The tale of Romeo and Juliet. Star-crossed lovers, feuding families, all that tragic nonsense. But had you ever wondered who the real victim was? No, not Romeo. Not Juliet. I was talking about me—the Apothecary. The guy who had the misfortune of selling the wrong potion to the wrong dramatic teenager.

That’s right. I was the guy everyone blamed for their little ‘tragedy.’ I was just a humble Apothecary, running a business in Verona, where the only thing more common than sword fights was melodrama. And then the whole town blamed me for the death of two teenagers who, frankly, should have spent more time thinking and less time swooning.

Never mind the fact that the whole town was on a downward spiral long before I came into the picture. I just sold the goods. They wanted poison? Fine. They wanted herbs to cure their headaches from all the sword fighting? Sure. But did I get thanked for keeping people alive—or at least giving them an out? Nope. I was the bad guy.

Let me walk you through it.

So, there I was, in my little shop, restocking my herbs—mint, rosemary, maybe a touch of hemlock, for special occasions. It had been a quiet day, and I was thinking maybe I should branch out into scented candles, when this disheveled kid burst in, sweat dripping, pockets jingling with more gold than sense. He slammed a sack of gold on the counter and demanded poison. And not just any poison, no. He wanted the ‘quickest, deadliest stuff’ I had, like he was ordering at a fast-food counter. I gave him a look. This guy couldn’t have been more than, what, 16? And he was already at the poison stage of a breakup?

I tried to be professional. ‘You sure you don’t want to start with something mild? You know, like a soothing chamomile tea?’ I suggested, trying to steer him in a more reasonable direction. ‘Maybe some lavender bath salts? Great for stress.’ Nope. Romeo was committed to the full tragic ending package.

He started rambling about how his love, Juliet, was dead, how he had been banished—he said banished so much, I started to wonder if it was the only word he knew—and how life was meaningless without her. ‘Gone forever,’ he declared, like he was auditioning for a lead role in a melodrama. What was it with these kids and their inability to handle a breakup like normal people? Ever heard of ice cream, Romeo? A rebound fling, perhaps? No? Straight to poison, huh. It was like he was in a competition to be Verona’s Most Tragic Teenager, and he was determined to win.

At this point, I thought: Here we go again. Did you know how many heartbroken fools I had dealt with over the years? Let’s just say Verona had a serious emotional stability issue. But fine. I was a businessman, and when someone threw gold at you like they’d never heard of budgeting, you didn’t ask too many questions. I had bills to pay.

This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.

So, fine, I gave him the poison. What was I supposed to do? Turn down a bag of gold that could have kept my shop running for months?

But—and this was important—I gave him the instructions and made it very clear, ‘This is lethal,’ I said. ‘Drink this, and you’ll be out faster than a Capulet at a Montague wedding.’ I also added, ‘No refunds. No complaints.’ It was a joke. He didn’t laugh. These kids and their no-sense-of-humor attitude. I also threw in some rosewater. You know, to soften the blow. Did he listen? Of course not. He grabbed the bottle and ran out.

Fast forward, and what did I hear? Romeo had drunk the poison in some tomb, standing over Juliet, who—surprise—wasn’t even dead. It turned out she was just taking a very dramatic nap, courtesy of Friar Lawrence’s brilliant ‘fake death’ plan. Because apparently, communication wasn’t Verona’s strong suit.

And what happened? The two of them had ended up deader than my career prospects. Of course, everyone blamed me. Oh, let’s not point fingers at Friar Lawrence, the guy who came up with the whole ‘fake your death’ genius plan in the first place. No, no. Blame the poor Apothecary who was just trying to sell enough potions to keep the lights on. Thanks, Verona.

Let’s talk about Friar Lawrence for a second. Mr. ‘Let’s-fake-Juliet’s-death-and-not-inform-Romeo-in-time’ himself. Really? Ever heard of sending a note? A messenger? Tie it to a pigeon if you had to! A simple, ‘Hey, she’s not really dead’ would’ve sufficed. But no, Friar Lawrence concocted some sleeping potion, didn’t bother to make sure everyone was on the same page, and then got to walk away scot-free while I was over here getting blamed for everything. Perfect. Apparently, communicating important life-and-death plans hadn’t been on his to-do list that day.

And Juliet? She woke up, saw Romeo dead, and thought, ‘You know what would really top this off? Stabbing myself.’ It seemed the most logical solution was always grabbing a dagger and making things worse. Sure, go ahead and point the finger at the guy who was just trying to keep his apothecary shop afloat, not the monk running the amateur theatrical death-faking operation. Friar Lawrence got to go back to his herbs, and all I got was bad Yelp reviews. ‘Poison way too effective. One star.’ Really, Karen? That was the whole point of poison.

And there I was, still in my shop, while people lined up to visit Juliet’s fake balcony. Verona turned this whole mess into a tourist attraction. Balcony Tourism, they called it. Juliet’s fake balcony had a longer line than my patience, and they were selling little bottles of ‘authentic Verona poison’ in the gift shop. Guess who wasn’t seeing a dime from those sales? Me. Apparently, being the original poison dealer didn’t come with royalties.

But you know what? I’d learned my lesson. From then on, I was going to switch to non-lethal products. Forget poison. I launched a new line of self-help potions: ‘Get Over Your Crush Elixir,’ ‘It’s-Just-a-Phase Tincture,’ and my new bestseller, ‘How-About-You-Talk-It-Out Tea.’ I figured I could make more gold from Verona’s emotional instability than I ever did selling poison. Verona needed less drama and more common sense.

The end