It's the Day of the Dead...
again.
Blank faces and open mouths, looking to devour brains and recruit more legions of mindless followers.
I feel like the next victim, sometimes.
Like an underdog hero in a B-horror movie, on his last shotgun shell, who after blowing away one last undead baddie
is going to have to rely on his wits, and nothing else.
Or... does he use the shell on himself?
Because fuck, lets face it,
they're just going to keep coming, in larger and larger numbers
like big, clumsy, fumbling, shambling, murderous children
and they might move slowly,
but if they get you surrounded, that ceases to matter, doesn't it?
So if I can't beat them, do I join them?
All I want is to survive, to come out of this mess with all my appendages still attached and still somewhat in my right mind.
But that's not true, is it?
No... no, it's not.
I want more ammunition. I want rocket launchers, mushroom bullets and hand grenades. I want Magnums and land mines, torpedoes and surface to air missles.
I want a heroine.
I want to turn my head and see a lone heroine climbing out of a mass of decaying bodies, with eyes and guns blazing with zest for and fury against.
I want her at my back, so at least if we go down, we go down together. I want to know that I'm not the only one who wants to live, and still gives enough of a damn to fight back, rather than roll over and die.
I'm tired of shadows of people. Tired of empty shells who have given up, or worse, champion the wrong causes and become human cliches, spouting pointless and repetitive rhetoric.
I'm tired of empty shotgun shells on the floor, each one representing something terminated, something lost and gone forever, forcefully blinked out.
I'm tired of this venom in my veins, how hot and foreign it seems sometimes, but more importantly, how much I actually adore it... but I may never find someone else with puncture wounds from being bitten.
That I might be the only infected person I ever meet.
I'm tired of sleeping with one eye open, never getting the rest that I so desperately need to keep fighting, and thinking that every snapping twig is signalling my doom.
I want to take turns on a watch around a campfire, knowing someone will look out for me, and wake me should the rustling of a nearby bush actually be a cause for alarm, rather than some wayward raccoon who's just as terrified as I am.
Desperate trust, I suppose it could be.
But I want a survivor, like me.
Not someone who's played dead to avoid conflict,
not someone who's well being has come in the form of dumb luck,
but someone formed in grisly battle, with guts and brains, determination and a grim and shaky confidence that isn't copied or faked, but learned... and actually ingrained through experience.
I want to get splinters on my hands from touching her.
I want to feel the pain of existance radiating off her, I want to feel it deep in my soul.
I want her to know gruesome can be beautiful, and true happiness can only come from true suffering.
Venom. She should be raging with venom, addicted to it...
and loving it.
Back.