Melancholic has a minion!

Fido the Rottie

I

Being dead sucks just as much as being alive did.

II

Z-day. A day like any other day. Woke up. Showered. Got dressed. Ate breakfast. Went to school. First period, Algebra. Second period, Gym. Lunch. Third period, Bio-Chem. Fourth period, Econ. I go days without speaking to a soul. At home my parents are more interested in my baby brother than me. At school I've caught some of my teachers looking at me with that questioning head-tilt like, "Who are you and how long have you been there?" I realize they don't call on me to answer any questions in class because they have probably forgotten my name. And it's okay. It was depressing at first, sure, but being invisible has it's perks. I spend my class time staring at the silky strands of cinnamon hair sitting at the desk in front of me.

III

Sarah

IV

Sarah deserves her own header. Sarah deserves her own planet. Her own religion. People should pay those late night televangelists just to be able to worship at her feet. The least I can do for her is give her her own section in my sad little biography. Sarah Stevens was an angel. The day before Z-day, she was wearing a pink sweater that looked like virgin baby lambs dipped in cotton candy, and those jeans with the tight skinny legs that showed off every curve of her body all the way down to her painted toenails. And honey. Her hair smelled like honey. I can close my eyes even now and almost smell it. Almost. New shampoo. Must have been new shampoo. I wanted to tell her that I was going to write epic poems about her scent, but I'm pretty sure that would've freaked her out. So I didn't. (Tell her, that is. I totally wrote the poem. I wonder what happened to it.)

V

I fell asleep that night with dreams of honey dipped baby lambs dancing through my dreams. And when I woke up, the world had changed. I didn't notice right away. I went through my morning ritual, lather, rinse and repeat as needed. Things got strange when I went downstairs. Usually mom leaves out a poptart or some cereal if she's not home to make breakfast. We weren't a perfect family by any stretch, but simple things like making me breakfast made mom feel like we were a "real family." Who was I to complain about getting pancakes or eggs on an almost daily basis? That morning, Z-day, mom was on top of the breakfast table, making a meal out of what was left of my baby brother, Milo.

VI

What more is there to say? My mom made me a zombie. She ate my face after she had my baby brother as an appetizer. It's not a pretty story. No need to get into the gory details. I don't remember much after she tore my throat out, to be perfectly honest. I may have blacked out a little. Can you blame me, really?

VII

I loved zombie movies before I died. The mindless never-ending quest for brains, a sort of shambling camaraderie with every other zombie, no more quizzical looks of "Hey, I should know that guy..." Movies made everything seem kind of glamorous, at least to a social pariah like myself. I figured after-death would be the great equalizer. I thought I would just forget everything and start all over. Who would've thought that the movies would get it wrong?

VII

I'm still a freak. Now I'm a zombie freak. Everybody else roams, rambling and drooling, eating brains and viscera, roving around in packs searching for whatever human life can be sniffed out. Me? This zombie freak follows the same ritual the human freak I was followed. Wake up, shower, jerk-off, repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. The thought of eating brains still disgusts me just as much now as it did when I was alive. There's no drooling, no mindless carnage, just the monotony of once again being different than everybody else. My own mother disappeared shortly after I became an un-dead. Even my family doesn't want anything to do with me.

VII

So what does a depressed freak-zombie do all day, you may ask? For awhile, I did nothing, just let the depression swallow me. But then, it slowly came back to me. My purpose. A mission. Sarah Stevens. I spend my days and nights walking the town, sniffing around- not for the smell of brains, blood or fear, but honey. Because if she's alive, I will save her from this. It's the least I can do, to smell that smell again. I will say to her "your brains are safe with me," and she'll fall into my arms (gently fall, so as not to break them off. My skin and bones are getting curiously brittle now). And if she's dead, or un-dead...well, I haven't gotten that far yet. I guess I'm just hoping that she doesn't smell too bad.

Story by: Haunted Amazing Profile by: Bohemian