September 24th, 1665

Dear King Charles ll,

Everyday I look out into the streets, and I see the streets empty. The wind grazing through the gloomy sidewalk. The curbs are grimy and black, and I’ve never seen London look so sorrowful. However, sometimes I will look out the window and must cover the eyes of my curious five-year-old daughter and distract my 12-year-old son. I’ll catch a glimpse of an innocent man, out on the streets, screaming in agony, splotches showing up on his skin, and a sense of agony and pain piercing through his eyes, as the last sound comes out of his mouth before he collapses to the ground.

My great king, I send this letter with no disrespect. Me, my husband, my entire family, we believed in you. Until you let my husband die. He started having a fever one night and I brought him cool wash cloths in attempt to cool him down. But no matter what I did, nothing was working. It wasn’t long until he complained about aching joints and started vomiting. My children were terrified and all I could do is give them false reassurance. “It’s okay sweetie, daddy just had a long day, he’ll be better soon.” I would say through the tears streaking down my face. I knew what was happening, we have been hit.

I dreaded the night where I had to drag my husbands body onto the street, and into the back of a rocky cart, to be taken to the plague pit. My daughter wouldn’t let go of his hand, and my son wouldn’t even walk out the door. I lugged out a bucket of red paint and draw a cross across our door complimented with “Lord have mercy on us”, just like the other houses on our street.

My son wouldn’t come out of his room for days. I left him food at his door every day and whispered him good night through the door. He would always moan in response, until one night he didn’t. It killed me when I saw his body get towed away along with the other bodies of innocent men.

Now my daughter has a high fever and cries every day. I feel nauseous and my joints aren’t as healthy as they were a week ago. My dear king, I fear that this disease is about to take my daughter and I can’t help her. It seems as if I have failed my job to her as her mother.

You are Gods representative, you are God himself. So why did you flee? Why did you take my treasured family, my happy family, away from me? I never asked of much from you because I believed in you. Money doesn’t matter, nor does the battered house we live in and same goes with the crippling land we have. But my family does.

King Charles ll, God, whoever you are, I believed in you; but with these past events, I’m starting to doubt my choice of believing you. And as of right now, I don’t have much to believe in and I have no one to lean on, so please save my daughter, give me a miracle, give me a reason to believe you,.


Lots of love,