The Dead Among Us

The Pamphlet

***If you've made it this far, I assume my content doesn't offend you. However, I'd like to emphasize that EVERYTHING in this story is PURELY fictional and does not show my personal views on religion. I am in no way attacking, promoting, or misaligning the Christian church***

Fabia's POV

I walk towards the sink, my legs feeling ready to buckle under me at any moment. The feeling doesn't stem from fear, though; it's a raw vulnerability that I can't shake off, making me feel awkward and exposed.

I grip the crisp fabric of my sleeves, feeling the coolness against my skin as I roll them up to my elbows. I turn the faucet handle, and water gushes out with surprising force, catching me off guard. It splashes and dances wildly, leaving droplets scattered across the smooth surface of the counter.

My eyes widen, and I instinctively bare my teeth as I hurriedly twist the handle to shut it off. I brace myself, expecting a scornful look over my shoulder, but all is quiet. With caution, this time, I turn back to the faucet and begin to open it slowly, obtaining a more controlled flow of water.

With my left hand under the cool stream, I wait for it to reach a warm temperature. Then, I grasp the wringed-out washcloth she has rolled up in the corner of the sink, feeling it expand and unwrap in my hands as the water makes contact and absorbs into the fibers. I then grasp the small watered-down bottle of bright blue dish soap on the windowsill above the sink.

As I prepare to dispense the soap, I'm confronted with a harsh reality: my right hand lacks the strength to squeeze the bottle. I switch hands awkwardly, glancing over my shoulder as I do.

Finally, I manage to get a splatter of soap droplets on the cloth, and I start washing away what looks like the bowl she used to make the dough she's pounding in the corner. The sticky, creamy remains are turning the water milky as it runs down the drain, and a sticky, playdough-like substance is clinging to my cloth.

It's only when I pick up a delicate glass cup that I realize the extent of my trembling—to the point that I'm scared I'm going to drop and break the cup in my hands, potentially enraging the sniffing, pissed-off woman behind me. The fear of upsetting her adds another layer of tension to the already thick atmosphere in the kitchen.

I take a deep breath and glance over my shoulder. I think there's only one way to settle my shaking hands: befriend Jessica to ease the atmosphere.

"J-J-essica?" I stutter and cringe at the sound of my voice from the phlegm building in my throat.

"Yes?" she answers softly, and I hear her sniff again.

"Wh-what did Jason mean... by island?"

Honestly, that is the first question that popped into my head. It was a genuine question, too.

She doesn't respond, and I turn my head to see her using the back of her arm to brush away flour and strands of hair from her face. As she walks away without a word, I realize she's not in the mood for small talk. With her leaving the kitchen, the tension begins to ease, and I find myself finally washing the delicate glass I had been avoiding.

Out of nowhere, she surprises me by appearing at my side, inches from my hip.

I gasp in shock as I lock eyes with her, her hazel orbs glistening but devoid of tears. It's a curious sight to be at eye level with her, considering I'm typically shorter than most people.

Her petite hand holds something, but her gaze so entrances me that I fail to notice at first.

A slight twitching in her hand and the sound of her clearing her throat catch my attention, leading me to the crinkled pamphlet she is trying to offer.