Zombies: Broken Glass
Originally posted at nora at inkstain.
We've been up far later than we probably should have been. We have class first thing tomorrow morning, both of us. Together we've had twelve cups of coffee and countless pancakes and you've got that shaky urgency in your step that you always have when you have too much caffiene. That's the thing about the stuff at Denny's-- it doesn't taste like anything so you forget how much it's going to hit you.
“Where are you rushing to?” I say. You're only, what, two inches taller than me? But you've got longer legs, the right proportions for a girl, unlike me, and the coffee has made your strides longer. I put a hand on your arm.
“Just walking,” you say, slowing down and looking back at me, your hair shimmering in the moonlight.
We keep going, time becoming sort of meaningless. We aren't really talking, both caught up in our own heads, but there's a sort of comfortable communication between us-- your hand on my arm when I'm too busy staring into space to notice the light has changed and we should cross the street, my sharp intake of breath as we get to the top of a hill and see the city stretched out in front of us.
I stop there, looking over it. I've always been stunned by cityscapes, by the idea of how many people exist out there, turning their lights on and off, how between all of them they create something like a grand Christmas tree, or like the sunlight reflected in your hair.
I can't imagine anything being wrong. You put an arm around my waist as we look over the horizon, and you turn and look down at me as if about to kiss me.
And then glass shatters.
“They're coming,” you say, and I look up, groggy. Why were you waking me up? I have class in the morning--
And then I remember. The warnings about the graveyards. Filling your brother's car with canned food and heading Northwest. Holing up in tiny shithole towns on the edges of the freeways.
Zombies breaking the windows.
My dream fades into a vague sense of loss in the back of my head.
You throw me a bat and I catch it easily, but there are only about three of them, and you cut them down easily with the machete. Your hair flies about your face as you move, but it's tangled, unwashed, with none of the perfection from the dream. Your hazel eyes reflect the brown darkness of the room and I realize I haven't seen them green since we left.
You take a breath and sit next to me on the bed, and I feel my heart sink suddenly as I look at your tired face. It's not twelve cups of coffee tired, it's months of running on too little sleep tired, and there's nothing I can do to help.
I close my eyes and see the city from my dream on the undersides of my eyelids and I feel that choking sensation I get when I'm about to cry as I think about how I'll never see city lights again, about how your face might never lose those dark circles.
We've been up far later than we probably should have been. We have class first thing tomorrow morning, both of us. Together we've had twelve cups of coffee and countless pancakes and you've got that shaky urgency in your step that you always have when you have too much caffiene. That's the thing about the stuff at Denny's-- it doesn't taste like anything so you forget how much it's going to hit you.
“Where are you rushing to?” I say. You're only, what, two inches taller than me? But you've got longer legs, the right proportions for a girl, unlike me, and the coffee has made your strides longer. I put a hand on your arm.
“Just walking,” you say, slowing down and looking back at me, your hair shimmering in the moonlight.
We keep going, time becoming sort of meaningless. We aren't really talking, both caught up in our own heads, but there's a sort of comfortable communication between us-- your hand on my arm when I'm too busy staring into space to notice the light has changed and we should cross the street, my sharp intake of breath as we get to the top of a hill and see the city stretched out in front of us.
I stop there, looking over it. I've always been stunned by cityscapes, by the idea of how many people exist out there, turning their lights on and off, how between all of them they create something like a grand Christmas tree, or like the sunlight reflected in your hair.
I can't imagine anything being wrong. You put an arm around my waist as we look over the horizon, and you turn and look down at me as if about to kiss me.
And then glass shatters.
“They're coming,” you say, and I look up, groggy. Why were you waking me up? I have class in the morning--
And then I remember. The warnings about the graveyards. Filling your brother's car with canned food and heading Northwest. Holing up in tiny shithole towns on the edges of the freeways.
Zombies breaking the windows.
My dream fades into a vague sense of loss in the back of my head.
You throw me a bat and I catch it easily, but there are only about three of them, and you cut them down easily with the machete. Your hair flies about your face as you move, but it's tangled, unwashed, with none of the perfection from the dream. Your hazel eyes reflect the brown darkness of the room and I realize I haven't seen them green since we left.
You take a breath and sit next to me on the bed, and I feel my heart sink suddenly as I look at your tired face. It's not twelve cups of coffee tired, it's months of running on too little sleep tired, and there's nothing I can do to help.
I close my eyes and see the city from my dream on the undersides of my eyelids and I feel that choking sensation I get when I'm about to cry as I think about how I'll never see city lights again, about how your face might never lose those dark circles.