Once Upon a Story [ INCONSISTENT UPDATES ]

Consumption

Prompt — Today's prompt is a book:
❝ 𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘐𝘴 𝘛𝘶𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘴: 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘏𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘗𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘖𝘧 𝘖𝘶𝘳 𝘋𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘐𝘯𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯 ❞
— By John Green

Trigger warning
death
This is the imagined story of someone who "survived" tuberculosis.

Word count: 408

❝ 🖤 𝘮. 𝘵𝘶𝘣𝘦𝘳𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘪𝘴 ❞

My story started in the imperial garden, surrounded by colourful sights and fragrant blooms. I was but a little girl, so full of life and ambition, coddled by a loving family.

My father showered his Queen and Princess with gifts that filled entire palace rooms. My two brothers cared for me like the world's greatest treasure. Life could not have been more wonderful.

But the dream suddenly fractured and fell away, revealing a more terrible reality. Another image painted the imperial scene, one of tragedy and sorrow. The flowers wilted and grew brittle-like surface bark. The fragrant aroma that cultured the air faded to a still odour of wet grass and mud. The lively picture full of laughter and picnics shattered, replaced with a dooming reality of even the noble life.

My mother lay in bed, immobile. Her sunken and wide eyes stared emptily at the world; her cheeks carved canyons into her face. But on the bony crest of her visage lay a soft rouge, a feverish tint. In her wasting state, she glowed with sweat. She was beautiful.

She was dying.

She breathed a waning breath; one followed by painful coughs and blood. As her soul shone through her glassy tear-stained doll-house windows, the malady consumed her alive. And soon, there was nothing left for her to inspire. Drowned in fluid, blood and pus, my mother was no more.

My father, unable to leave his consumptive wife lay at her dying side, perishing with her. My eldest brother contracted the malady from our sick nurse. He miraculously survived the devastating ailment...only to die at the age of 30, unable to run away from his enemy's sword. My second brother was not spared. He'd grown so thin, that I became the eldest in size. And then, he died, only three weeks following his first cough. By that final day, his body had turned into a bag of bones.

And then, I was left. Sadly, I am alive; breathing without payment for each inspiration. I am neither fortunate enough to continue my family's fading line nor can I be the unfortunate, beautifully transformed by death's hand.

I am part of those left. I have joined the survivors of a malaise so soulful it inspired the greatest artistry and simultaneously so dreadful it suffocated and choked man's insignificant breath.

I used to be the fifth.

We used to be...

Now, I am the only one.