The sky was growing dark with the onslaught of a winter storm. I heard the wind outside, but was too busy with my work to surrender to the desire of gazing out of the window. I instead gave my eyes the unelected opportunity to shift over my surroundings. The room was nauseatingly white, every surface was antiseptic in appearance, every surface seemed impersonal and unnatural, and everywhere was the colorless sanitarium, every bit florescent and synthetic. I hated that I felt more like a patient in this place than the person that helped them. Every particle in me wished for something to break the mundane, penetrate this routine that I had seamlessly incorporated into my life. I felt like I just existed, floating by, vaporous, touching everything but leaving no lasting indention of my presence. I never felt as lonely as I did in this room, isolated and trying to find a cure.
It is in this secluded white room that I sit on a stool in my white lab coat, and all encompassed with Petri dishes that watch and record the observations I encounter trying to find a cure for disease. All I do is watch these Z-cells being devoured by the medicine that I inject into them, trying to absolve them of their pestilence. Zombies are for now under quarantine, and until people like me can find a cure there is no hope for them. To be a Zombie currently is considered a disease, but is it really? And how am I really to help these unfortunates if I have never even come in contact with one? I wondered these things aloud as I hung my lab coat on the hook outside the space and locked the door. I was walking to my car, but I didn’t feel right. The wind was still mercilessly, incessantly blowing. I felt as if I was being watched. I felt out of place.
I took a warm shower when I got home. It felt so nice to allow the water to trail on my skin and wash away all of the proof that I was alive today. Sometimes, I wish I could just disappear. I constantly feel like there is no one that understands me. It is ironic that I feel something like a Zombie myself….
I still felt strange when I went to bed that night. I couldn’t tell you if it was legitimate, or if I was just being paranoid. I work alone, and live alone, and hardly speak to anyone. I never wanted to be a recluse, and by definition I’m not, but sometimes I think my imagination talks too much. I closed my eyes on the world and fell asleep soon after. But hours later, I awoke in a cold sweat and that strange feeling was even stronger. I believed to have heard a noise coming from inside my apartment. But quickly talked myself out of it, and tried to go back to sleep. Until I awoke once more, I had hoped that it was just the wind again, or I had just dreamed it. But I hadn’t, because this time I was awake, and still I heard the noise. Someone was in my apartment.
Frozen in fear as I was, I lay as still as possible hoping whatever it was wasn’t there to harm me. But I soon heard footsteps coming down the short hallway to my room. And soon my doorknob was turning slowly, as I watched terrified and paralyzed in my bed. The door opened, and I fainted.
The first thing I remember about waking up was that my room was filled with the light from my bathroom. And the shower was on, the water running hot with the steam filtering through to my bedroom. It took all the courage I could muster to go and look at who it was. Maybe my sister had come to visit? I got up slowly from my place to see who broke into my rooms, as quiet as was humanly possible. I crept to the door, expecting to find my sister’s body, but was instantly frightened to discover that what was in my shower was not related to me in the least. He was tall, and well shaped, a healthy size. His back was turned to me, but I could see through the steam that he had dark hair and sallow skin. Why was he here, in my apartment?
When the water stopped, I practically dove back into my bed, and closed my eyes, pretending to be asleep. I listened as he opened the door, and softly spoke aloud to himself, “...where does she keep the towels?” which was soon followed by “oh, there they are.” His voice was nice, like one of a radio personality or a musician. I wasn’t surprised. Most killers seem nice at first.
I kept my right eye a slit open so that it still seemed closed in the darkness. I watched him walk cautiously into my room, and look at me carefully before gingerly seating himself at the foot of my bed. He was covered only around his waist by my burgundy towel, his pallid skin still glistening wet. He was breathing slowly, painfully it seemed. I wanted to reach out to him. I thought he was crying.
I knew that if he had wanted to harm me, he would have by now. So I made a noise like I was sighing, and when I saw him turn around, I fully opened my eyes, slowly as if from a deep sleep. The first thing I noticed when he turned around was that his eyes were a deep blue, and he had dark circles under them, like he wasn’t well. His skin was pale and he had bruises on some parts of his body. His cheeks were flushed, and his hair was a dark brown, like polished sepia. He was beautiful, but looked sick.
“Who are you?” I asked. “My name is Kieran," he said," I’m sorry I followed you here, but I need your help. I’m sick and I fear you are the only one that can be of any help to me. I have not yet been discovered, but I will take any help you can offer. I am infected with the Zombie sickness, and in a matter of days, I will become one. Please, you are my only hope. Without your help, I fear I will most surely die.”
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