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Description
Utterly silent.
Was this all he would ever hear? It knawed at the back of his skull. There was no more laughter, for there was no one there to laugh. And it would be silly to laugh alone, in his empty house. It would be weird to hold a conversation with himself, wouldn't it? Though sometimes he found himself doing so anyway. Hearing nothing but his own voice was strange, echoing through that damned empty house.
Empty.
It all crashed down on him once again, as it did several times each and every damned day. He sunk to the floor and shook, lifting his hands to his ears as if to block out all of this nothing he heard.
He was left with nothing but memories.
A sharp, pained sound escaped his lips, and he was crying for what felt like the hundreth time that day. He'd lost track of time. It felt as though it had been years since his world was ripped from under him. Time always moved so slowly in Verona.
He was angry, he was devastated.
Why did so many have to die for peace to finally be achieved? The peace he'd been asking for all along.
But he was only Benvolio, and no one had ever really listened to Benvolio. He was no Romeo, over dramatic and pitifully romantic; and he was definately no Mercutio, who had been far louder and more of a favorite in town.
No one listened to Benvolio.
And now they were dead.

Description
Utterly silent.
Was this all he would ever hear? It knawed at the back of his skull. There was no more laughter, for there was no one there to laugh. And it would be silly to laugh alone, in his empty house. It would be weird to hold a conversation with himself, wouldn't it? Though sometimes he found himself doing so anyway. Hearing nothing but his own voice was strange, echoing through that damned empty house.
Empty.
It all crashed down on him once again, as it did several times each and every damned day. He sunk to the floor and shook, lifting his hands to his ears as if to block out all of this nothing he heard.
He was left with nothing but memories.
A sharp, pained sound escaped his lips, and he was crying for what felt like the hundreth time that day. He'd lost track of time. It felt as though it had been years since his world was ripped from under him. Time always moved so slowly in Verona.
He was angry, he was devastated.
Why did so many have to die for peace to finally be achieved? The peace he'd been asking for all along.
But he was only Benvolio, and no one had ever really listened to Benvolio. He was no Romeo, over dramatic and pitifully romantic; and he was definately no Mercutio, who had been far louder and more of a favorite in town.
No one listened to Benvolio.
And now they were dead.