This post has been majorly zombified. You are warned, if you're here for the story.
I wrote a book review and dated the post for August, but it still posted today. I have now deleted it, and I guess I'll just re-do it on August 1st (I have my reasons, LOL!). If anyone knows how to do that whole post-dating thing, let me know. And no, I'm not talking about being friends with your ex after the break-up. Because after we break up, you are fucking dead to me. But not actually. Like zombie dead. Which means that if I ever see you out again, I will be sorely tempted to put a spike through your brain.
And yay! It's Three Word Wednesday! Remember that you don't need to blog to do it; if you've got a LiveJournal or Deviant Art account, do it there, and go back to 3WW and link. Your words, if you choose to accept them: abuse, cramp, hatred.
Twist of Fate
You can only abuse a body for so long. At some point, it's going to rebel.
Across from me, Janie sips her mocha, legs crossed, one foot jittery. She smiles, lips pulled tight over her teeth. I'm holding my index finger, twisting around and around it.This isn't going well. I knew it. I never should've come, never should've let Rob talk me into this. I mean, it just can't work.
I tried to be presentable. Extra Aramis to cover the smell of putrefaction, a Mariners hat to cover the hole in my skull (I don't care what they say, I am not getting cosmetic surgery -- that hole marks the day I got undead!), and two sneakers even though I've only got one foot. Duct tape is truly wonderful stuff. I saw this article the other day on keeping your ribcage intact using the stuff and...
Janie is horrified when I babble on about the miracle of Duct tape. I can't help it; when I get nervous like this, I tend to go on and on. I change the subject. She doesn't golf. Next. Her favorite movie star is Mel Gibson. What? Doesn't she know -- oh, it's a joke. I laugh. My tongue almost falls out. I stop laughing. It really wasn't that funny, anyway. Bad timing. Like, you can't make Michael Jackson jokes yet.
She asks where I work. Now she's just being catty. She knows how hard it is for us to get work. No one wants to hire someone who might eat their other employees, which, I would like to state, hardly ever happens anymore.
I feel like my poor finger is cramping, but I'm getting worked up, and I can't stop twisting it. Rob's my best friend, and he probably meant well, but he should've known that lifers and undead just don't mix. And this is why. I'm trying to have a conversation, be brilliant, show interest, and what is she doing? Sitting over there, looking at her watch every two minutes.
I ask her if she likes to cook. She says she should get going, she has to be somewhere. I say that my mom used to cook all the time, like, every night. Spaghetti, pork chops -- I'm babbling again. Her eyes fall to the table, and she freezes. I look down. Sure enough, my finger's come unattached. I'm just holding it in my other hand -- which, let's face it, isn't in that great of shape, either -- and she's staring and I try to casually tuck it up my sleeve, but it's too late.
She pushes her mocha away. "Disgusting," I hear her mutter under her breath as she stands. She won't look at me. I say, please, please stay. But she's getting her purse, her jacket. And that's when it hits me.
The red. We call it that. When you just can't be like them anymore, no matter how hard you try, and something breaks inside you. You look at them and see red, red, red. Pure, focused hatred. You're consumed by it.
Janie doesn't notice the change, because she isn't noticing me anymore. I say her name. She starts to pass by me. I grab her arm, and her head whips around to snap something at me, but then she sees. She notices me, finally. She's actually looking me in the eye for the first time since she sat down at the table. I feel the panic hit her, hard. And I yank.
I pull and claw and rip, and when I'm finished, the whole coffee shop's silent. I stand over her, gnawing on a mouthful of Janie's cheek, when the little bell goes off. We all turn. It's my ex, Sarah. She pauses, looks at what's left of Janie on the floor. Snorts. Then she goes up to the counter and orders a vanilla cappuccino with an extra shot of espresso on the side. Minutes go by. The barrista hands it to her with shaking hands. She comes over and gives me the shot. I do it. Caffeine doesn't do anything, but the liquid sears my tongue and that feels good.
"Idiot," she says. "Come on." We go out into the parking lot and make out in her car. I don't know why I ever broke up with her.
Another reminder! xTx's Zombie Summer is on-going. Today's entry, Bob and Steve Coming Together by David Backer, ripped my brains out and replaced them with a car battery. I feel pretty good about this.