Thus Spake the Zonbi - Alexander Dougal

DOUGAAD146JT

I found my apartment, not purposely, but there it was. 51A.

I've forgotten most things, as one might expect. I know that my name is Alexander Dougal, 6'2" photogenic organ donor. I know that I am 27 years old, or rather, I was 27 years old. Am I still 27 years old? Am I supposed to stop counting now?

Anyway, my wallet certainly was a gold mine of information. That is a thing people say, yeah? "Gold mine." Although, on second thought, I guess it really isn't much of a gold mine if the contents are of little value. Bank cards, insurance cards, more bank cards...I hope that this was not all of me, my identity; my life entirely reduced to an assortment of multicolored plastic cards containing accumulations of data. The picture on my driver's license is not one of me, my living self; it is merely a face connected to a unique organization of numbers and letters instituted to acknowledge and track my actions, numbers and letters whose importance fades with death, as they have now. It would seem that my life was numbers and letters, nothing more.

Speaking of which, there were three groups of numbers (a phone number?) daintily scribbled in pink ink on the back of some business card I found tucked away in one of the back sleeves of my wallet. It appears to be from some cafe I must have frequented, as evidenced by the multitude of steaming, mug-shaped holes scattered along the periphery of the card. "The Magical Fruit"...why does that name bother me so? Anyhow, written directly below the numbers is the word "Miranda," with a petite heart having replaced the tittle of the i. Unbearable. Such a simple alteration intended to convey cuteness, sweetness, or whatever other associated "ness's", has succeeded only in inducing the most violent of repulsion. Yet, out of all of the contents of my wallet, I've decided to keep only this business card and my driver's license. This is a decision that I cannot explain.

Stairs sure are difficult. I long for a time when something as simplistic as concrete steps won't result in my decrepit figure crumpled into an anemic pile of flesh at the base of my destination.

I don't remember my apartment being quite this small. Quaint, really. Thoroughly scavenged, but quaint. I'm unbothered, I've little use for things and stuff anymore.

There's a body in my kitchen.