The coughing is always what woke me. I could hear it through the walls. Hacking, blood soaked, deep. The sounds of sickness seeping through the rotting wood. I remember mother tucking me back into bed and telling me not to worry. Her words of comfort lasted for a while, until her coughing started again. I do not remember much of the first few years of my life. Only bits and pieces like leaves fluttering through the brisk fall air. London had always been my home. It always seemed so large to me. Maybe that was because I was so small. I do remember my life being happy. We didn’t have much money but somehow father always kept us clothed and fed. Then, things began to change.

It was Summer. A time when London was so beautiful. Not this Summer. I remember walking home with father. My eyes began to burn and sting and the air became so thick with black smoke. Father took off his scarf and covered my face. Peeking through the layers of green wool, I could see the burning pile. The twisted and gnarled limbs. The wide, glassy eyes of the dead. The flames danced in a strange way, licking the air with such ferocity. It wasn’t until I saw the bird man that I hid my face back into my fathers scarf.

As the days went by, things seemed to get worse. Mother and father would stay up at night whispering. Friends I had once played with were there one day and gone the next. The fires came more frequently, the air became heavy and acrid with the stench of rot, skin and bone. Mother would no longer let me play outside. The happy life I once had was now as grey as the fog settling along the cobblestone streets. Pale bodies lined the streets. Rivers of crimson snaked over the slickness of rainwater and piss.

I saw the bird man one night as I lay awake. I watched out the window, gazing at the hazy lamp lit streets. I blinked and there he was, standing underneath the lamp like a shadow. His long black robe covered his feet. His wide brimmed hat shielded his face. I slowly eased myself up in bed hoping he would not notice me. I was scared. I could feel a chill slide down my spine. As if he knew, he tipped his head up towards the lamp revealing the bone white bird doctor mask.The eye holes were black pits of emptiness studded by a pinprick of cloudy whiteness. I pressed harder against the headboard as if I was trying to vanish inside of it. His long white fingers clutched a black cane at his side. I squeezed my eyes shut, breathing heavily. When I opened them, he was gone.

The next morning my mother stayed in bed. I asked father if she was tired. He smiled weakly and patted my hair but said nothing. That night, I heard her cough. I tried to fight back my tears. I knew what was to come. I knew soon the stench of skin and bone would waft through the foggy London air but this time my mothers would be among the bodies in the flames. She died that next day. My father just sat by the window his skin the color of a shell worn pale by the sea. His brow speckled with sweat. He left that afternoon. To where, I don’t know. Now, I sit in bed. The sores under my arms hurting, oozing, bleeding. The bird man is here. My coughing is his invitation inside.