Animalistic

Feral Instincts

I'm only a man with a candle to guide me

I'm taking a stand to escape what's inside me

A monster, a monster, I've turned into a monster.

- Imagine Dragons, Monster

He sprinted down the aisle of the supermarket and sniffed the air tentatively. Testing the waters. Seeing what lurks. Apparently detecting nothing, he bounded on all fours towards the cleaning products aisle. Why he would go there, I don't know, but the animal brain may not be accustomed to human creations-apart from the humans themselves.

I am him. He is me. We are one and the same.

I have made a monumentous transformation since the events of that soul-crushing night in March and NYC. That day when my last remaining blood relative, the last person alive who I knew, was brutally murdered. It was on that night that the human part of a certain Mark Fisher's cerebrum decided to shut down.

I was little more than an animal in a human body.

There isn't much left in my brain in the case of memories. Since animals are cold and efficient, I lost every single non-survival-related memory I had. Everything except what food you have in this world, water, shelter and my guns. Weapons of destruction tend to not be forgotten by any species. Except sloths. They're dumb as crap. Liam, Mom, Dad, all my NYPD beatmates, and even the milkman who was a personal friend and sold to us at a discount. All of it crumpled and tossed into a neural recycle bin. But the worst of it was losing every last glimpse and sound of her.

My girlfriend. The second most important person in my life. The first being alive until March.

It was so perfect. We would talk all day. She would understand and wait while I was on the beat. And when I came back after a long day, we would talk all night. Thank Christ for Viber. Otherwise, we'd be spending the equivalent of Rwanda's per capita GDP per month on phone calls. The day the contagion hit, we set out without a thought for her. When we got out of the opening rings of hell, I did try to call her. It was what I expected. Nine rings, followed by an ending.

No one. What had run through my mind was,'She's dead.'

Now I have no one. No one to speak to, no one to let it all out to, no one left alive.

But me.

I opened a pack of cheese and began eating like, well, a wild animal. Because I'm in a supermarket, food is plentiful and easy to come by. But there is always the risk of contamination. That's why I check for blood or rotten smells coming from anything. This was fresh. No animal ever needs a sophisticated sense of taste. But, in retrospect, I think it was some nice white mozzarella. My favourite kind, which I used to love on pizza. But those days ended the day I shot my mother. The day the world fell apart, and only a chosen few were left to find the pieces.

I exited the sadly-bare supermarket with some ready food and bottled water in my flak. I look like something that was dragged through a bloody dumpster. Twice. My normally gelled-up black hair, now is matted and caked with blood and dried flesh. I haven't given a single damn about it. My combat jacket, the only remnant of the life I had before the earth gave way and let them come back from the abyss of death. My SMG, rifle and Remington were all packed. I had lost my Glock to a jarring chase with me barely escaping death and still living. My jacket was spattered with a brutal mosaic of reds, browns, and the occasional gray from brain fluid. My face was another matter. Streaks of gore were only interrupted by the occasional sweat trail, brought about by weeks of rarely-ceasing running. That is what life for me is now like. No more facing problems. The fight or flight response now leaned towards the latter instead of the former. Sad life, huh?

You're probably wondering why I don't kill myself and end my life in this hellish place. The truth of it is that animal survival instincts are so well rooted that you can't even try to commit suicide. You can't.
I heard a crash. I just thought it was a zombie who wasn't in complete control of his motor faculties yet.