Also, who knew that Nate was a bit of a natural on Mario Kart? The competition just heated up. I can’t just beat the old soldier (sorry Nate, marine) that’s never played console games before, not at Mario Kart. It’s my game. I can’t just beat him; I must crush him and revel as his Luigi burns and weeps.
Nate laughs about how competitive I am.
I laugh harder. And longer.
I told you, being this funny is hard.
September 18th, 2010
PAIN
I need to write this.
But now I’m here I don’t think I can.
No. I can’t. Not yet. I’ve marked the day. That’s enough for now.
The pain is too much. It’s just too damn much.
It’s too raw. I can’t see for crying, can’t catch a breath.
I’ll try again another time.
September 20th, 2010
NO
I don’t even know how to begin writing this. I don’t want to. And yet I have to.
I have to.
It’s only right, but it’s taken me two days before my mind would even let me sit here and open this white, digital page again. Two days of hollow, empty grief, of weeping out every last tear until my well was dry. No matter how much this hurts, I have to do this now, or I’m afraid I never will. She deserves that much at the very least. To be remembered.
The four of us were out on a run beyond the gate, just hitting some isolated houses again, continuing Alicia and Mark’s training. It was about two in the afternoon when we rolled up and immediately, we knew something was wrong. As we pulled in the gate, Mark jumped out of his vehicle as Charlie came thundering down the hill towards us, no sense of safety as he gathered speed down the slope. Mark caught him just as he started to tumble, sweeping him up and asking him what was wrong.
“Zombie,” was all he panted, tears streaking his face, desperately trying to suck air into his little lungs.
That word was like being doused in ice water. Nate and I shared a horrified glance, pulled our handguns from holsters and charged up the hill. The situation had been dealt with, as we found Norah sitting outside, shotgun in hand, beside a body wrapped in a rug. The old woman was sat smoking a cigarette, her hands still shaking and knuckles white on the gun barrel.
With the threat clearly contained, we both relaxed, though my breathing was quick and shallow.
“Didn’t know you smoked,” observed Nate softly, holstering his Glock.
“Haven’t for twenty years,” said Norah in a quivering voice. “Needed one today. Took one from your trade stash.” Nate just nodded.
I dreaded to ask, but did anyway, pointing to the concealed corpse.
“Who is it?”
“Laura,” sighed the widow. “Did for herself. Guess the demons in her head got too loud, poor love.”
When she said Laura’s name, I’m ashamed to admit that my initial reaction was relief; what an absolute shithead thought to have, eh? That poor woman had endured three months of unimaginable trauma, and all I felt at hearing Laura’s name as the deceased was relief. God, I hate myself right now. I’m sorry, Laura. I’m sorry for all the pain you endured, that we couldn’t help you, and that you found yourself in such a dark place that all you could do was turn out the last of the lights. I hope you can now find some peace.
“Had to put her down,” said Norah softly. “First time I ever shot a gun at anything bigger than a pheasant. Poor girl strung herself up in her room.”
It was then that I noticed activity in the kitchen. Norah caught me looking, her already haunted expression collapsing. Her next words froze my heart.
“Freya found her,” she said, and the desolation in her voice spun me into a daze.
I wandered through the open glass door as if I was one of the undead, my movements clumsy, sightless eyes uncomprehending everything in the room as I bumped and shuffled my way round the kitchen. I could see Freya was sitting in a chair, but she was hidden by Maria, who was fussing at her with her back towards me. Isaac was beside them and as I walked in, our eyes locked. His gaze fixed to mine, filled with a painful sympathy that confirmed my worst fear.
Maria sensed Isaac’s shift and straightened, turning towards me and revealing Freya sat in the chair.
My eyes didn’t see my friend’s face. All I could see was the bloody bandage around her right hand, though my mind didn’t comprehend it.
“Erin,” said Freya, drawing my attention to her face.
She looked pallid, drawn. Darkness pooled beneath her eyes, her once luminous skin pale and waxen, a sheen of sweat glistening on her brow.
“No,” was all I said, shaking my head. “No. No.”
I knew what I was seeing but couldn’t accept it. No. Not Freya.
Not Freya.
“I heard her, Erin,” said Freya, her once musical voice now impossibly weak. “I went to check on her and heard her. I screamed for help, burst into the room, saw her struggling and did the first thing that come to mind.”
“No,” I said again, the word little more than an exhale.
“I reached up for the belt, I wasn’t thinking,” she said, a listless smile, rueing her own foolish actions even as she recounted them. “But she wasn’t dying, Erin. She was already gone. She was already one of… them. I was too close.”
She held up the bloody bandages.
“She grabbed my arm, pulled it towards her,” she sighed. “I pulled my arm free with all I had, but the side of my hand was already in Laura’s teeth.”
“No,” I said again, dropping to my knees in front of her.
This is killing me writing this. Killing me.
