Chapter Text
Kieren Walker woke up in his bed.
His first thought was: Great, another day.
Kieren closed his eyes again. He flared his nostrils and took a deep breath, just to prove to himself that he still could.
He knew right away this was one of his bad days. He seriously considered staying in bed all day long. After all, he wasn't hungry, he didn't need to shower off any sweat, and he had nothing new to say to his family. Although he would need to get up eventually for his shot of medicine. He usually took it around noon. What time was it now?
He opened his eyes again and rolled over to see the clock, but that's when he noticed something was wrong with his right eye. All it could see was a blurry brown colour, and even with his dulled sense of touch, Kieren could feel something irritating it as he blinked. He quickly understood: while he was sleeping his contact lens had shifted out of place. Again.
He opened his mouth to inhale, and used the air in his throat to say, 'Shite.'
He got out of bed now. Went to his mirror, pulled off the sheet that almost always covered it, and stared closely at his eye's reflection. He struggled to be delicate with his numb fingers, using the tips of his fingers and not his nails to push the contact out from under his eyelid.
For as much practice as he had, it was a hassle getting these contacts in and out when they were in the right spot. Needing to dig for them like this made Kieren exceptionally bitter. And then there was the matter of the pigmented mousse on his fingers - it didn't usually rub off on things, but that's no reason to be careless with his eyeballs.
Finally, the lens came out. But his right eye still felt sore. So did the left eye, come to notice it. His eyes weren't supposed to feel soreness under any circumstances. It got him nervous, and he hoped it was nothing that couldn't wait until his usual doctor appointment. He looked down at the brown-coloured contact on his fingertip, and then he looked up at his face's reflection.
This was him: Kieren Walker. Ginger-coloured hair that looked blond under the right light. He'd always liked his hair. A smooth, boyish face with a pinkish-tan colour. The shade was slightly too warm to match the skin tone he was born with, but it wasn't too bad. It was the best he could do with the make-up he had. His left eye: a dark brown colour that almost made the eye look like one giant pupil. And his right eye . . . the iris had no colour at all anymore; it conversely made the pupil a tiny speck on a canvas of off-white.
He hated those off-white eyes.
Kieren fought down his anxiety and put the contact back in. He blinked up at his reflection. Two dark eyes again. He looked as close to normal as he could get again.
He realized he hadn't breathed since he swore earlier. Kieren took a few more deep breaths and enjoyed the sound. But it got old quickly and he stopped.
He was feeling depressed. He was right. This was one of his bad days. Regardless, it was time to leave his room and face it. First, before he covered the mirror again, he said his daily affirmation. His old doctor ordered him to say this once a day, every day.
'I am a Partially Deceased Syndrome sufferer. And what I did in my untreated state was not my fault.'
Have you ever had that feeling where you stare at a word for so long you start to wonder if it's spelled correctly? And you know it's correct, in your head, but you keep staring at it anyway until eventually it loses its meaning. It becomes a jumble of letters instead of a word.
That's what the affirmation felt like to Kieren.
I'm a zombie. And I killed people.