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Zane Norrison · (10-17-2019)

Ah... brains. The sustenance that I require and the sole thing keeping the world safe from a possible zombie outbreak, ultimately leading to complete chaos, the fall of mankind and essentially the end of the world. For instance, if you were a proverbial fly on the wall while I was at work, you might find me warming up something for lunch or dinner, depending on when my shift started, with a generous helping of the aforementioned key ingredient included to the meal. Doing this helps me maintain a connection to the life I once had and gives me a sense of being civilized, rather than simply being nothing more than an undead abomination. Chowing down on a big ol' hunk of brain.

Although after three years, it's sorta become old hat. A routine that I've grown accustom too. Go to work, tend to the recently deceased and acquire brains. Wash, rinse and repeat. Take home the leftover supply, go to bed and do it all over again, the next day. It sounds frightening but it's my afterlife and doing this is a lot better than the alternatives. Namely denying myself the item that I crave, going totally feral and starting the apocalypse or... eating a bullet. Fuck the latter by the way, I didn't choose this existence and I wasn't an idiot that stumbled into it either. I deserve to survive, just as much as the next guy.

That has been my outlook for three years and then my father confronted me with the truth. He told me that he knew I was dead and it was like my entire world crashed down around me. The way he said it too, with such utter disappointment and sadness. I instantly felt guilt and remorse. Like I was an undeserving thief in the night, who stole something. When you die, you're meant to go away. Poof. Disappear. Like fog on a mirror or a whisper caught in the wind. These things do not linger nor are they supposed to remain. Yet, here I am, just the same. So what must I do to make this right?

I tell you what you don't do. You don't show up at your parents' house for lunch and a talk.

As soon as I entered my parent's abode, I could sense a change in the atmosphere. Part of me wanted to turn and flee, to avoid this situation altogether but I progressed forward into the house and gave my mother a hug.

"You're cold."

She stated absently.

"I never noticed how cold you've felt these recent years or maybe, I just subconsciously didn't want to pay any mind to it. Who's to say really? But you're like ice. You'd think a mother would notice something like that."

My father clearly must have told her all about his revelation. In a way, his need to do that broke my heart, I suppose he had his reasons though. Tell the truth and rip the band-aid off, rather than let her live in a lie. She walked to the kitchen after that. So lost in thought, she failed to close the door, I had to take care of that and then I followed her. Trying to lighten the mood the best I could.

"Work's been good."

"Really? How could anything be good about working in a morgue?"

To no avail, instead I was met with an agitated tone and instant opposition.

"No, I mean my other job, my career with the XWF. I'm appearing on the next edition of Anarchy. My opponent is going to be Sarah Lachlan."

"That tiny blond girl. She's a pretty little thing. Petite and lithe, like a feather. Those terrible men in charge shouldn't be putting her at the risk of..."

Her voice trailed off but I knew what she was going to say. Sarah shouldn't be placed in the position of possibly becoming infected.

"At the risk of what?"

It was a redundant question. Barely spoken above a whisper as I internally winced and fought off the feeling of being punched in the gut. By Raphael Blackwater, after he transformed into solid steel.

"Nothing. Nevermind."

Brushing my inquiry away, she retrieved two plates with sandwiches occupying them, from atop the island divider and placed them on the table.

"I hope sandwiches are okay."

"Yes, it's perfect. Thank you."

I took a seat and watched as my mother walked to the fridge.

"So you're facing Sarah Lachlan. I hope you perform better in the ring than you did last time."

At least criticizing my performance, wrestling wise was better than her freaking out over having a son that was a zombie. Her tone seemed to improve too or she was faking it. I couldn't tell. Taking a container of orange juice out of the refrigerator, she fetched two glasses from a nearby, overhead cupboard and proceeded to fill them.

"I'm confident that I'll do better. Grateful that I get a second chance too. I definitely plan to give this fight my all."

"Well that's all you can do. Try your best."

These words were followed by a smile. A slightly unnerving, uncomfortable smile. I quickly turned my focus to my food. After taking a bite out of my sandwich, I chanced another glance my mother's way and that's when I noticed her staring at me. With expectation. That isn't the only thing I became aware of though. In that moment, I realized that I had a mouthful of brains. Placing the sandwich back onto the plate, I lifted the top slice of bread off of it and silently gasped. Sure enough. There was a nice helping of brain chunks, situated over some sliced ham and cheese. I didn't know what to feel or even think, wide eyed I couldn't look away from the pieces of brain.

"Mom. What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything dear. It was your father that took care of acquiring the brain. I just cut it up and put it on the sandwich. You know, it wasn't nearly as repulsive as I imagined and the neighborhood is far more peaceful these days, without Mr. O'Leary's drunken hollering and constant complaining. Why I can actually hear myself think and the birds chirp."

Crap. I turned my dad into a murderer and my mother into his accomplice and all it took was being a zombie. Now what???

Threaded Mode \| Linear Mode Brains on my sandwich
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