The Black Death: A Fictional Narrative

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“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...

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