Prompt: sickness
*Alfred's kind of a jealous cynical asshole in this, haha.
Matthew was eight weeks old when he caught The Sickness.
Darling, was what their mother said. Her body trembled and shook while her eyes filled with unshed tears. Her mouth opened and closed, as if she struggled with what she was trying to say.
But Alfred already knew. (Alfred was extremely aware - he'd be eleven this coming fall, you know.)
So instead he just clasped her hand in his and offered a smile that he hoped was reassuring. It mustn't have been because she started weeping not a second later. Curse that Matthew for making her behave this way. That scoundrel.
My child, there's something wrong with your brother–
Alfred nodded.
Matthew was a thief, you see. He stole Alfred's parent's love and now he had to deal with the repercussions. Like their mother weeping, for instance. Matthew just had to go get sick, didn't he? How selfish of him.
There were lesions all about his brother's face. His soft, pale skin had broken out in disgusting buboes. He looked so ugly. Still, their mother cuddled him and whispered soft, comforting words into his blistering ears.
It was no use. He just cried whenever she touched him.
They still went to church that Sabbath day, despite Matthew being almost-dead. Mother fussed over him and wrapped him in layers upon layers. Alfred dressed himself up in his Sunday best and stuffed his pockets with crushed herbs and sweet smelling spices. Mother would have had a fit had she seen all her precious seasonings wasted, but she was much too busy with Matthew to even notice. Of course.
Oh well, even if he had gotten a scolding, it would have been worth it. The strong aromas protected Alfred from The Sickness, it did.
He wore his cotton gloves instead of his usual nice white ones. Alfred's nails had turned an odd shade of black that wasn't appealing at all - it was probably Matthew's doing.
At church, the pastor talked a lot about The Sickness. He had all sorts of fancy names for it, like the Pestilence, and the great Mortality. He believed that God was punishing everyone for their immorality, and that they must repent should they want their souls spared.
(How evil Matthew was, to have sinned at a measly eight weeks old. He must truly be a monster.)
Few people were there at the service. Since the pandemic, most had transferred to Protestantism. The Christian church hadn't been much help. All the minister has done is tell them to pray while he griped about everyone's iniquities. However, mother and father are faithful to the ecclesiastical hierarchy, despite their inadequacies.
It seemed kind of stupid to Alfred. Why rely on something that was clearly hopeless?
Perhaps The Sickness was getting to their heads. But then again, his parents had never been the brightest pair.
Keeping the devil child was proof enough.
For some reason, Matthew lived longer than expected.
Infants and older people usually only last a few days before their weaker immune system gives out. It must have been the wickedness inside of him, keeping the troublemaker alive.
Alfred wished he would hurry up and die already. He was making mother and father upset. The sooner he was six feet under, the sooner they could get over it. And Matthew could go back to Hell, where he belongs.
Alfred swore he'd kill the brat himself if he didn't stop throwing up everywhere. It was disgusting.
Matthew was nine weeks old when he passed away.
About time. Alfred would never see him again, for he was to go to Heaven. Sooner than planned, yes, but better Heaven than this wretched place in this wretched body. All it does is ache, and ache, and ache.
Blistering tumours that ooze a foul liquid always burn the most at night, when the vermin are at their hungriest. He can feel the swine creeping over his skin, through his hair - itching, biting.
Those wretched rats.