Tentang 30 Hari Cerita Cinta

13 September 2011

I'm a Zombie Filled With Love : Part 1


 I'm a Zombie Filled With Love. Part 1

Hi, hello.. I am a zombie, and I suspect that all of you who reading this would've asked question how am I, a zombie, could wrote this? Err.. that, would be a hard question. What? Hey, deal with it, I'm a zombie remember? I can't even think! My brain is dead! For meat sake you guys, are you fool or what?  
Where were we? Oh, hi.. I'm a zombie, this is a glimpse of a few parts of my not-so-miserable life. I have a life back then, when I was still a human being. I did have a life, it's true, just trust me will ya? I'll tell you later about it.
 Living as a zombie is not so bad. I'm still learning to live with it though, since I know that I would live my whole life in eternity, the fact that I can't die, unless you shoot me in the head or chop my head off. I guess all of you know that better than I do. Oh com'on you've seen it on the zombie movies right? What? You haven't seen one? Well, poor you! You better watch at least one good zombie movie before you die. Trust me, it worth a brain.
I don't think I can properly introduce myself, I don't have a name anymore. Hardly any of us do. We forget them, like our names, our anniversaries, and PIN numbers. I think mine might have started with a "B" or with a "Q", err.. but I'm not sure. It's funny, because back when I was alive, I was always forgetting other people's names. I am finding that irony abounds in the zombie life, an ever-present punch line. But it's hard to smile when your lips have rotted off.
Before I became a zombie, I think I was a businessman or  young professional of some kind. I think I worked in one of those stifling office jobs in a highrise somewhere. The clothes clinging to the remains of my body are high-quality business-casual. I would probably look pretty sharp if my intestines weren't dragging at my feet. Ha.
We like to joke and speculate about our remaining outfits, since these final fashion choices are usually the only indication of who we were before we became no-one. Some people's are less obvious than mine. Jeans and a white t-shirt. Skirt and a tanktop. So we make random guesses.
You were a student. You were a barista. Ring any bells?
It usually doesn't.
Somehow I still remember a few memories from my human life back then. Especially after I ate someone's brain, yummy! It gives me fresh memories and quick flashback. I do enjoy it so much, that's why brain is my favorite part to eat.
No one I know has any specific memories. We recognize some things — buildings, cars, clothes — but context eludes us. We are here, we do what we do. We lack excellent diction, but we can communicate. We do, really. We grunt and groan, we make hand gestures, and sometimes a few words slip out. But I bet you humans wouldn't able to understand. Wanna bet? Huh?
There are a few hundred of us living in a wide plain of dust outside some large city. We don't need shelter or warmth, obviously. We stand around in the dust, and time passes. I think we've been here for a long time. Despite my dragging entrails, I am in decay's early stages, but there are a few elderly ones here who are little more than skeletons with clinging bits of muscle. Somehow, it still extends and contracts, and they keep moving. I have never seen any of us "die" of old age. Maybe we live forever, I don't know. I don't think much about the future anymore. That's something that's very different from before. When I was alive, the future was all I thought about. Obsessed about. Death has relaxed me.
But it makes me sad that we've forgotten our names. Out of everything, this seems to me the most tragic. I don't miss my own, but I mourn for everyone else's, because I want to love them, but I don't know who they are.
Today a group of us are going into town to find some food. How this expedition begins is one of us gets hungry and starts shuffling toward town, and a few others follow him. Focused thought is a rare occurrence with us, and we follow it when we see it. Otherwise we would just be standing around groaning. We do a lot of standing around groaning, and it's frustrating sometimes. Years pass this way. The flesh withers on our bones, and we stand around, waiting for it. I am curious how old I might be.
The city where the people live is not that far. We arrive around noon and start looking for living flesh. The new kind of hunger is a strange feeling. You don't feel it in your stomach -  of course not, since some of us don't even have stomachs. You feel it just...everywhere. You start to feel "more dead". I've watched some of my friends go back to being full-dead, when food is scarce. They just slow down, and stop, and become corpses again. I don't really understand it.
I guess the world has mostly ended, because the cities we wander through are decaying as fast as we are. Buildings are collapsed. Dead, rusted cars fill the streets. All glass everywhere is shattered. I don't know if there was a war, or a plague, or if it was just us. Maybe it was all three. I don't know. I don't think about things like that anymore.
In a cluster of broken down apartment buildings we find some people, and we eat them. Some of them have weapons, and as usual we lose some of our number, but we don't care. Why would we care? What's death, now?
Eating is not a pleasant business. I chew off a man's arm, and I hate this, it's disgusting. I hate his screams, because I don't like pain, I don't like to hurt things, but this is the world now, this is what we do. Of course, if I don't eat all of him, if I leave enough, he'll rise up and follow me back to our dusty field outside the city, and that might make me feel better. I'll introduce him to everyone, and maybe we'll stand around and groan for a while. It's hard to say what "friends" are anymore, but maybe that's close. If I don't eat all of him, if I leave enough...
 But of course I don't leave enough. I eat his brain, because that's the best part. That's the part that, when I swallow it, makes my head light up with feelings. Clear memories. For about three to ten seconds, depending on the person, I get to feel alive. I get traces of delicious meals, beautiful music, perfume, sunsets, orgasms, life. Then it fades, and I get up and stumble out of the city, still dead, but feeling a little less so. Feeling ok.
I don't know why we have to eat people. I don't understand what chewing off a man's neck accomplishes. We certainly don't digest the meat and absorb the nutrients. My stomach is a rotted bag of dried bile, useless. We don't digest, we just eat until the weight forces it out our ass holes, and then we eat more. It feels so useless, and yet it keeps us walking. I don't know why. None of us really understand why we are the way we are. We don't know if we're the result of some kind of global infection, or some ancient curse, or something even more senseless. We don't talk about it much. Existential debate is not a major part of zombie life. We are here, and we do things. We are simple. It's nice sometimes.
Outside the city again, back with the others in the dust field, I start walking in a circle for no reason. I plant one foot in the dirt and pivot on it, around and around, kicking up clouds of dust. Before, when I was alive, I could never have done this. I remember stress. I remember bills and deadlines, Asset Retention Reports. I remember being so occupied, so always, everywhere, all the time occupied. Now I'm just standing in a wide-open field of dust, walking in a circle. The world has been distilled. Being dead is easy. Trust me it is.
To be Continue...


---Oleh: 


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