Prisoner of the Plague

Where death once stalked the land now there was nothing. Where death once stalked the land it now cultivated it, and call it it’s own. Where villagers once fled in terror there was no movement, save that of the vultures gnawing at the carcases.

In a small hut overlooking a vast plane of barren land sat a child. This small girl hugged her knees to her chest, and wondered why. The girl’s stare was glued to the eyes of her father. Those eyes once startling blue and full of merriment were drained of life and dark. This child had not moved for days but could barely feel the sensations of hunger and thirst that plagued her body. Hers was a different pain, a pain of loss.

A single tear fell from her eye as the girl moved for the first time since her father’s death. She had lifted her foot but then dropped it again, defeated by exhaustion. It washed over her then, the hunger and the thirst. But even more so the knowledge that she and she alone had survived from the village. Over time each member of her tribe had fallen to it and she felt sure hers was the same fate.

A second tear fell from her eye at the thought of death. A third fell as she realised that she would be reunited with her family and friends only when death’s shadow came upon her. She didn’t want to die, but she felt guilty for this somehow.

So she sat on; her eyes burning into his. Forever was her gaze held there by guilt. Forevermore was she a prisoner of the plague.