I can't take it anymore. My three children lay upon the battered mattress. They cling together desperate to keep warm against the cruel December wind.

"Mummy I'm hungry," the youngest whimpers holding her stomach.

I bite back the tears, reaching my hand into the almost empty cookie jar. Three broken pieces brush my fingers. Not even enough for a loaf of bread.

"I know baby," I whisper moving the matted blonde hair out of her face.

I can't take it anymore. Wrapping my children in the threadbare coats they've had since their father died, I herd them to our neighbour's equally dishevelled home.

I'm thankful to Gladys, her kindness allowing me to walk the streets every night in the hopes someone will toss me a stale cookie that I may exchange for food and wood for our fire. It's rare I come home with more than 5 broken pieces, the equivalent of what was 50p before King Charles X claimed the British throne and thrust us all into poverty.

The darkness cloaks me. I'm joined by four other women, all widows like me, begging passersby for help. Throwing themselves at their feet only to be kicked aside and ignored. Four hours later I return home empty-handed. I'm not surprised. When a great plague ravaged the country, it left behind a huge dip in the financial market with the currency crumbling.

A single cookie before the plague might have been enough to get a loaf of bread and some stale cheese, if the cookie wasn't too stale of course. Now you needed 5 cookies for a single loaf, no cheese. That would cost an extra 6 cookies. My family and I would be so lucky to see such a number in our cookie jar. I can't take it anymore.

The dull sunlight tries to push through our dirty and broken window the following morning. My youngest child coughs violently by my side, death's slender fingers curling around her arm. I need to do something. Need to get fresh cookies so I may keep her safe. Keep them all safe. I know what I need to do.

The local bakery, or bank as we must now call them, is full by the time I step into the warmth. My joints ache their protest. I spy a wealthy couple selfishly flouting their cookies in the air. My mouth dries. How can they be so brazen? So inconsiderate of those of us who have nothing?

I scream, blade in the air as I throw myself forward at the rich man. It lands with a squelch in his neck. Another squelch as I stab at his face, his eyes. Anything I can reach.

I shove the cookies into my pocket, praying they don't break. Walking towards the exit I try to ignore the commotion behind me.

"Get her!" A loud voice bellows. I run as fast as I can until I'm bundled on the floor. I can't take it anymore.

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Word count: 496