Zombie Guy

Chapter 19: Depression

It had only been a day since Linda had walked out, but the sting felt as fresh as if it had happened minutes ago. I couldn't get her face out of my mind—that look of shock, the way she hesitated to touch me, her tears. Every expression played over and over in my head, twisting into some wild version of reality where Linda was running for the hills, telling everyone I was a creature from a horror movie.

I paced around the small living room, wringing my hands, muttering to myself as Jaime sat nearby, looking like she was two seconds away from losing her patience.

"She thinks I'm hideous," I blurted, stumbling back and practically falling onto the couch, head in my hands. "She probably sees me as this rotting, horror-show freak. I bet she's back at work right now, telling everyone about the monster she met in the woods!"

Jaime sighed, clearly trying to find a balance between sympathy and irritation. "Kevin, she didn't look horrified. She just needed time to process. This is... a lot for anyone. You're overthinking it."

But my brain was far beyond reason. "No, Jaime. It's over. She probably hates me, thinks I'm just a creepy zombie stalker. Like—like maybe she thinks I'm this undead weirdo who crawled out of a lab, lurking around trying to get close to her like some... like some midnight horror villain!"

Jaime rolled her eyes. "A midnight horror villain? Really, Kevin?"

I flailed my arms, like that would help illustrate my descent into undead self-pity. "Yes! And now she'll probably take out a restraining order against me! I mean, wouldn't you?"

"Kevin," she groaned, but I was too deep in my pit of despair to stop.

"Oh, and I bet she thinks I'm repulsive too. Probably went home and disinfected herself or threw her clothes away. Like she needs an extra-long shower just to scrub off the *zombie germs!*"

Jaime covered her face, clearly trying not to laugh. "Zombie germs? Really? Kevin, you're spiralling into nonsense here."

But I was relentless. "This is it, Jaime. She's going to think of me as this tragic, mouldy science project that she wishes she'd never even met!" I slumped into the couch, wailing dramatically.

Jaime pinched the bridge of her nose. "Kevin, this has to be the most pathetic thing I've ever seen. She's not throwing out her clothes or disinfecting herself. She probably just needs time. And, for the love of everything, get a grip. You're acting like a soap opera reject."

But I wasn't having it. My mood had taken on a life of its own, and I couldn't seem to control it. During our daily routines, I'd burst into random fits of despair, slumping into the couch and bemoaning my fate as the ugliest, most tragic zombie the world had ever seen.

At one point, while we were going through basic zombie coordination exercises, I stopped mid-walk, staring at my hand as if it had betrayed me. "Jaime," I said solemnly, my eyes wide with horror. "Do you think... do you think my fingers look like zombie fingers? Like... maybe they're shrivelled and weird?"

Jaime stared at me, completely dumbfounded. "Kevin. You've looked at your hands every day since this happened. They're the same hands."

I shook my head, holding them up like claws. "No. They look... they look paler than usual. Maybe even... deathly pale."

"They're fine," she deadpanned, dragging her hand down her face.

Our "normal" tasks became a new kind of challenge, with my moods swinging wildly from wallowing despair to zombie dramatics. Whenever Jaime tried to teach me basic human behaviours—like how to stop staring unblinkingly—I'd zone out, getting lost in my "Zombie Woes" as I called them.