Disclaimer: As far as you're concerned, I don't own anything here except the idea.

We had moved to the city to be safer, to have protection if it was needed, to get away from the disease. It had worked fine for a while, life being easier. Albeit a little more crowded and stinky. At least in the city my family and I didn't have to work as hard. Sure, Papa still had to go back into the country to work, but he got paid well.

My family wasn't big for the time, five of us. There's my brother Peter, who's twelve and at that bratty preteen stage, and my twin brother Matthew. I'm older by two minutes, of course. Then there's my parents. Papa who's blonde just like the rest of us with green eyes and ridiculously bushy eyebrows and then there is Mama who is very flamboyant and full of energy. She's got blonde hair too, but her features are more delicate and has blue eyes. Us kids all have blue eyes and blonde hair while Mattie has Mama's curly hair. Peter's got Papa's bushy eyebrows.

We had lived in the country side when this whole mess started. I call it a mess because it really is kind of gross. You come home one day from working out in the fields, trying to get an honest day's work done, complaining of a painful cut on your hand or foot or ankle. Two days later, the cut transforms into a swelling mass that multiplies to your armpits, neck, and groin area. Ten pain filled days later you find yourself dead and laid out in the street to be taken away by the grave diggers. The quaint little town used to smell like flowers, crops, and freshly cut grass. Now it just smelt like death, rotting flesh, and vomit. In order to go anywhere you had to carry a handkerchief filled with flowers to your mouth and nose.

Moving to the city had been Papa's idea, saying that the disease would be less likely to get us that way. Mama and Papa had argued for a week after that, but Papa won. He usually did. So, in two weeks we arrived in a dank two family house that was already housing two families. Papa got a job working in the fields, far away so that he didn't come home until after dinner. Peter helped Mama around the house. Mattie and I, being 17 and almost adults, were subjected to the hard labor of the house and finding jobs. The only needed jobs were doctors (something we didn't have the education to do) or grave diggers (something we were scared to do). I, being the hero, would often do the more awesome jobs, like cutting wood while Mattie had to clean the stables. It only made sense, I was older.

Mattie came home like usual that time, as quiet as usual. What told everyone that something was wrong was that he didn't offer to help with dinner. He always did. When asked what was up by Mama, Mattie just said he didn't feel so good. Mama instantly checked his body for the swelling, but when she found none, we left my twin alone. The next morning Mattie was complaining of a headache, so I let him clean the stables because aren't horses supposed to be really soothing? Mattie seemed really scared to go there, for some reason though. So I had to do it while Mattie got the awesome hero jobs. I felt bad for having him doing the cool jobs though, because he was in a lot of pain later in his muscles apparently.

Papa came home in time for dinner that night. It was a rare event that we celebrated joyfully. Papa picked up Peter and danced with him, Mattie and Mama made a dinner for the whole house, I told stories about my heroic day. It was a great night, until Mattie decided to destroy it by throwing up! It was no fair! We were having fun and then Mattie had to be an attention hog! Mama said he had a really high fever too. Everyone left after that.

Mattie was sick in bed, having seizures and vomiting, and freaking out for two more days before we noticed the buboes. The swelling was mainly in his armpits and neck, but Mama said they around his groin too. No one was allowed near him, he had the black ring. He was sick. He was going to die. The rumors went through the city like wildfire, people staying far away. My friends stopped hanging out with me, afraid of getting Death's Kiss. I tried to make it seem like I was mad, but I wasn't. I was...sad. I mean, who wouldn't be? It was like, a part of me was dying.

Mattie had been sick for four days when Mama got sick. Her symptoms were much harsher. Rumour was that it was because she was a French women and the French's immunity was low compared to the thick blood of the Englishman. Mama was suffering from the buboes, high fever, seizures the extreme. The disease had spread to her lungs, causing a severe cough, difficulty breathing, and frothy, bloody sputum. The doctor had said she was going to die before Mattie. It didn't help that she had little to no appetite, but that could have been due to the fact that it was Papa or me doing the cooking and we were anything but good.

Peter wouldn't leave either Mama or Mattie's side, despite all our warnings. The doctor, a scary Russian, said that if we weren't careful, Peter would become infected too and, because of his young age, spread it among the other children of London. The way the man had said it, it was as if he wanted the disease to spread. He had suggested to bleed out Mama and Mattie, and Peter too as a precaution, but Papa wouldn't let them. He had heard that it wouldn't work from the Japanese man down the block. My family was in God's hands now.

Mama died on Mattie's Eighth Day. That was how we had marked time, based on Mattie.

When did you last see your friend Toris? Oh, about Three Days Prior.

It was a sick coping mechanism. It worked though, helped time move. Once Mattie died, Papa and I weren't sure what we would do. And Peter? If he were to get the Black Death too? What would we do?

I knew his time was coming, it was Mattie's Tenth Day. I hadn't seen Mattie since his Sixth Day. I had to see Mattie one last time, even if I didn't want to remember him as a pale, sickly corpse, I wanted (needed) to remember him as his lively, slightly sun burnt self. That was the only thing that kept me away, I didn't care if I was risking my life; I had to see him. So that night, the Tenth Night, I had slipped into his room. The moonlight shown through the window over his feet. Peter lay sleeping on top of his blanketed body, his blonde hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. He held onto Mattie's hand for his life. For which life, I would never know. I probably never will, that wasn't my business. All that mattered was that Mattie was still alive. I could see his chest rising and falling in sporadic patterns, hear his raspy breathing, and when I walked over, I could feel the beating of his heart when I placed my hand over his chest. Mattie twitched under my touch but he didn't open his eyes. His face was sheet white, his blue veins a shocking contrast on his closed eyelids. His face shown with a cold sweat, the blankets swaddling him like a baby.

I sat next to Peter, watching the two of them sleep. I whispered a low murmur of a prayer, blessing the two of them. I laid my head onto my baby twin's chest, letting his slow heart beat lure me to sleep. Placing my hands onto the joined hands of my brothers, I let myself fall asleep and surrender to the sickness. If dying was the only way to see Mama, Mattie, or Peter happy again, then I would allow it to take me. Papa would be upset, but he could make decisions for himself. I would just have to wait and find out Papa's decision after the funerals.

In the morning, I would help the gravediggers. We're going to need some big money to afford these funerals.

God Speed.