A place of sickness

(For clarification, the Protagonist is 18 years old while Annabelle Brightheart is 54 years old)

The door creaked open and hit the wall loudly in the quiet house. Though Brightheart was not the most wealthy individual in town her family as a long standing one. And therefore had much in the way of supporting the Cow, to the point where she needed worry not about working another day in her life. But what greeted was a hall with no candles. You walked through the dusty place where life once frolicked now inhabited only by signs of no activity. You passed the dining room, the vase of flowers situated in the center having wilted from a lack of water and sunlight. A pit began to form in your stomach and you glanced upstairs worriedly.

"Mrs. Brightheart?"

You asked out-loud, wanting to announce your presence so not to potentially startle the old maiden. You hurried up the stairs when you failed to hear a response, your big ears straining to hear our a reply. Moving through the halls with practiced ease, passing by many bedrooms which forever stayed unoccupied, you stopped outside of her bedroom itself and you knocked on the door. Opening it you were greeted with the scent of stuffiness and sweat. Your eyes locked onto the form of the Widowed Cow and you couldn't help the tone of worry seep into your voice.

"Mrs. Brightheart!"

She stirred only slightly, eyes just barely fluttering open at the sound of your voice and as you made to stand at her bedside. The difference in size between the two of you was well evident as you stood a mere 4'8 and even at her age she stood just shy of 6'0. So elevated off of the ground that you could look down on her resting form. Her eyes could hardly open, the briefest glimpses of her sky blue eyes were surrounded by irritated red. A sheen of sweat glistened across her form as her parched lips were **** for something to drink. Sickness. Illness. Disease. Plague. Your mind ran wild in fear as years upon years of being informed and educated on the horrors of sickness. When Rats lived below ground in the Warrens, all it took was one person being ill and it would spread like wildfire in the tight tunnels and nests. A groan of pain brought you back to reality and you sprang to action.

Throwing yourself from the second floor to the first, you landed with barely a sound as you rushed outside with a bucket in hand. As the Brightheart estate was rich with many conveniences, among them was a well right on the property with clean fresh water for ready use. In Brightheart's haze she hardly noticed your swift departure and once she felt the cool water hit her dry lips she naturally sucked back what was on the spoon. Your own mother had been careful in how much water she had given any of your siblings at once when they too were struck with sickness. After several spoonfuls, you heard her manage a weak thanks which tugged at your heart from how faint she sounded. Wetting a rag, you carefully wiped the sweat from the Widow's brow, faintly aware of how personal this act was and how close it allowed you to be with her.

You remained focused on your task, ignoring the mountain of flesh just beside you underneath what cloth she wore. Some things did not lessen with age and her endowments were one such thing. After cleaning her face the best you could you wet the rag once more only this time you lightly wrung it out before laying it across her forehead, brushing locks of graying auburn hair aside lightly.

"Dear...you don't..."

"It's okay. I-I'm going to get help Mrs. Brightheart, I'll get you help and they will make sure you get better."

Fear was evident in your voice at the possibility of the alternative. Regardless, you made sure she was as comfortable as possible before you again rushed from her home and into the village. The Village apothecary would help. Surely they could do something!