The Prince of Cats

Peace. They keep using that word as if it costs nothing. As if my uncle's blood can be washed from the stones with a handshake. As if the Montague boy can climb our walls, kiss our women, and call it love instead of conquest. I watched him at the masquerade — watched him circle Juliet like a hawk circles a lamb. And everyone smiled. Romeo the romantic. Romeo the poet. I alone saw what he truly was: a Montague in our house, wearing a mask, taking what was ours. They will call me the villain of this story. Fine. Every story needs someone willing to remember what everyone else wants to forget.