When Death Is All You Know
You know it seems irrational to the rest of the village, to your father, to all those judging your actions with pity and sadness. It seems irrational, to every onlooker, that you might try to run from a disease not stopped by closed windows or locked doors.
The truth of why you’ve given yourself to a life of solitude is even more irrational. This plague can not be stopped by windows or walls or doors or locks, so why do you expect the memories to be hindered by the same elements? The walls of this cottage at the borders of this town, known by your father’s title, cannot protect you from the memory of Myles, betrothed to you because of your father’s title, or make the life you lived, brought on by your father’s title, any less real.
The memories of Myles haunt you all the time. He was a man like a myth, for he was perfection personified, a man unlike those of reality, for they are all just selfish pigs hidden by the clothes of chivalry and gallantry. You remember him as you eat, as you sleep, as you try not to remember him, in this cottage at the rim of this town, known by your father’s title.
As you remember walks down the nearby river with your beloved Richessa, talking of your fortune, how you wished she could find a man who would treat her well. But every man across the land had their eye on her. Whether they knew or not. Her beauty would shock a man across the sea, and he would not even know why he found himself breathless. Every man in this town, know by your father’s title, had hoped to be fortunate enough to have her as his wife.
Until her eyes no longer held their sparkle, until her hair no longer held its shine, until she sat dead among so many other bodies. No one spoke of the “gorgeous Richessa” then.
No one spoke of Myles, whose sharp, amber eyes had ceased to astound you at every turn. His eyes hadn’t opened in three weeks.
When Death is all you know, these recollections do not fade, but you wish they did. When Death is all you know, the voices whisper softly, from a darkness you did not know before God plagued your land with this horrid pestilence. You welcome these new friends, these friends only you can hear, from that dark, obsidian night no one in this land knew, no one in this village, known by your father’s title, knew.
The memories, the voices, the whispers, they all clash, giving you a headache. Just a headache, you assume.
“After all.” You cackle. “Why would it be anything more? Why would I be doomed to death when I have already been destined to watching Myles, Richessa, and so many others die? I would be a glutton for punishment.”
This headache exacerbates, causing chills and a feverish feeling to emerge. You ignore the pain, hoping to simply talk to these dark voices in peace. These conversations do not force you to question your sanity, but force you to conclude that it is gone. The fever and the headache cause you to not notice the knocking at your door until the door opens, leaving you to hope Death has come to make you his own.
“Father.” You smile into the eyes of Lord Radulf, wincing at the concern in those eyes.
“My Arlette, are you alright?” he queries. “I shall send for a doctor.”
“Father, please, I am fine. Just a little sick.” Oh, but you see the knowing expression spread across his face. After all, what man does not know when his daughter lies to him?
He asks what is wrong, and you feel tears fill your eyes, as they have done so often since Myles fell at death’s hand, since Richessa breathed her last, and assure Father that you simply need some time alone, and, surely after that, you will be alright.
With a sigh and a kiss placed on your forehead, he leaves. Leaving you alone with your dark companions and the ghosts of your past.
You find yourself exhausted, in every way, and fall asleep quickly, waiting to meet Myles in your dreams.
You wake abruptly the next morning, the light of the sun, unshielded and sharp, worsening your headache. A moment later, you find yourself leaning over a bucket, vomiting profusely.
But it is just a cold or small case of food poisoning, like you had at your sixteenth birthday, when you met Myles and vomited all over the poor man’s shoes. You are certain this ailment is nothing severe.
You think of Myles as you prod a small protrusion on your neck and one under your arm and one on your thigh. You think of Richessa as you notice that black spots have surfaced across your body.
When Death is all you know, when the voices talk more than you, when the protrusions turn black, you finally realize that this is something more serious than a cold or a case of food poisoning like you had when you vomited on Myles’ shoes.
When the swellings split and fluids you did not know existed spill out, you understand that you have been dead since Richessa’s heart ceased its beating, since Myles caught the horrendous pestilence while helping a man no one dared to touch, and that your body just has to join your spirit, so you can fall into an eternal, restless sleep and possibly meet Richessa and Myles once again.
You wait for Death to come, as pain fills every part of your body, knowing you will not bargain and plead, with the riches of a life brought by your father’s title. You will invite Death into your humble abode, introduce him to the dark voices you have become so well-acquainted with, and ask him if he would like a beverage. After gathering up the whispers, the ring Myles gave you, and Richessa’s bracelet, you will take Death’s hand and let him take you to an uncharted land.
Why should you not trust him? After all, Death is all you know.
