Zombie Dairies (II)

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Zombie Dairies (II)

Health warning for this story

I have to watch myself. I have this old habit of picking at my skin, when nervous. I stripped the flesh off my left arm one night (lose bit and I pulled until it reached my elbow). Won't do that again. Forgot it doesn't grow back anymore.

I feel drunk all the time. It's like I stagger all over the place, hardly able to control my movements. The worst thing is the permanent hangover aspect of it all (the stomach permanently out of sorts and the headache). I want to poke my fingers into my eyes, just to get at the source of the pain but I know it would blind me and there's nothing worse than being a blind, hungry zombie.

Talking of fine dining and alcohol, I sometimes wish I were a vampire. They at least can walk into a restaurant without anyone batting an eye – me, I'd have to shuffle round the back and dig through the bins, for something to eat as tramps wouldn't get through the front door.
'No tie sir and no skin on your left arm. Sorry we cannot let you in like that, besides which the smell of decaying flesh would put the other diners off.' I can hear it all now. Vampires however could drink delicate flavoured red wine and get away with it. Eating though might be a problem. Steak, rare, with blood oozing out. How could they resist the urge to pick it up and suck it dry? Us monsters always show ourselves up in refined company. I of course shouldn't be in the ranks of the decaying. With my breeding really I should be underground, only coming out at night to dine on the best necks in town. Alas it was not meant to be.

Werewolves. I always keep an eye on the moon in case it's full. I remember one band of zombies I came upon, who'd obviously thought they'd cornered a nice, juicy meal out in the open, when it turned out that it had cornered and opened them up instead (No blood but plenty of guts and limbs spread everywhere). I remember one poor fellow – his decapitated head, still blinking in disbelief at what had just happened.

It's a disgusting, pain-filled life but I have no choice, except to lead it. I could kill myself and I've seen the results of some of the recently turned – heads torn off, when they tried to hang themselves. Others still 'alive' but smashed up, when they stood in front of a train or lorry (glancing blow survivors). Standing head on was very effective as you can imagine – spectacular even. Humpty-Dumpty had a great Fall but getting hit by a truck took the Spring out of his step, leaving him with egg all over his face. The good thing though is that it did bring him out of his shell.

When I say we have no inner life, as you can see that isn't strictly true. I've seen zombies who were as daft as my dogs, before I ate them. Trying to negotiate a narrow gap, instead of turning sideways as any normal monster would do, they'd keep trying to go through, head on. Bash, bash, bash without learning a thing. I wanted to just grab their shoulders and turn them forty five degrees but I'd already found that didn't work as they'd then go in the direction they were now orientated in. They were like these toys that used to bounce off the skirting board, turn and head in a new direction ad infinitum or like mindless zombies, which of course is what they were. I suppose the fact I started off more educated and well brought up, put me at a distinct advantage over my fellow dead-heads (I'd got further to fall, more to lose).

Do we live forever? No. We cannot regenerate decaying matter, so eventually fall by the wayside – our losses more than made up for by the living, when death takes them by the hand. What I fate I often think. To die, thinking you're heading for paradise and instead to wake up back here again, still alive but in a more meagre way. We who are about to die, salute you! (or we will do when we rise again).

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