Thursday, May 6, 2010

I Love You Like Zombies Love Human Flesh

It's that time; that time when I will subject you to the ramblings I turn in for my Creative Writing 345 Class. This story was last minute but my class mates laughed & I'm out of ideas so voila!--This week's post! Literary Left-Overs if you will. I call this "Zombie Love Story."       The adorable zombie girl in the photo is my amazing cousin; you can check out her tumblr at   Okay, I feel better now! GO, do it now! Without further ado, I present to you Zombie Love Story:
                               Loving Liz was always easy; with her long, auburn hair and hazel eyes, her sweet disposition. It didn’t matter that she had cancer—when we were together, the whole world melted away. Sometimes, I even forgot that all around us the dead were rising from their graves, eager to feast on the living. Sometimes. That’s why when she finally gave in to the disease that was slowly killing her I sat by her side, even though I knew it was only a matter of time before she came back. When she woke up, I couldn’t kill her—she was the fucking love of my life! Instead, I shot her in the leg to slow her down for a little so I could run like hell.

It’s nothing like the movies said it would be. Anyone who ever died was a zombie, well, those who were buried, at least—there was no helping the people who were cremated. But like I said, everybody else who was dead—zombies. The rich, the poor, the famous; if the corpse still had some muscle to it and they were strong enough to bang through their coffins, sure enough you’d see them stumbling around town. If you were bitten, you could still live through it so long as the injury wasn’t fatal. A bite in itself wasn’t enough to turn you into one of them. Avoiding the zombies was pretty easy, too—they were slow on account of the rigamortis and generally loud. It was death that was unavoidable—everybody’s gotta punch out at some time.

Still, I had to admit, ever since the day her beautiful corpse staggered off into the night, I missed her. I sometimes saw her lurking around my house at night. Her slowly rotting brain wasn’t smart enough to find a way in but that didn’t stop her from putting her hands and face up against the windows and groaning. I never knew whether she did this because she missed me, whether she just wanted to eat me, or whether she was still pissed about me shooting her in the leg. Sometimes I’d toss a package of raw hamburger meat into the backyard, knowing she’d come for it at night. My friends told me I was sick, but I argue that true love endures all things.

In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, the living population somehow forgot about swine flu. How could we not? We still had all the daily traumas of working, paying bills, raising children, and then the stresses of trying not to get eaten on the way to work. It was totally permissible to forget simple courtesies like covering your mouth when you cough or sneeze, or washing your hands. As a matter of fact, I only remembered swine flu when I caught it, myself. In some ways, I guess it was funny—and by that I mean it was funny strictly from an ironic stand point. Otherwise it was sad. My immune system was always pretty weak and in the latter stages, it didn’t seem like my immune system was even putting up a fight. I knew my days were numbered.

In my sick stupor, I forgot about feeding Liz and on days when I remembered, I knew I was too weak to go out there and not get eaten. This pretty much pissed her off. Her friendly way of stalking my house and pressing her body up against the window glass now became enraged bangs and screaming. I felt guilty and I desperately wanted to explain the situation to her but I knew she wouldn’t understand. Just how far she was willing to go for a hot meal was something I underestimated.

I was in my kitchen—pathetically slicing oranges to try to boost my immune system—Liz was outside banging on the walls and screaming as usual. All of a sudden, I was overcome with coughing, occasionally blood spurted from my throat. I felt like I was choking on coughs and braced myself for death. Then the coughing stopped. In my hysterical coughing, I hadn’t noticed that Liz had gone silent outside. I looked towards the living room walls and saw her—she was standing in front of a window, staring at me. I approached the window, “Oh Liz, I think I’m dying. I’m sorry I haven’t fed you in a while, I’ve just been so tired.”

Liz stared blankly at me before turning around and shuffling away from the window. I figured she’d lost interest in me and I returned to the kitchen. But shortly, I heard something come charging through the living room window. When I looked, I saw Liz pulling herself from the shards of broken glass on the floor. In this light, I could tell that she was rotting—I even thought I saw a maggot poke up from her left cheek and then sink back in. Liz approached me slowly, I didn’t even feel threatened. But then she lunged and the full force of her body knocked me over.

There we were on the kitchen floor; her, ravaging my flesh, me, helpless. Blood spurted from my neck, keeping rhythm with my fading pulse. I could hear my pulse reverberating in my brain, “bum bum, bum bum, bum…” The last one. Everything went black for an instant and I felt nothing. But then my eyes shot open—Liz was standing behind me, she opened the freezer and was savagely tearing into a package of frozen steaks. I slowly rose onto my feet from the floor—without blood and oxygen coursing through my veins, moving was a chore. Liz heard me moving around and stopped chewing on the t-bone. She turned her head and her bloodshot eyes met my own; I recognized my blood smeared across her face and arms, her clothes. She groaned and I grunted in response. She howled with delight. I felt a cold, slimy sensation on my arm and looked—it was a vein hanging from neck that Liz did not completely dislodge. Liz saw me fiddling with it and ripped it off, tossing it on the white linoleum tiles. I grabbed the back of Liz's head and ripped off a chunk of her scalp—the exposed region oozed with puss and old blood. Liz gave another howl of happiness.

On the wind, I caught the scent of something delicious and vulnerable. Liz smelled it too and dropped the frozen steak. Together we sauntered off in pursuit of fresh prey—our own zombie love story. Didn’t I tell you true love endures all things?


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