In short: I got sad and broke things.
I nearly died every day, but didn’t care. Life was shit, and I wasn’t going to be able to make it any better.
The last event stands out from all the rest in my mind.
Looking back, it could be said that I was having a rough day. I woke from the only nightmare I have. It’s the same one every time, and nothing ever changes. Sissy is standing with me in the street, with an entire horde of zombies occupying the lower block. I tell her we have to run. She leans in and kisses me gently on the cheek, and turns to walk into the horde. The wave of zombies doesn’t move towards us; they just stomp and howl and scratch at nothing. I squeeze her hand but it lazily slips through my fingers. I scream, but she just smiles. I reach for her but she glides away toward the mob.
I can’t move.
I can’t reach her.
I can’t save her.
Hundreds of hungry dead mouths pulse and drip blood. They don’t pursue. They don’t run. The horde just stands there, bouncing impatiently as Sissy strolls away from me. Just before she reaches them, Sissy turns to face me. She’s going to tell me her name. I know she is. She opens her mouth and a fountain of blood issues forth, drenching her front and collecting at her feet. The show becomes too much for the zombies and they tackle her. I watch as they bite and tear and rip and devour.
Then I realize it’s me. All of the zombies have my face. My hands. My fingernails tearing and teeth cutting. All of the hands that gash her are mine.
I’ve killed Sissy.
And then I wake up. Right there is when I wake up. How messed-up is that? Really?
Fresh off that image, and suffering from a massive headache, I pulled myself out of the bed and shuffled to the bathroom. I uncapped a bottle of water and splashed my face. Looking up makes me hurt and laugh. The image in the mirror is gruesome. Anybody who looked like I did that day would be mistaken for a zombie and aced without a question. I chuckle, giggle, and then begin to laugh at the idea. There’s a bottle of tequila in the bathroom. Without questioning how it got there, I take a long pull. Now that the image in the mirror has a prop in its hand, it gets really funny. What would the shooter think of a zombie holding a bottle of Mexican water? I’ve seen deadies hold items but never alcohol.
I laugh until I cry. I cry until I’m weeping. It occurs to me that not only am I a zombie on the inside, but now I look like one too, and I decide I might as well be dead at this point. Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t suicidal again, just totally hopeless.
The only thing that got the crying under control was the anger I felt. I was mad at myself, my blood, and the greater outside world. I hated the zombies that had infected my home. I hated the people who died for their dying and the living for still being alive. No one was safe. No one was without blame.
I hated Wood, and Peter, and Duck. I hated Stuart and Dr. Carver and Molly and Michael. And at that moment, looking in the mirror at my zombie face, I hated Sissy the most. How dare she make me love her, and then kill herself? She put me in a position to be unable to prevent her dying and as a result I end up blaming both of us for her death. The blame falls a bit haphazardly most days, depending on what I’m doing and how much I’ve had to drink. The bottle of tequila in my hand would suggest that today I would be blaming myself.
I remember thinking the only thing that would make me feel better would be punishing some zombies. I stumbled downstairs, grabbed one of Stuart’s old weighted clubs, and hit the street. I couldn’t find any zombies right away, so I engaged in my second favorite pastime: I broke into a business and smashed everything I could. Desks, lamps, electronics, displays, you name it. Today’s donor shop happened to be a bank. Of course, most of the items had already been removed, like the computers, supplies and all money left out, but I was certain there were still plenty of breakables. I made my way behind the counter and found myself looking for the big vault. It didn’t take long, and the sight of it was much as you would expect. There were gashes and dents to the door, but it was all just surface damage. Now I don’t know much about safes, but it seemed like blunt force was a dumb way to try and open one, but from the look of things the contestants on America’s Next Great Bank Robber seemed to have waded in from the shallow end of the gene pool. Lying in pieces before the safe were the remains of the thieves efforts. A sledge, a crowbar, and a torch. There were no burns on the door, so I wondered what happened that made them stop wanting to cut. There was a broken axe, and that really got me laughing. Who breaks a vault with a common wood axe? Really?
I found the entire scene funny, all of the broken tools lying at the foot of the scarred though unbroken safe. It was like a strange shrine to a rare god.
I picked up the sledge and decided to leave my own signature on the door of the box. I kept my grip loose so the vibration wouldn’t shake me too bad, drew back the hammer, and let it rip at the safe. The sound was awesome. A deep, pulsing vibration hummed through the
