Indésirable

1422 Bordeaux France

I am damned. He has condemned me to a life of horrors, a cascade of pain worn in a mask of torture. Everyone is dead. Even the forlorn cries of the plague outside of my prison had ceased. Did death come? Had he taken pity on their wretched souls? Why, oh, why had he not taken me? I stood in the entryway of what had once been our grand home. The frigid wooden floor creaks as my bare feet move toward the barred door. The door was the last link that kept me imprisoned here. The house is so dark now. There are no more candles to light the rooms, no more food or water to fill our bellies, and nothing to burn for warmth. All the lavish things I thought were important were now strewn about. Furniture was broken, fabrics in tatters, and the wood and the books diminished to ash in the worn-out fireplace. I look at it now. Above the fireplace is a mirror, a web of cracks gilded across the surface.

The skeletal face stares back. I know this is my face, but the skin is frail, the cheekbones protruded against the hollows of my face. My gray eyes were sunken and bruised, and my blonde hair caped around my arms and back.

Death is taunting me. Why take everything I loved, everyone and everything but me? My eyes flick to the barred door. I want to be free, free of this place, of this pain. Fingertips against the wooden panels, my anger unfurling, hate bloomed within. Death would not refuse me.

My fingers tear and claw at the boards, pulling with what little strength I had, the effort exhausting. Wildly, my fingers pinch and twist against the nails. My fingers bleed, but I don’t care. The last board clatters to my feet. With bloody, trembling hands, I turn the lock. The door clicks and groans. I tug it open. Deafening silence pours into my home—the kind of silence that is wrong and lacks life. What follows is the putrid smell of rotting flesh. The world around me wears a curtain of fog so thick I can’t see but a foot before me. The darkness of the sky veiled the thick, swirling substance. I could not settle upon what was more disturbing: my inability to see what was before me, the alarming silence, or the foulness that polluted the air. A cold breeze wafted in, sending goosebumps over my skin beneath the thin fabric of my night shift. The heavy door bore a large red X, the only barrier between the grave and whatever may lay outward. My bloody fingers brush against the condemning mark of death.

Inside, all that awaited me was an excruciating death, a slow death, a maddening death from dehydration and starvation. My firm grip on the door lessens, and I step back into the foggy abyss, further away from all I knew. If the end did not come to me, I would go to it, and I knew death still lingered here.

The smell is overwhelming; I heave and stumble against a nearby wall, my foot brushing something substantial. The fog wafts, revealing a face distorted with rotting flesh, eyes open and staring up at me in a shocked expression. My hands cover my mouth to muffle the scream. Now, I could see it. Bodies lined the streets. The dead shoved up against the sides of buildings, out of the way. Gushing exposed wounds and petrified demented faces. My heart pounded so loudly in my ears. I am running—my chest aches. My throat is dry and surely will crack. But still, I run, my feet slapping against the streets lined with contorted bodies. The fog is so thick I cannot see what is in front of me, but still, I run. Red X’s everywhere, marked doors on either side, sick, dead corpses surrounding me. Everything is dark, the walls confusing, and the town no longer thriving. Now, it belonged to the deceased. Where was I going? What street was this? Which way-

My foot collides with something hard, and I fall forward onto the ground, forehead slamming against the cold dirt of the earth. The air escapes from my lungs, and I lay there sucking in the air. The world is sideways. Dizziness worsens the sickness within me, but nothing is left to heave. My arms shake as I lift onto my knees. Something warm runs down the left of my face into my eye. Brushing at the sticky substance, the back of my hand comes back red. Blood. My blood? I was bleeding. I didn’t have time to worry about the wound because the footsteps echoed over the walls. I was not alone. My eyes dart wildly around the dark fog.

“What do we have here?” A man’s voice and heavy steps come from behind me. I turn to face him. My throat constricted as his meaty hand cut off my oxygen supply. He lifts until my toes dangle over the ground, a weak rag doll against his hold.

My eyes dart wildly around the fog for help. No one is here. No one can help me.

“Don’t fret,” he sneers, “I’m not gonna kill ya yet,” he let my toes touch the ground again. His other grabbed at my chest beneath the thin fabric of my dress. His hold is so tight I cannot even scream. He rips at the night shift. He was going to violate me, rape me, and then likely murder me. I looked away as his filthy hands ran over my chest, wishing anything, anyone, would kill me and end this nightmare.

Within the darkness of swirling shadows, two hooded shapes appeared. They grew closer, forming into two figures, one larger than the other.

I’m thrown to the ground, rolling instinctively to my side. With panicked breaths, I searched the fog behind my assailant. He is speaking, but his words are inaudible. The cloaked beings continued to approach. Were they demons? Has death finally caved to my pleas? My ankle is snagged, and he drags me toward him. I kick, pushing against his weight as he climbs on me. The back of his hand collides with my mouth, whipping my head to the side. I taste blood and see stars. Then his weight is gone.

I turn back at the sound of a blade tearing through flesh. A sword protrudes from the assailant’s chest, blood gliding over the tip to drip onto my night shift. The blade withdraws. The assailant grunts and grasps at the wound in his chest. He falters. And collapses beside me. The larger of the two whips the blade to the side and wipes the blood from the sword’s gleaming edges. Large beaks protrude from the darkness of the cloak where their faces were supposed to be. Masks of the plague doctor. They glance at one another.

“Are you Nicole Debrois?”

Shivering, I nod, “Yes.”

The smaller Doctor stepped forward, extending a gloved hand, “We’ve been looking for you.”