November 9th, 2016
I’m a kid of the 20th century, I’ve seen zombie movies. It’s a theme that is recycled in different variations every year in movie theaters, comic books and television shows season after season. Zombies have been in almost every culture in the world
in some incarnation for thousands of years. From the Haitian Bokor animating the recently deceased to viking Draugr coming back in a wisp of smoke to guard their graves. What none of these accounts ever mentioned was how it feels from the Zombie’s side. I guess Warm Bodies did that, but I’m pretty sure th
at was just a metaphor for depression. It always seems to start with an open wound, an infection, then a fever, then you slowly devolve into either a corpse that develops a posthumous taste for long pig or drop in to a slavering unrecognizable shadow of the person you once were.
There was no open wound. There was no fever or latent infection. There was a scientist, a flyer that promised $75 for a drug trial, and rent that needed to be paid. I am conscious of who I am, but I’m starting to question what I am. The number that the trial gave is a deadline. The names I was given, as far as I can tell, were fake. I’ve managed to not kill anyone. Eating normal food helps, and going to way over priced butchers and buying calf and monkey brains does too. I don’t know if human brains would sate me. I haven’t gotten — haven’t let myself — I haven’t had them. Everyone around me is worried about finals and graduating, and somehow I still am, more out of habit than anything I think. But more and more every day I can smell it around me. The blood and flesh of people walking inches from me, the life that pulses off of them, the mouth watering scent of living that I never noticed before. I haven’t gotten any less articulate either, so it looks like most of the movies got that part wrong too. If anything keeping this journal seems like it’s making it easier to process this in a less holy shit what the fuck do I do now kind of way.
January 20th, 2017
I know what I am, but I no longer know who I am. It happened again, and I don’t know how. I’m not blacking out or anything, I know what I’m doing, but there just doesn’t seem to be another option at the time. I don’t get joy from it or even really satisfaction from eating them. There’s just nothing. I don’t know what else to do. I finished moving today. I hope I was careful enough. At least the whole increased strength thing means that filling a uhaul takes almost no time.
August 15th, 2017
I found another flyer. Their rates have gone up. $150 now. The doctor is the same. I don’t know if I want them to cure me or to kill me. I don’t know if they should.
November 24th, 2017
These journals will probably serve as incriminating evidence in a hearing or something in a few years time, but when I write I feel the most human. I need that now. Need to feel human, need to know that I’m not just a monster they made. I hadn’t planned to do it. Anyone who reads this, I need you to know that I didn’t plan it, at all. It was just like it had been every time before, except this time there was a way to make it all stop, maybe not for me, but at least this way they wouldn’t be able to spread it, put anyone else through this blind, numbing, threat of existence. Fire kills disease, right? God, I hope I’m right.