“I think a rat just climbed up my leg, Dad. And I’ve got fleas, too.” “John, there’s all this Black Death and all you care about is a few fleas and a rat.
That’s my dad. Typical peasant farmer, cares just about everything except for a few fleas and rats. My mom? She died of the plague a few weeks ago. I still remember how once my mother was the most beautiful woman in my village. Nobody recognised her body when she was hauled into a plague pit.
My father was especially devastated. I had to drag him to church, and I did all the housework and had to farm food or else we would starve.
On and on this went, for months and months, and finally, one day, my father decided to open the door and took a deep breath of the fresh, no, ahem, plague-filled air.
Guess what? I was right about the air. A few days later, my father said he felt really hot. Over the next few days, black spots and boils started appearing all over my father’s body. I knew that he was soon going to die. As he lay on his deathbed, he told me, “John, once I die, the officials are going to board the house up. I don’t know when, but they will. If you are inside when they board it up…” “Yes? Yes?”, I asked. There was no reply. My father had finally left the world. And me.
It was midnight. I couldn’t sleep. The events that happened today was just too traumatising. It was already sad to lose my mother. Now my father was gone too. Why did God have to do this to me? These thoughts kept on bombarding inside my head, but finally, tiredness overcome my thoughts.
I woke up the next morning and noticed that it seemed to be darker than usual, so I opened the window. It was still dark. I started feeling uneasy. Next, I tried to open the door. I couldn’t. Then it hit me. When I was asleep, the officials boarded up the house. Without knowing I was inside it.
I couldn’t help but sob. I had come so far; I hadn’t been infected with the plague. I could’ve...