SWEET MISERIA

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.

- Emily Dickinson

Prologue

Florence, 1349

It begins with a gush of blood from the nose, they say, and then it causes peculiar swellings to appear in the groin and near the armpits. The swellings grow larger; spots of a black and purple colour appear on the skin. The victim vomits and suffers a high fever. Usually death took three days—if you were lucky.

I hold the taper unsteadily over the parchment and its pathetic light is fading, waning before I have even begun to scratch out a word. One careless breath and it’s out. My breath is poison.

A dismal cloud looms over my beloved Firenze, I would have written. It falls like a heavy fog upon the streets, seeping in through windows and doors: an unwelcome stranger. Even the physicians do not know the cause of it. Others say it is a punishment from God.

The streets are bare, so desolate. The burdened creaking of a door is the loudest sound in the world. My feet do not know where they are going. They move swiftly, as fast as my spirit can allow. I tear away my sleeves, frayed ribbons trailing behind me. I run away, away from it all. But there is nowhere to go.

I am only dreaming.

“Simona, wait for me!” the voice of a child calls, but it is not real.

My head grows heavy as I sit with the parchment paper under my chin. My eyes flutter close; my fingers grasp the edge of the table. I cannot breathe.