This is a little story given from Benvolio's perspective on the death of Romeo and Tybalt.

How many times do have to tell myself that it wasn't my fault before I can finally come to believe it? A month, maybe a year? Perhaps a decade or a lifetime? I think I could withstand any amount of time, had I the faintest belief that I would someday see the end of this guilt and self-loathing. ...But their deaths are on my hands now, just as it is their blood that stains them an invisible red. I may not be able to see it with my eyes, but it is surely there. I know this, as does the greiving friends and families of the deceased.

'Why didn't he do something to stop Tybalt? It is all his fault my son is dead...'

I can almost hear their thoughts as I walk past them, watching me with cold, hard eyes and can do nothing but shrink further into myself to escape their glares.

'He could have pulled Mercutio away... why didn't he do anything?'

I don't know how I would react if the were to confront me out loud, but there are no need for words. I hear their judgements in my head, and feel their hatred every night before I sleep, every time I draw air, every moment I exist.

Do I deserve to wake from my sleep? Do I deserve to draw breath? Do I deserve to live, if you could even call my pitiful existance living? How could I possibly say yes when I have so robbed Mercutio and Romeo of their rights to do so? I at least should have died with them. I know that it would at least have been easier for me had I died with them. How did they expect me to live with the guilt after their deaths? How did they expect me to live at all? Romeo was my best friend, and Mercutio was his. By letting Mercutio die at the hands of Tybalt that night I betrayed Romeo's friendship. Not purposely... I would never have hurt him purposely.

But then Mercutio was always such a good friend to Romeo; better than I could have ever been. So I guess, I wasn't really surprised when Romeo hunted Tybalt after Mercutio's death like an animal bred for that very purpose, and killed him visciously. He would have avenged his friend's death even if it were I that had dealt the killing blow.

That was how much Mercutio meant to Romeo... and how little I did.

My words are ripe with jealousy, I can see that clearly. Yet how could they be different? Romeo was my older cousin, my good friend, and the one person I could look up to. He was not afraid to live his life in the manner that he wanted, and in the end, he was not afraid to die of his own choosing either. His endless passions inspired me, and yet, as I sit here singing his praises, I find myself hating Romeo almost as much as I hate myself.

Romeo was always impulsive. It was who he was and a part of why I loved him as I did, but that night as he had set out to hunt Tybalt, I had never seen such rage, such pain, such hatred and in that moment I was afraid. Whether for myself or for him I still can't say, and with good reason. His actions led to his banishment, which then in turn led to his demise... He left me alone. He left his family alone. All through his stupid, selfish and thoughtless actions. But it wasn't really his actions that got him killed was it? No. It was Mercutio's death he was avenging, and it was I who had allowed this death to take place in the first place. I may aswell have touched the poison to Romeo's lips myself.

Romeo may have killed Tybalt, but it is I who am the murderer.