Temere Mortis

Chapter One

04/09/2018

It was a decidedly ordinary Tuesday until Isla got her first real taste of death.

She had heard horror stories about the plague, and the stages that followed, but no tale did the deed justice. Words can’t convey the feeling you get in your stomach. The one when you see the light in the eyes of someone you love flicker and fade as if they’ve run out of batteries.

It was unusual to reach age twenty without anyone you knew dropping dead. Because of this, Isla wasn’t offended when people called her lucky at her best friend’s funeral, the week after Alex's death. She did feel lucky to have had twenty years, six months, four days, and seven hours with Alex in this world.

Not that Isla was counting.

She sat idly whilst well-wishers told her Alex’s death was an honour, and she awkwardly consoled her late best friend’s mother whilst she cried uncontrollably. Isla didn't shrink away from the pitying looks the extended family gave her as she, herself, silently wept; the tears dropped slowly on to her black silk blouse.

What Isla could not take, however, was the promptness of the university regulated support group when they approached her beside Alex's freshly filled grave.

One of them bravely stepped forward, a girl called Emma, who Isla knew to be their leader.

“We meet three times a week: Monday, Wednesday and Friday,” the girl announced almost proudly. Her voice struck Isla as stiff and unfeeling.

“Usually we rotate around whatever lecture theatres the university lets us use.” She thrust a flyer into Isla’s hands. “Tomorrow we’re in the Physics building, main lecture theatre.”

Isla clenched her first and crumpled the flyer into a ball. Without a second thought, she let the propaganda tumble to her feet.

“At least wait until she’s in the ground,” Isla replied. Her voice was deceptively calm, but her eyes flashed with barely concealed anger.

The girl’s honey eyes widened, but she said nothing, causing Isla to turn and stalk away. When Isla took barely five steps, the girl built up the courage to call out to her gently.

“I’m in your Stats seminar if you need to talk, but you already knew that.”

Isla didn’t break stride as she put distance between herself and the group, heading towards the car door that Alex’s brother, Danny, held open for her. His eyebrow was raised in a silent question.

“Vultures,” Isla spat, climbing into the car. “The whole lot of them.”

Danny clambered into the vehicle beside her. “They just want to help,” he defended them, and with a sigh, he folded her under his arm and into his chest. “Maybe you should go to one of their séances or whatever they call them.” 

Isla rolled her eyes, even though he couldn’t see. Leaning back to meet his sympathetic gaze, she surveyed his prim and proper appearance. She noticed a distinct lack of tears in his eyes.

He doesn’t even appear to be in mourning, Isla thought bitterly.

The gentle hum of the engine calmed her ragged breathing, still incised from the support group's prompt appearance.

“Group grieving only breeds misery.” The words sounded as sour as the taste left in her mouth. “I don’t need to talk to a bunch of other sad people to know that I'm not happy.”

Danny snorted.

“Or, maybe you’ll open up and actually talk to someone about how this is affecting you.” He spoke softly, but his words were harsh. Danny lowered his voice to a whisper, preventing his parents in the front seat from hearing.