I came into being on the 21st of April 1352, a day henceforth known as ‘Black Saturday’ and not because the woman who’d carried me the last nine months died moments before I arrived, casting a ghastly pall over what should have been a celebration.
The story I grew up with was that my mother’s fate was very nearly my own as, even in death, her womb refused to expel me. It wasn’t until the midwife, seeing the rippling of her stomach as if some devil-sent spawn was writhing within, understood the Grim Reaper had not yet departed the room. He was awaiting another soul to carry forth. Wishing him gone, she snatched his sacred scythe from his gnarly hand and ripped open my mother’s body and, amidst blood and swollen entrails, pulled me forth like a sacrificial offering of old.
My father, hearing the screams of dismay and fear, forwent the sacred rules of the birthing chamber and burst through the door…














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