Bite

Cinderella

We didn't plan an escape. Rayford was already leaving—I saw him loading the back of his truck through my bedroom window. I went downstairs to tell my mom that she should turn off the TV and drink some tea—bad news—especially mass hysteria news—really stresses her out.

That's when I found my Dad bent over the family dog in the kitchen, gnawing at the animal's ear, having come back from work infected. My mom was sitting in a stupor at the kitchen table, bleeding from her ankles.

I wondered—did something of the human mind still exist? Instead of eating her, he simply bit her. Somewhere—deep in my fathers heart—did he intend to make her a companion in the post-apocalyptic world as well?

What makes a zombie—if that's what we call them—choose to not devour someone? When do they bite instead?

I didn't want to imagine my father going in for the kill. I wanted to imagine him, tenderly, taking up my mother's foot as if he were a prince, returning a slipper to his Cinderella. A little nip in her ankle—and then they could live together. Forever. Out of their minds, maybe, but forever.