Survivor

Genre: Horror

Word Count: Roughly 450

Origin: Like most of my stories, it started with an image. See if you can guess which one.

Premise: A story of star-crossed love, and zombies.

Every morning when I wake, for just a moment, I believe you’re lying next to me. In the time it takes my eyes to focus on the dirty, pock-marked wall that’s much too close to my face, I remember you’re dead. The tears stopped coming long ago.

Are you out there somewhere, watching me? I don’t believe that. If there’s any justice in the universe, you’ve moved on and can’t see anything that goes on in this swiftly devolving world.

I push to my feet and stretch. My muscles ache. Mornings without you are so much colder, but I miss more than just your warmth.

I miss your touch.

I glance at the wristwatch that used to be yours. The face is cracked beyond all hope of telling time. That doesn’t matter. The uneven ticking of the half-broken clockwork reminds me of you. Someday, when it stops, will I forget?

I hope I never forget your laughter.

The absence of the sounds you made haunts me every day. I hear your groan in the settling of this abandoned building, your breath in the almost silence of the garbage-strewn street.

I wish I could forget the night you died.

Your hands closed around my throat. I flailed, struggling for breath. You leaned down, not to kiss me, but to bite me. Your fetid breath made my stomach roil. Inch by agonizing inch, I worked the shotgun under your chin while dodging your mouth. Looking into your clouded eyes, I lamented that there was no part of you left to hear my whispered goodbye. I pulled the trigger. Grotesque liquid splashed over my face.

The pungent smell of your blood will never leave me.

I wish I’d let you win the fight. Would we be together still? The idea of you and I involved in a twisted, undead romance appeals to me during these endless lonely days.

This morning, I would welcome the touch of your cold fingers on my sloughing skin. Could there have been a future for us? Doubts follow me through my empty life.

The mistake I made became clear two days after I killed you. The infection carried in your blood seeped into my skin and brought on a blistering fever. I lay on the bed we shared, dying my first death, alone. Inside I was still me, though on the outside I degraded into the inarticulate monster you had been when you chased me down.

Every day, my survival seems more a curse. I search for someone who will understand, or failing that, end it all. I hope I find that person today.
 

Survivor by Coral Moore is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.