear is quite the cruel taskmistress.
I can feel the strain upon my mind even now; the shadows are calling, beckoning to me to follow them, but I shall not! This Plague is not of the body, but of the mind, and I shall not allow myself to be fooled; I shall live where others have fallen, I shall bring life to a story that only carries death. Even now, as sleep takes me, I know with an almost grim certainty that I will live through this gruesome epidemic.
For I alone can see the truth, and the truth will make me free.
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Tired 
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Nostalgia was better in the old days.
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You Oxymoron
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You Oxymoron
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Kristen
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You Oxymoron
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Kristen
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I just lost The Game!
25 people hate my signature.
4 people have won the Game and proved it.
1 person has pointed out that I lose a lot. (Should I keep a tally?
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Keep up the
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