Chapter Text
Sharp drops of rain pelt down on the abandoned roadway. At first it wasn't too bad, but by now I can't even count the individual strikes to my scalp. If that's not bad enough, my hair has been stuck in front of my eyes for so long, I can’t even estimate.
I mean, I'm totally blind over here.
Not for lack of trying on my end, at least. I did try to fix it- Several times, actually. Too bad the rain keeps ruining it.
I can't even imagine how I must look right now, a curtain of dark hair dripping dramatically as it covers just about half my face- It's times like this that I get a flash of self consciousness. Makes me wonder what the point of this stupid haircut even was... A fashion trend maybe? I'm still not convinced I had a job, so it's probably got nothing to do with that. I hope. I'd almost like to think maybe someone else pushed me to get it, maybe my mom or a girlfriend that I'll never recall again- I've yet to fully convince myself of that one, but I'm working on it.
For now, I just keep lumbering along. The rain definitely isn't helping, but like a giant, shaggy sheepdog, I can still smell where you are- even if I can't exactly see so great right now.
Last I saw, you were just starting to fold your arms and hunch up against the weather. That was… Well. It was definitely a while ago. I think. If I could, I might suggest that we find some cover. Get out of the rain. Away from the wind. I can't exactly feel the cold, but I can imagine it… And it doesn't feel great. The way this wind is whipping now, it's gotta be freezing- right?
As I contemplate these things, my shoe hits against a piece of debris in the road. At least, I think we're still on the road. Whatever. I stumble a little more drastically than I'd like, but I at least manage to save myself from complete embarrassment and by not falling over. Jerking back the other way with a few rapid, stumbling steps, I find my balance. Us corpses aren't exactly known for our agility, so I'm about as surprised to still be standing as you sound over the fact that I tripped at all.
I hear your footsteps halt and turn, "Everything ok?", your voice shouts to be heard over the downpour, tone balanced between thoughtful concern and harmless laughter. Probably at the pathetically disheveled state of me, if I had to guess.
Honestly, it's kind of embarrassing getting checked in on and snickered at like I'm some dumb little kid- but then again, I'd suffer an awful lot more than this if it meant I only got to hear your laugh afterwards. Even if it is aimed at me. Human speech has a sort of music to it- something you could never get out of a corpse for sure. But even corpses can manage to string a few words together… Laughter, on the other hand?
Only humans can make songs like that.
I grunt and shrug, showing off the grand extent of my vocabulary. My facial muscles fail me, but I smile internally at the sound of your voice and take a few quick shuffles to help close the distance. Your distinct scent draws near, hardly dampened by the torrent of rain tipping me off when to stop. I sniff the air excitedly, just as I usually do when we’re reunited after a long time apart, and this time my cover for such behavior is to feign distraction by something in the air to my left.
You reach up as best as you can and sweep my bangs out of my face, your vibrant skin brushing right over my nose. Wrist passing before my mouth. And at last I can see just how close you and the torturously sweet smell of your skin really are.
It's been so long since I've felt the demands of the New Hunger… In fact, I haven't felt much of any hunger at all in longer than I can remember. Still, can any of us ever truly fight off our nature? My mouth hangs slightly agape, breathing in the smells all around as I resist the urge to snap at your hand. Or your arm. Anything that would get me closer to unity with the living. Especially to someone with such a spark as you.
What can I say? Sometimes I think M was right- that it is a little hard to imagine how any corpse could resist a human who smells so… Good.
Even one as reformed as me.
I lock onto you with dead, gray eyes as you gaze up with that beaming, living smile of yours. With a stiff tuck behind my ear, you plaster the wet hair in place. I’m pretty sure it’s not very stylish looking of me right now- but it gets the job done, I guess.
"That better?", your voice is still a little loud, even at such a close distance. I say nothing, but offer one stiff nod as an answer. You reply with some sort of affirmation, then take a look around. Now that I can see again, I suppose the sky does seem worryingly dark… but that's not really what I'm concerned with right now.
Not when there are things here on earth far more worth looking at.
While you glance around, arms huddled around your shoulders, my eyes slide back to focus on you. Your hair and clothes are soaked through about as badly as mine, and the fabric of your beat up tee clings to your body in a way that I can tell you dislike- Mostly judging by the way you keep pulling at it, at least.
Really, I'm just glad you're not looking at me anymore, I suppose.
I don't want to make you uncomfortable, or creep you out, or anything- not any more than I already do, I'm sure. That, and since I can't explain myself… What can I possibly say? A lot of the time, I feel like I truly can’t help it. Like this is some sort of weird, predator-prey corpse thing.
Like I am a crow and you are a mint condition dime catching the sunlight.
Like you are a laser dot zipping around, and I am a cat watching with rapt, all consuming attention.
Nothing so grim as to imply you are in mortal danger from me- yet nothing so innocent as to pretend I’m not enthralled by you, either. And really… can you blame me?
I don't remember how long I've been around for- hell, I can barely even remember what I did the day before we met. What I do know, is I'm sure I've never seen such a healthy looking human before laying eyes on you. It feels wrong, even just to have the privilege to look at you. To be near you. To talk to you- As much as I can talk to anyone, that is. Strong and soft. Robust and perfectly shaped, like a marble statue of antiquity. Curved edges and limbs and muscles in places that contrast so starkly to my sharp joints and sickly body.
It's this very subject that reminds me of how M thought I was crazy for letting you live. But how couldn't I? You're just so… alive.
It's what makes you beautiful to me. Warm. Radiant. Vibrant. Strong. You are everything I am not- and in that way, how else am I to feel if not but truly and completely whole while in your presence?
I mean, call me simple- but I guess I just don't understand how anyone could want to destroy something so wonderful. So gorgeous. So… perfect.
Would you tear up an original work of Mozart? Set fire to the Mona Lisa? Burn the Sistine Chapel? Smash Michelangelo's David?
I know I'm not human… but I'm sure as hell not an animal either.
Lost up in my own head, I stand there mesmerized by my own dull, enchanted thoughts. Still, at least you don't seem to notice my staring- Or maybe you do and instead interpret it as me waiting for you to call the next shot.
In a small way, you wouldn't exactly be wrong on that note.
You beckon me on and take a few strides away, eyes shielded from the rain as you search around. I look up at the sky too- it must be nearly night by now. Hard to say with how hard it's raining though... You call for me to follow again, but trot back and take my wrist anyway.
I try to make sense of the odd thrill it gives me- but in the end I tell myself you're probably just concerned about me falling over or getting lost again.
We jog on, you looking judiciously from left to right at the houses we pass and me looking only at you. All the houses look the same to me, but I suppose maybe you see something that I don’t. At last, you choose one in a thousand nearly identical houses and lead us up onto the porch. I sniff the air while you try the door. I don't smell any dead around. Or humans. In fact, this whole street smells deserted.
Like I said- all the same.
Still, I watch your back dutifully as you struggle with the door. After a few fruitless turns, you give up on the obviously locked knob and try to break in with force. It doesn't work. You start searching for a spare key- only to give up almost immediately, as a new thought seems to cross your mind.
You take a few steps back from the door, and for a second you raise your gun like you're going to shoot the lock off- only to then think better of it. Turning it over, you raise the butt of the pistol, then seem to rethink that too. Finally, you turn to me with a disenchanted grimace, "You think any of these other places might be unlocked already?"
I slowly shake my head "no", to which you nod in solemn agreement. You give one more defiant shove into the door. It huffs and bangs inside its lock, but remains closed. All caution tossed aside, you take a few backwards steps and level your pistol at the lock all over again, "Do you smell anything around?"
Stiffly, I shake my head, but deftly reach my arm out before you can do anything too rash, "L-let… me…"
Before you can question the interruption, I brace my shoulder and aim for the sweet spot, determined to be the hero of the moment.
Now, Corpses may not feel pain, but I'd like to imagine that the embarrassment I'm feeling now might be comparable to the agony my shoulder should be in after… This.
With an equal and opposite amount of the force applied, I collapse to the floor in what I'm sure was a hilariously cartoonish bounce off of the door. You soon confirm my suspicions with a thinly concealed snort of laughter. No sooner does my wet carcass slap against the floorboards then does a quick, decisive shot ring out from your pistol. You wince at the noise it makes and hope I was right when I said nothing was around- but the door swings slowly open, and right now that's all that matters.
A little dazed still, I wriggle weakly on the ground, currently trying to figure out which way is up. Guess the punishment from that door was more than I thought. It's almost too bad- I would've liked to have seen the look of pity you shoot me. Although... I can't tell if that would soothe my feelings as much as it would further wound my ego.
With a wide legged stance on either side of me, you reach down and pull me up by the shirt. Once I'm stable, you straighten the fabric across my chest, and I think to myself… never before have I wished I could experience warmth then now as your palm pets my chest.
You look up at me with a smile and dust off my shoulders, mercifully pretending you weren't laughing at my expense, "Thanks for trying, at least- now let's get inside, huh? I'm freezing out here…", true to your word, you nudge the door open with a suspenseful creak. True to my warning, the house is empty of dead and living alike. You lower your leveled firearm and breathe easy.
"Wow…", you turn around in a slow circle, moving ever forward into the depths of the house, "Look at all this!"
Everything inside is perfectly preserved. In fact, if it weren't for the dust- I'd almost wonder if I was wrong about the place being deserted. No looting. No damage. No blood. No mold… I can't blame you for being so mesmerized.
Although, I do selfishly wish you'd turn to look at me for a second.
I'd like to be silent and just ride out the discomfort. Let you enjoy the liminal space this time capsule of a house has to offer. But I just… I can't hold out any more. My arm hangs limply at a sickening angle, dislodged from its socket.
It's hard enough trying to make human words when you're a Corpse. Just little things, like "hungry" or "yes" or "no" can be daunting for some of us. How the hell am I supposed to get your attention about something like this?
Slurring just the first letter, it's more like a long, wavering groan of distress than anything else. Thankfully it's enough to get your attention at least, "Hhhh-h…hu…urt…"
You hum inquisitively as you try to make sense of what I'm telling you. I groan sadly and give a weak attempt at shrugging my shoulder, shooting a leading glance over at the limp one. Now it's your turn to grimace as the realization hits you. To your credit, you waste no time in coming over to assist me- and if I had a heartbeat, I think right now it'd pound out of my chest the way you're holding me.
"Hold on just a sec…", One hand bracing my lats, the other firmly gripping my bicep, you give a brief warning at least before snapping everything back into place with a decisive pop. I jerk sharply at the force and strength you exert and grimly wonder how you learned to get so good at re-setting joints- but as expected, I can't say I experience much pain.
You put your hands out placatingly, almost as though you expected me to be in anguish. It's sweet of you, but sadly not necessary. Instead, I break a small smile and settle for silently committing your compassion to memory. I test out my newly aligned arm for you to see- it works, and none the worse afterwards.
"Th… Thanks…", I manage, testing my arm around as proof of gratitude to your healing touch.
The huff of laughter you give tells me you finally believe I'm no longer hurt. You relax, and respond to my thanks in turn before continuing your exploration.
You go in one direction. I wander off nearby. I'm not sure what you're looking for, supplies or salvage I'm sure… but I know I won't be much help. I'll keep an eye out for any sealed up cans or interesting trash, but it turns out salvaging is actually pretty hard when you can't read.
In the meantime, I poke around through the living room to explore. The smell of dust is almost overpowering, but the lack of mildew is nice at least. The coffee table and entertainment center look completely undisturbed. There's a few framed pictures, some old knick-knacks, and a stack of magazines in one corner with a few proper books shelved here and there.
A little shaky, I reach down and grab at the topmost magazine. With an open palm, I crumple and tear the cover into nearly a ball. I hold it up, turn it over, all the things that let me pretend I can read and hold things normally. While the thing holds on for its life, I swipe at a few pages, crumpling and lightly tearing a few in my attempt to flip the pages.
Whatever is in this tabloid, I have no clue- but the sparse amount of pictures in it bores me. I drop it from about chest-high and move on.
Over by the wall is a built in, open fireplace. A free standing grate is all that separates the ancient, half rotten wood from the rest of the room. Off to the left is a metal basket of more, dust covered logs. To the right, an assortment of fire tending tools. Somewhere in the background, I hear you give a hushed exclamation of excitement. At least you're having luck. I turn my head back front and wander closer to the hearth.
For a long while I stare into the nothingness, a surprising lack of thoughts inside my head.
After some time, it dawns on me that this would help you. That I should do something to bring it to your attention.
You could get warm. Get dry. Cook a meal…
Humans really love their campfires after all.
My hand reaches forward, and a sort of dazed smile comes over me. Yes… This would be great, wouldn't it? I know it'd make you happy. You might even thank me.
I can’t quite place it, but somehow even the thought of your happiness is enough to spark something in me. Maybe it’s because I love the way you talk when you’re excited. Or maybe it's the way you laugh with surprise when I’ve done something good but unexpected. Besides, I miss my records from time to time, and I admit- knowing I can elicit those same, melodic, musical sounds of human speech from you plays a small role in my motivation.
I'm not so sure what I'm reaching for, but even now I can almost imagine it. Just thinking about the fire. About this place.
I feel happy.
I feel proud.
I feel warm.
I… feel…
Hot
The daydream snaps from beautiful to a nightmare- the fire I started to keep you comfortable jumps and sparks and crackles with life, that sweet, sweet word… That little sensation. The very thing that I love. And just like that, it turns on me. One lone ember leaps onto my outstretched finger, alighting the whole hand before I can even think to react.
Much less within a time frame where I even could.
Like the dry kindling at my side, my hand- now my forearm- crackles and burns.
Reflexively, I stumble backwards and the screams of terror in my head die along the way to my lips till all that's left is a weak, corpse-like groan. My left hand swats at the imaginary flames, but to truly break the vision… I blink.
When my eyes open, the room is back to normal. My hand is fine. Or, as fine as it can be. If I could, I'd breathe a sigh of relief.
With my clarity returning for a brief, selfish second- I think to not tell you about the fireplace. Maybe even to hope you just don’t notice it at all. These thoughts however are soon interrupted before they’re even finished, as the corner of the coffee table stabs a pressure point on the back of my calf.
I can't even windmill my arms for balance before a hideously loud crash announces my misfortune. The table itself is mostly wood… Except for the decorative glass inlay I've just smashed through, of course.
This time I wrench my eyes shut for good- If I had it my way, I'd never open them again. Especially, not after imagining how I must look right now as you come to save me. Again. Something about the placating "wince-meets-coo" of your voice almost makes me wish the glass in my skull would've finally put me out of my misery.
I know you don't mean it to be demeaning, but the tone of your voice is just too reminiscent of how one might console a small child or animal then how you'd talk to a grown man for me. Don’t get me wrong, it's nice that you care about me. I could never complain about that- but all the same, it hurts to know I'm not what I like to think I am.
That I'm frail.
I'm helpless.
I'm not a man… Just a zombie that looks like one.
"Yikes…", is all else you have to offer before giving your all to pull me up and out of the smashed table. You lower us both to the floor, and once we're situated I open my eyes a little, slack jawed as usual, and slowly look over to you. Just to be polite, honestly. To acknowledge you and also pretend I'm not embarrassed as hell, more than anything.
You, however, seem to take my naturally downturned features as a communication of sadness- perhaps not unlike the pathetic whimper of a child who's about to start bawling any second.
In response, you tilt your head with a look dangerously close to a sympathetic pout. Gently but without warning, you turn my head this way and that. Inspecting the damage, I assume. With your free hand, you swipe my bangs back into their pseudo styled look and brush glass off my shoulder, "You're ok big guy… it's not that bad, just lemme look-"
I'm not sure if you're reassuring me or yourself, but I gotta admit… As much as I dislike when you treat me like a kid, I do kinda like that "big guy" stuff. It makes me feel strong. Tough, even. The two few, positive adjectives I can think of that I might actually be applicable.
God, that feels pathetic to even say but… I can't help but tell the truth, I guess.
It's a corpse thing.
Besides, much as the phrase does for actual kids, something about it never fails to return just a little of my lost pride back to me. In a strange, jerky motion- I roll my shoulders back and straighten up, sternum forward. As though I have any impressive musculature to show off to begin with, right? It doesn't matter much at least. By now you're kneeling right around the blind spot of my vision field, just at the three-quarters point on my body- too far back to notice me.
You pull out a bandana for safety, and start the meticulous process of combing through my hair and shoulder blades for lodged chunks of glass. Supporting my head under the jaw with one hand, you get to work picking through my still wet hair. For a little while I try to maintain my upright posture. After all, a corpse does not tire. Doesn't need to breathe, or rest, or sleep- but after too long...
Gah, I just can't resist you any more.
I let you support my heavy head. Let you hold my jaw closed. The moment would be perfect, if not for the occasional twitch of my muscles against your cool fingers.
I'm not trying to bite or snap or anything like that- It's just a reflex. Little muscles that don't know they're dead, twitching and convulsing like a heartbeat, all because they're too small to understand. I don't want to hurt you. And I hate everything about me that could even make you think I might be about to.
So… is it weird that it makes me glad, too?
Glad, because I know that you know that.
Glad that you trust me- enough to put your vulnerable hand so close to my terrible mouth.
Glad that you care for me- enough to take time out of your endless efforts at survival to fix my wounds that don't hurt and won't bleed.
Glad that you understand me- enough to stroke that trembling, twitching muscle in my jaw with a soothing thumb, because you know I can't help it.
Just like I can't feel pain, or hot, or cold- I can't feel pleasure either.
The most any corpse can get in terms of "feeling" is dull, diluted little twinges. Like testers or samples of the real, full thing. I hate it. Not being able to feel. Not really at least, but… I guess I have to be thankful for what I do have.
It's bad enough I have to cling to the scraps of my humanity and play pretend- It just hurts to always be reminded of how distant, how different, I am from you.
I groan softly, dangerously close to a sigh, and close my eyes. You've grown tired of holding up my head, but it's all the same as you've moved down to check my shoulder blades and back. My head lays at a strange angle, supported now on your shoulder while the rest of me leans against you. There's a warmth and comfort to you that I don't think I could ever find somewhere else.
Something magical.
Something different.
Something alive.
My eyes fall half lidded, and I must look like I'm far, far away from this world right now.... I can tell by the stifled laugh you hold back as you pause to check on me.
You know, I wish you wouldn't- hold back your laughter, that is. I know this world is too dangerous to risk unnecessary noise or sounds. I understand why sometimes you try to make yourself as quiet and dead as possible. And I know all I can do is wish a pointless wish that you didn't have to- but as I lay there, I listen to your breathing. I feel it dust over my skin. I hear your heart beating, just a few bites away from my purple, frozen ear. I smell the faint, days old remnants of soap in your hair and the sugary smell of your bright, living skin.
And then I think.
I think, when you laugh- even if its at me, even if it's at something stupid or humiliating or… zombie-like that I did-
It makes me feel.
And, I think… It's the next best gift to life itself that a corpse like me could ask for. The remnants of being able to feel…
It's why I love you most, after all. I am a corpse that feels, only for and because of you- and, in that cruel twist of irony… that's the very reason I can never tell you how I feel either.
"Alright… Looks good!"
I'm torn out of my daydreams as you heft my torso upright and off of you. My eyes snap wide open, and I imagine I must look shocked, perhaps even insulted, at the rude awakening. You take my jaw and turn my head to the side one last time. I have a few new gashes to add to my collection, but at least the glass is all gone. You marvel with pride at your work, and all the while, as you sit there glowing- I can't take my eyes off you.
I wish I could say something. Even just a thanks. But you're holding my mouth closed, and when you let it go… you give my cheek two rough pats.
Like I'm your buddy.
Like we're the best of friends.
You ruffle my hair, then smooth it back down, and once you've had a little chuckle at my blank stare- you look me in the eye and give me a look that makes even a dead heart like mine giddily flutter.
"It's a good thing you're tough, huh?", you give my body a tight hug, "I knew you'd be alright-"
And you get up.
And you start to walk back to whatever it is my commotion called you away from.
And in my mind, I beg you not to go. Not to leave me… But the words die on my lips, and all my dead mouth can manage is a pathetic, corpse-like moan.
If you hear me at all, you don't seem to notice. Slowly I turn back to face the cold, empty fireplace that you seem to have ignored in favor of attending me. I stare at the wood, and a flash of my instincts come over me. I hate fire. I think all corpses do. But... I love you.
Even if you don't feel the same. Even if you never will.
Even when a small part of me knows you never will.
I love you even still- I don’t know if I’m just stupid or too sentimental and idealistic for my own good, but as I turn slowly to look over my shoulder, watching you walk away… I know what I need to do.
You always get so cold at night- I know you'll need this fireplace, no matter how much I might flinch at the idea.
This house can't be that warm, after all... And I hate nothing more than to see you suffer. So I groan. And I look at the source of all my terrors. And I get up- and I go over to bid for your attention just a little bit more.