He hates you

Chapter 2

I’ve been walking around for an hour now. I thought I would find the exit to the courtyard or even the people that allowed me to be free. But, I have only seen more dead people �" or once-people. These were already dead. Their heads smashed in. I have also noticed most have had their pockets and shoes emptied. I suppose whoever did this was looking for something.

Maybe they were told to empty their pockets. Are they responsive? I wouldn’t know; I didn’t try to talk to him. I think for seconds, before my subconscious intervenes. She suggested I needed a weapon to intimidate them. No one is afraid of a petite girl with wild hair. Why would they let their food talk them out of it? He was going to kill, not to talk or reason with me. He’s savage but, maybe not incoherent. Maybe they had reason to kill us beyond draining our blood or consuming us any other way.

My subconscious is laughing at the thought of humans having a good reason to consume another.

I think of vampires, how they were depicted sometimes, making them seem willing to human qualities. They loved our species in some of these books and movies. They would go even as far as dating, marrying and impregnating our race. Were these my creatures that resembled eager zombie once-human- beings? Zombie movies hold some truths as to what I seen earlier. They have bloodied faces baring black and green canines. They arms are always forward, their fingers eager to peel back warm flesh. They were dumb; unable to register the jagged glass that could cause their death. Their eyes were inhuman, gray pools of the departed. And hungry, they were so hungry.

I got lost looking for the entry way to the courtyard, and found the cafeteria instead. My stomach had other obligations. I push through the brown doors, not really paying much attention to my surroundings now with the kitchen in sight. I think of tuna-fish Tuesdays and meatball subs on weekends. I’m reminded of the friendly kitchen staff, but especially the lady that had kind eyes always asking when I’m going to get out. She meant it in some kind of nice sense, like I had a choice in the matter. But, what she said always registered with me, making me feel warm and cared for. That’s all that mattered.

I bite my lip, pushing away flooding memories of what little bit I of happiness this place gave me. I don’t want to think about those times now, I can’t afford to become emotional or overwhelmed with thinking all those nice people are probably dead.

In the cafeteria, as I remember it, there are several rectangular peach coated tables with matching benches that were attached at the bottom by silver bars. The benches were always cold and unwelcoming. North of the entrance, is three metal bars lined horizontally in front of the hot plates and steamer topped by several metal-paned sheets of glass �" the cough and sneeze shield. Beyond that, is the closed off kitchen, only allowed you in and out by 2 ugly brown sweeping doors.

I don’t waste any time taking swift strides across the cafeteria towards those double doors.

Quickly, to my left, I hear shouting. I’m in cohesion with two brown doors to my left, leading out to another corridor. My stomach tugs for forward, but my feet don’t respond. The shouting is no doubt coming from someone in distress. Then all thought of filling my gut disbands, as I’m turning toward the left. This scream isn’t my awful shadow people or zombie invaders, it’s human. My subconscious is babbling about not having to be alone with me anymore.

I take off through the doors, my strip of pointy glass out in front of me, and I’m turning the corner. The screaming is fading, but I know I’m going the right direction. I see a pool of blood up ahead, thick, purple-red blood that was no doubt human. I only glance at it as I slink passed confirming its richer color instead of green and black like zombified blood. Then, I see a path of red footsteps in stride with another pair �" 2 people.

Or, one zombie and one victim

I ignore her pictures of tearing flesh beneath rotting teeth.

I turn right, following the footsteps, then meeting a limp body hunched over. I can’t see the face, his bad is turned towards me, as I dip down, placing a hand on his shoulder. I turn him towards me. Zombie; it was an dead undead zombie. I cringe away from it. Its forehead indented in, black crackling lines around it oozing black blood. Its skin was skin in most other places; it didn’t look like he had been a part of zombie life for long. Its clothes were of nurses, I suppose he worked here, and became diseased like the rest. I come to my feet as I remind myself of the more human-like scream I once heard.

The screaming is gone. I’m only following the red fading steps. I reach the end of those, about to turn back around, as a cross way. The feet prints have lead me to a corridor only lit by orange-glowing emergency lights. Though, the prints were only a yard or two long, I have turned twice, and now it feels like I’m in another dimension.

Another shout stirs. I run towards it, making a left at the crossway, and now I’m standing directly below an orange, flickering emergency light. I see a crumpled body feet in front of me, no doubt the owner of the blood. She is wailing.

The things �" where are they?

My inner moron was preparing for a fight of some sort; like a pack of zombies were going to come at us from the shadows. But, I see not a moving thing in the distance besides this woman. Though, nothing here comforts me. In fact, I’m unnerved about to leave. But, this woman in front of me lures me. Her injuries are unknown to me, only see her crunched forward, shivering and bloodied. She isn’t dead.

My steps are measured as I pace over to her. I’m looking right and left, hasty. When I reach her, I slump down, letting my knees rest on the linoleum and my bottom between my rosy slippers. I rest my only weapon on the tile next to me.  She shifts barely. She knows I’m here, which sparks new concern. Could she be a zombie now?

I fumble for my weapon, as I touch her shoulder with my right hand. She exhales as I pull on her navy sweater, turning her to face me. She’s alive.

Something clicks in my head as familiarity ripples the surface. Her red hair is stuck to her face in places. Her heart-shaped lips parted. Her blue eyes were stunning, even now while she lay here dying. She was the beautiful vixen that helped release me. But, she didn’t want me �" I wasn’t who she hoped to find. Now, she lays here, injured and dosing.

I pull her forward so she’s resting on my lap. I push her hair from her face. She looks like she wants to speak, but instead I hear nothing. She’s crying. I want to cradle her and comfort her; I wanted so bad to know this woman after she left me. I feel a slight connection to this woman, as I stroke her hair.

-x-

I’m seven years old again. I’m standing in front of a burgundy villa with white flowers creeping up the sides, tying themselves to the gutter and window panes. The brick is aged, having blackened edges caused by rain-wear and pollution. It is gated; long iron rod posts are sharp at the tip. The side walk is all chalked up before me, leading to the weather torn steps of the villa. Behind me is traffic; commuters, taxis, and metro buses. I’m in Houston. This was the house I grew up in. 

The sun is hot on the back of my neck. My hair sticks to me as perspiration spreads. It must be July-heat, because I hardly ever sweat unless it’s so. I’m wearing gray overalls and plaid sneakers. I’m trying to justify some kind of reason for being here.

The door creaks open. My house is pulling me forward, tempting me inside.

This is a nightmare; it registers. I’m fighting my sleep. My house begins to fade, the windows and the door way twist into a frown.

I’m awake. I’m lying on cool cement. My hair is tickling my shoulders and my nose. My jaw is rigid against the cement. The pain registers as I open my eyes. I clench them shut as the right side of my head pounds to life. I’m livid, instantly, shooting up and clenching my cranium. Something is attached to my arm, clinging and clacking. I’m shackled.

“That’s enough �" stop,” a man, feet away from me, is shaking the barrel of a rifle in my face.

Play dead.

My subconscious aches in my head as she speaks, making me grip into my hair and pull. I’m not aware of much around me. I’m fighting to stay upright. This man before me is barely registering to me, and I’m beginning to slip in and out of searing pain. And, soon, I’m faded too far away from reality and I’m back asleep.

-x-

“What are you going to do after you change her bandages?” I hear a voice not too far away from me ask another. I can smell cigar smoke. “She might not ever wake up.” His tone is thick and aggravated.

I feel soft, working fingers against my head. He’s lifting my head up and back down, unwinding sticky bandages. He’s puffing smoke from his lips every few seconds.

“Dad,” the voice, the aggravated voice, is stepping closer to me. “She’s dangerous.” His voice was low now. “The others don’t know her. I do.”

Who?

The woman inside of my head is stretching upward from satin sheets and puffy pillows a top a king sized bed. Her arms are outstretched, fingers twisting to life. Her hair, bobbed, and cut perfectly in the middle. She’s wearing a silk pajamas; all of this happening in a room of darkness with one light projected onto her. She is beautiful under the light. She has just awoken from peaceful beauty sleep.

I’m searching for any clue. His voice wasn’t one I knew. He sounded agitated with me being here. I couldn’t imagine anyone who knew me to be upset with me to this extent. I was a sick person. Some would suggest me as a lost cause. But, not ever dangerous; I was weak and shy with my minimal outbursts from my inner monologue.

I force my eyes open. I’m staring at white light projected just over me. I see white gloved hands fumbling for something. I hear static, and then panic besieges the room. I’m restrained by another I did not count for.

“Get the jacket-“Says one, the one who is mad at me.

Our jacket �" no!

The woman in my head is pleading for me to fight back. But, every muscle in my body appears to be unattainable underneath the gripping hands against my arms and soon, my legs. There are whispers behind me, stuff I can’t make out. The white light is blinding me, preventing me from seeing my attackers. I want to say something, but my mouth is dry. I can’t find words.

I feel unsteady against the table I’m lying on.  I’m unsure of the wheels beneath me giving in forward and backward, only to be shifted back in placed by the hands against me. The men, applying unneeded force to me, as I sit there wavering to their strength. I feel something heavy; panic stricken I wait.

I hear a door open and close. The man who had restrained my arms is lifting me forward. I bump my head against the white light, making it fold and then slip to the side. I’m staring at an overstuffed, red-bearded young man with a tattoo of a girl on his neck. He’s glaring at me with little, brown eyes. His hair is shaggy, cropped around his chin. I gulp.

He slips my arms through the jacket impatiently and then my arms are twisted into place and shackled in that familiar way I’m so accustomed to. He hooks his hand around my arm, forcing me to my feet.

My feet are bare against the cold cement. I’m not longer wearing my hospital slippers.  I look around for a few more seconds, and then I’m in the darkness. A waxy linen bag is wrapped around my head and then I’m knocked off my feet.

The burly man is carrying me. I feel his strong forearm against my chest as he totes me like a jacket or purse across the room. I hear the door open and shut. I’m being easily lifted down a hallway. I hear other people rustling around me. I can’t hear what they say beyond the bag. All I hear is static, while staring at linoleum.

My inner woman is telling me to fight him, to thrust like a fish until I’m flung to the floor and then barrel forwards. I can’t make myself to do it through. I’m terrified. But, my body seems unresponsive to my brain. I can’t even work out a scream or plead for my life. I’m just slinked across his arm barred to his body waiting for my release.

He sets me down. He shackles my left ankle. The cuff is heavy against my little foot. He makes little noises, before leaving me. I hear fading footsteps and soon, I’m alone. My heart is in my throat. I’m crying without tears. I feel pangs of sharp throbbing in my head, whether it was from dehydration or whatever head injury I sustained.

Where am I? Was my reoccurring thought; it became woven in my pain. I took one step forward and three steps back. I’m confided again and this time, without sight.

-x-

Maybe an hour had passed before I was sleeping again. I had tried my hardest to fight back the tired and discomfort, but sleep became of me. My dreams were subtle. I was alarmed by the bright light invading me. It was sharp, stinging my eyes and I was soon fighting it. Then, to my surprise, I was staring at a familiar, frowning, face.

I was awake now. They have removed the bag from my head. The air around me was crisp and alluring. I could smell food. My stomach ached and then grumbled.

The boy in front of me was kneeling. He looked angry with me. His eyes were brown; dazzling and piercing brown. His lips were in a hard line. I was afraid of this expression. Before, he was only crying. I had made him cry.

In his hands was a bowl of broth and vegetables. It was steaming. My mouth started to pour saliva. He had a spoonful ready for me. I looked at him, uneasily �" Was he about to feed me?

Eat it, stupid.

The woman in my head was just as hungry as I was.

I part my lips wide enough for him to feed me. The liquid burning my lips and tongue, but I don’t dare spit it out. I ingest it; it burns all the way to the pit of my stomach making a registering kier-pluck.

It wasn’t until the third bite that he said anything. “Once you are better, we’re letting your crazy-a*s go.” He declared.

His words were sour to my ears. I pursed my lips, chewing my third bite, as I try to disagree. He started for another bite, “I hope the biters eat you slowly.” This stung. His expression was tirelessly angry.

I continue to eat the spoon-full bite he gives me, as a rush of remembrance avails me. He was sitting on a white, plush chair. At first his proximity to me and appearance didn’t settle. I didn’t care that he was here. We were in the visitors lounge. I was waiting for my visitor. My inner woman was so anxious to see my visitors, like she always was. It was the second weekend out of the month. That was the day they were said to come.

I waited for an hour. Soon, I felt fooled into this. I felt angry with myself the most, for waiting and building up so many amenities to the situation. I was wishing I could separate myself from her, so badly. I knew that my grandparents never wanted to see me again. My inner moron always pleaded for me to wait for them. She had all the hope I didn’t. And, each time I’m disappointed, I’m set into some kind of rage.

I was having a mental break down when I caught him staring at me. He was visiting with a girl; maybe a sister or a wife. They were holding hands. Their intimacy made me feel empty. I wanted that. I was jealous. He didn’t stare when I stared back. Instead, he gave his attention back to the woman he was holding so close to him. They were talking softly with loving expressions. I could see the misery in his features, he missed this woman. He wanted to see her, and would never disappoint her by not showing up. I yearned for that.

They might come next week.

That’s when I snapped. The woman in my head is pushing my buttons. She’s setting me off by her misunderstandings. She couldn’t fathom what has happened to them and I could. Yet, she’s seething hope, storing it in my brain, and setting a trap to put me here next week.

My face was in a grimace. My hands clenched together, trying to grasp reality. The black world becomes of me, and I’m on the dark side. My jaw unhitches, I know I’m about to speak deafeningly and probably ruthlessly. With my last bit of sense, I try to become of it, but I’m sucked further in.

“Don’t you get it?” I was speaking loudly to the boy just as I was passing him. He picked his head up to me, bewildered by me. His eye brows rose, and the woman next to him cringed at me. I startled her as well.

She’s in flannel pajamas, gray, just like mine. Her hair is salt-and-pepper in the front, making her look older. Her eyes are intimidatingly beautiful and chocolate covered. Her lips are pulled into a wide smile. She would actually look charming, if there wasn’t crazy written all of her face.

I disconcert myself from her; anger was all of my features, as I breathed through parted lips. I’m not processing things before it comes out of my mouth, “We killed them all.” I finally say, smiling a gracious smile, like it’s an achievement of sorts

I wasn’t speaking towards the boy though. I saw my subconscious sitting here; her face is pitiful. I am creeping closer to her teary eyed face just as the woman sitting across from her begins a heckling laugh. I’m taken aback but, not yet finished speaking; the words are on my lips…

I’m close-lined backwards by a rock-hard forearm. Then I was laced in a waxy, straw like strait-jacket. That’s when her face starts to erase, and slowing she becomes this, now, scared, teary-eyed boy. He’s hold his hands out in front of him. I’m panged by guilt, but the anger never ceases. “We enjoyed every second of it.” I’m laughing wildly as I’m ushered away from him.

-x-

I have lost count of how many bites this boy has fed me. The food has gone cold in my mouth, but I still want more. I haven’t tasted anything in possibly 4 days. I’m not sure if it’s night or day.

Beyond the boy looking at me angrily, I see a dim-lit room. I see a twin-sized cot to my left. It has a small white pillow on it and a green sheet next to it. It reminded me of the hospital linens; and it probably was. I look away from it, seeing no other furniture in the room. He’s not alone, but the burly man stands threateningly at the door. We have nearly five yards between us, but I can still feel the strong grasp of his forearm against my abdomen. I cringe at the thought.

“That’s enough.” He suggests. He suddenly comes to his feet; I notice the gun in his belt. He stepped a few feet away from me, before speaking again, “Don’t get comfortable here.”

Where is here? I’m reeling to know. I think it’s the hospital. It smells sterile enough to be a hospital. If so, wouldn’t that make this my home, since he was a visitor here, just days ago �" I ponder to myself. These thoughts all existing somewhere in the back of my mind, while my biggest concerns become being alone with zombies.

I feel a sharp pain in my chest as what he says registers with my thoughts. I feel like an unwanted pet, more than someone that mattered. His eyes were so brilliant, but misery-stricken. He looks so young in the dull light. He was too young to decide my faint. I’m searching for something to change his mind. I wanted to say something meaningful as I think back to how poorly I protected myself from my only zombie attack. I don’t want to be lost like these foul creatures. I want to live. But, all I can think, is why did they let me live if only to release me back to the zombies?

“In the hospital,” I was searching for something to make him want to stay. I wasn’t coming up with anything helpful, so my only question from that day arises. “Was that your sister?” I ask, imagining the crazy woman, with beautiful eyes. She looked so young at first, but then older, “Or, was it your mother?”

He swiveled in his step. He was walking away. He wasn’t going to answer my question.

Just as the lonely feelings crept towards me, another voice answered, “It was his mother.” A man, standing in the door way, startled me. He was shadowed from my view at first. I shifted, sinking my teeth into my lip, and struggling to keep from tipping sideways. I’m still so weak.

The boy said no more; not even as he passed the man, who was stepping into the room. He had his hands resting on his belt, which reminded me of a police officer. I looked for a gun-holster, but saw nothing.  Surely he wasn’t approaching the coo-coo bird without packing heat.

“It was his mother,” he said it again as if I didn’t hear him the first time. I nodded this time. “Oscar,” he was introducing himself, I think, as he put his hand on his chest. “You’re Leigh Everett.” That was true. I wanted to ask how he knew, but then he spoke again. “His mother died a few days ago.” He was quick with the draw on that one. I bubble with more unanswered questions. I don’t voice any of them though. I just stare at him, as my mind’s eye remembers her beautiful chocolate eyes staring at me. “She was sick, anyways.” He didn’t sound too positive.

He squats in front of me, far enough away so that I can’t reach him. His body guard is at the door, still, glaring at me. “Your doctor told me you are a very imaginative girl.” His tone picked up an octave.

I imagine my doctor: an older man, white hair and tanned skin. He told him this? It wasn’t that I liked my doctor, but a shred of hope sparked inside of me. If my doctor was okay �" that meant potentially I could be okay �" right? Aren’t they sworn to protect their patients? “Where is he?” I ask, my voice sounds so small and weak.

“I don’t know,” he didn’t sound too inclined to say it. His lips were in a hard line. I’m waiting for him to speak with all hope lost. “I came back for my wife.” I could tell by the note in his voice, that she wasn’t alive either. “She was gone; just like the rest.” I thought of the boy holding hands with his mom, my heart stung. “And, the few others that came, no one found anyone.” He was speaking gravely now. “You’re the only alive person we found, here.”

His words amazed me as a flood of faces came into mind. They were all gone? I remember the lunch lady; she was always so positive. I thought of my doctor, who was aged and spoke strange; gone too. I saw Caleb’s mother as well. Her heckling laughs invading my conscious, waking my inner woman. I feel actual tears running down my face.

Suck it up; wimp.

“You’re not as much of a monster as I was led on to believe.” He was looking at me through scrutinizing eyes. He pushes his hands through his fading hairline. “Caleb really must just hate your guts.” I’m still sobbing, his words paining me too.

He exhales. I’m trying to catch a breath. He spoke again, “Your doctor said that you’re normally stable. But, that’s the only thing Caleb has to base you off of.” He said, admittedly.

I’m reminded of my vision alter-ego. I clench my teeth, getting a grip on things. I think to set him straight, I didn’t do what I was inclined to say I did. Without thinking much into it, “I didn’t kill them.” I whisper. The words hurt as I say them. My chest is up and down; I’m ventilating. I want so bad to take back what had happened days ago. I want these people to accept me. I don’t want to be a monster.

“I know,” he’s looking nervously at me, pushing two hands through his hair.

Suck it up; you - child.

She’s impatiently tapping her foot on the black floor, of the black room she resides in my head. Her small, red lips are frowning. She doesn’t believe in crying like this. She will cry madly on her own, but my own crying was beside myself.

“I don’t think you’re any harm to us.” He was starting to stand. I’m gaining new hope. He is completely erect, “It’s not me you have to convince though,” he lets that hang in the air for a moment. “It’s Caleb,” and soon, my hope is shriveling. That boy hates me; he said it himself.

“You had a concussion. It’s been two days; you’re still alive.” He says finally, and then exits my room, followed by the large man and then door slams shut.

I’m alone again. The bag is no longer on my head. With that thought, I stand, being able to with only my ankle shackled. The shackle, I notice, I just a dog leash and handcuffs connected to a shaft for maybe a vent. I could probably slip my foot out of it, if I really tried. I didn’t give it much more thought, before taking three steps to the right. I sit on the bed instead of the cool linoleum. It’s not soft, but it’s the best thing I have seen in a while.

My arms are still restrained. The word “monster” rings in my head. The tears are still flowing, but no longer profusely. I lay down on the small pillow, my arms clipped behind me, semi-comfortably. They left the candle light on by the door. It’s darker where I’m sitting though, but I don’t let that consume me. I’m okay. I’m not a monster. I will talk him out of letting me go off on my own.

He hates us.

He hates you.

The woman inside of my head is sitting on her own satin sheeted bed, with her head in her hands. She’s looking tired. I wish she would go to sleep.

I try to think of things I could say to this boy. I doubt mentioning anything about his mother would be helpful, but there is something about her beauty that makes me want to mention it. I keep that in mind, she’s a beautiful woman; check. My mind is reeling with different things to consider saying, but all in all it comes down to what he thinks.

I hear nothing around me. There isn’t anyone speaking outside of my confinement or pacing. There isn’t a window on the door, like my padded cell, but the door is red and chipped. It’s door handle flickers gold from the candle light. This makes me feel comfortable somehow, like I’m safe again. I’m not expecting what could be beyond this door, because I really don’t know. The window in my padded cell allowed me to see enough to be put off by these shadows.

But, I’m nothing but mixed feelings at the moment. I’m still worried for my safety beyond this door, because only one person I’m sure of doesn’t want to see me go. His words “no harm” sounding in my head; I really am no harm. I’m scared for what comes next.