Desiderium

Sixta

A golden ray shone down on the purple wisterias clinging to the walls of the building, reflecting the glistening dew that had gathered overnight. Darkness did not last long here in this city. By the fourth hour, daybreak had arrived with its first ray of morning light.

It was nearing the eighth hour, and the city was barely beginning to wake. People walked down the cobblestone streets out of their dwellings, bundled in coats and cloaks. It may have been the dawn of a new season, the one known for life and rebirth, but the air could still be quite chilly.

For this reason, Benjamin had the door shut as he examined the young boy seated in the doctor's surgery.

"The tooth is decayed," he said, looking into his patient's mouth.

"What does that mean?" the boy replied in a Cockney accent.

"It means I am going to have to pull it out." Benjamin removed his finger from the child's mouth. "Keeping this tooth will only cause you more pain."

"Will it hurt?" He touched the tooth with his grimy finger, tugging at the corner of his bottom lip.

"It will," Benjamin answered honestly. "But afterwards, I have something that will treat the pain."

The boy stayed silent for a moment, pulling his finger away from the rotten tooth. "Alright."

Freeing himself from the constraints of his coat, and thus the possibility of washing out bloodstains, Benjamin went to his cabinet for the pliers and the vial filled with the oil of clove. After grabbing them, he turned back to the chair, seeing the boy still fiddling with his tooth.

With heavy footsteps, Benjamin walked over to the chair, looking down at the boy before him. The child couldn't have been more than twelve if that. He was scrawny and sallow-faced like many boys his age.

"It will be over quickly," the doctor reassured, sensing the boy's trembling. "Just a yank and 'tis out."

The boy gave a hesitant nod, slowly opening his mouth up again. Gently tilting his head back by the chin, Benjamin inserted the pliers in and wrapped them around the tooth. He had just started to press on the handle when the door swung open, startling both of them.

"Doctor Peters!" A woman cried from behind.

"Yes, what is it?" Benjamin could barely contain a growl as he turned around.

"Um, forgive me, I am a nun from Saint Clair's Convent." The woman stepped forward, closing the door. "I was told to fetch you."

Benjamin took in her demeanor and dress, judging she was indeed being truthful. She was clothed in the usual drab habit nuns wore and her hair was covered in the same colorless veil and coiff.

"Well, go on." Benjamin gestured for her to continue.

"A nun at the convent has come down with an illness..." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "'Tis thought to be the plague."

A low gasp was heard from behind him, but Benjamin ignored the boy. "The plague? Did I hear that correctly?"

"Yes, sir. You must come back with me. No one else is willing to help," she begged.

Benjamin shook his head. "I cannot help you. The girl is as good as dead."

As soon as he spoke those words, his heart skipped a beat and his blood turned to ice inside him. A fragment of a memory flashed through his mind. He had said those words before, he was sure of it. Somewhere, at some time, he had uttered those exact words.

And for the same scenario.

"Sir?" The nun gazed at him, cocking her head. "Are you well?"

"Y–Yes, of course," he stammered, coming back to the present. "Why would I not be?"