This Isn't the Zombie Apocalypse

11. Ana Stinks

Everything was blurry, one big mass of brown blur. A brown blob. A brown... face?

It was Ana, who was leaning over me, her stringy, curly brown hair falling down like a curtain. "Finally," she sighed, "Sleeping Beauty arises!" Shaking her head, she ordered, "Get up and get ready. Shower's down the hall, across from my room. You stink." With her nose crinkled, Ana left, padding her way to the kitchen.

I wanted to make a snarky remark, maybe about how she needed to shower too or something of that sort, but I didn't, instead choosing to lie down and soak in everything that had happened and was happening and will happen: I had found the Other, and as it turned out there was something in our DNA that made us want to hate each other yet stick together; we were figuring out what the heck was wrong with, surprisingly to me, Life; something big was about go down, something like the rapidly strengthening idea in my mind, which was awful, but I could feel it in my gut.

Wasn't everything grand?

Ana shouted from the kitchen, "Up! I want to leave before my parents wake up and keep us from leaving," and I was roused from my pondering. Sluggishly, I rose to my feet, snatched up my backpack, and stumbled my way down the hall Ana had said the restroom was at.

Locking the door behind me, I stood in the decently-sized bathroom, eyes avoiding the mirror in front of me. I didn't want to look in the mirror, see what a year of living on the streets had done to me. It didn't work. My eyes, bright blue eyes, somewhat duller than I remembered to the eyes I had when I was younger and carefree, caught my reflection, and they stayed stuck on the image, trapped, taking in my appearance.

Skinnier, too much so, was the first thing I noticed; I had always been a little on the small side, but now I seemed to be bones and angles with little muscle and fat. I wasn't nearly as tiny as Ana, who was skin over bone, but unhealthily thin all the same. Then I noticed my clothes, how ratty and worn they were; a small blot of blood on a shoulder and a lot on my chest, a smudge of dirt along my stomach and knees, fraying edges, and long tears lining the pair of jeans I had taken from the farmer only a little over a week ago, even if it felt like ages more. My hair was a rat's nest, all wild and greasy and shaggy; the black strands, knotted and tangled as they were, reached down to my shoulders, brushing the top of them ever so slightly.

And this wasn't even half of it. There were cuts and bruises, dried blood, dirt, and everything else lingering on my skin, visible in almost every available spot. My skin tone seemed about two shades too dark.

Throat dry, I wrenched my eyes away, turning on the shower head and trying to enjoy the first shower I had had in over a year that wasn't in a dead person's bathroom.

At least, a person who wasn't dead anymore.

oOo

Someone banged on the door, startling me.

Instincts taking over, I grabbed the back scrubber and held it like a baseball bat while the steaming water continually pulsed onto my head, dripping down my hair and into my face. Yes, mildly stupid—because I was planning on fighting my way passed Death butt-naked, half blinded by water, and trapped behind a shower curtain with only a plastic back scrubber—but, you know, follow your dreams and stuff. (It's not like nightmares aren't dreams.)

"Out!" shouted Ana, banging again, and my thrumming heart stopped for a couple moments as my brain started berating me for being the biggest idiot alive.

I groaned lowly, already missing the heat of the shower, and yelled back, "Yeah, yeah! I get it!" With that, I shut off the shower, climbed out (did you just suggest I got caught in the shower curtain? Psh. Of course not—that's not professional), and quickly dressed in some random dirty clothes I had jammed into my backpack while on the run. Before I threw on my shirt, I checked the cuts on my chest, which were healing nicely. They were almost gone, actually.