I stabbed it in the face.
The ugly, horrific face owned by the once-alive person met the blade of some random gardening tool I had found a few feet away. They lunged for me and I sidestepped, closing my eyes as I grabbed the weapon and swung. When I opened my eyes, the zombie had a cut across the nose, green liquid oozing out. Disgusting, I thought. Clean your nose!
Since the zombie hadn't died (again) from the small cut I had made, I stabbed them in the face a second time. They still didn't die.
You may think this is disgusting, and I do too. But, I decided to experiment with something. For survival. I tackled them and stuck my thumb right in the eye. I pushed my thumb down as far as it could go, and made a scooping gesture with my thumb. When I took my thumb out, it was covered in green goo, and it was horrific.
It got the job done, though, and that's all that matters. The zombie's ugly face was dead. Forever. I picked up the tool by the blade. Those few moments were the worst moments of my life. That face, looking haunted, but not bothered.
I wiped my hands and looked at the zombie. I looked at the messy bun the corpse had, with parts of their hair missing. The corpse was probably rotting. Their face was terrible. Their eyes were missing, (my bad) so you could see their eye sockets. Their mouth had blood on it instead of the green goo, so they must have died days ago. They looked pretty mangled. I took a closer look and tasted bile. Suddenly she didn't look so unrecognizable; her face was the most memorable of all.
It was the face of my sister.
Oh, god.
How could I have done this? She was my sister, I shouldn't have killed her. I shouldn't have done anything. Was that why she hadn't come back inside? Was it me? Why didn't I go with her? I could've helped. I could've kept her alive. She could've stayed human.
My hands started stinging and I looked down. They were red, and so was the blade.
I hate this.
