Inevitable

Fear is such a fickle thing, an emotion that I have become so accustomed to it almost glazes over me like soft sunshine. This isn’t just fear anymore, its guttural terror. All I remember is screaming, the hot searing pain of venom running through my veins. The taste of metallic blood in my mouth from nearly severing my own tongue. Zombies were something I once fantasized about, like a sick alternate reality I could escape into. I should have amputated my arm immediately, I couldn't do it though, I’m a coward at heart. That’s why I’ve survived this long. I could cauterize it but it’s too late now, my veins are burning and I can feel my clock ticking. Getting back to my shelter was brutal, stumbling through the unfamiliar terrain of the city. Adrenaline is a god send, now that I’m back I should probably start tracking symptoms, as a daily ritual of sorts. So this is day one, my name is Ophelia and as of now my cognition is steady. I will continue to track changes.

Day two hasn’t seemed to bring much change cognitively, I don’t feel very hungry but it could just be my paranoia talking. My food rations are running low, I didn’t manage to grab much while I was out yesterday. All I have left is some beef jerky I grabbed weeks ago, but that stuff doesn’t go bad does it? Going out seems unnecessary for now, I’ll wait to see if I will even survive the venom. The bite itself is agonizing, I sanitized it the best I could with my remaining booze. Honestly, I’m not even sure if that works. My degree in “organizational leadership” seems pretty useless in an apocalypse. I was never very self-sufficient. Deep purple bruises formed around the bite and the gaping hole in my arm is constantly oozing. It goes straight down to the bone and it’s starting to tingle. I really didn’t do much today at all, my arm is barely functional and I keep twitching. Thankfully I am still here both mind and body for the most part. My name is Ophelia, my favorite color is green, and I miss my mom. Signing off for day two.

Day three, I didn’t sleep much last night. Everytime I seemed to get comfortable, an insatiable itch crawled just beneath my skin. Thankfully or maybe not, I am still not hungry today. My blood seems to be flowing differently, I can feel blood pooling to the bottoms of my feet when I stand, slowly turning purple-ish. And I’m cold, unbearably cold. The bite looks worse, the skin around it is blackened, burnt even, and I smell different. Not great but not terrible, almost sickly sweet. I wrapped my wound again but that smell, it's like a subtle undertone reminding me of my time. I’m scared, it almost seems like my body is rotting. Is it even worth fighting? During the little sleep I got, I dreamt of my mom. I miss the way she’d sit with me while she crocheted. My name is Ophelia, my favorite color is green, and I think I’m still here. Signing off.

Day four, this is bad. Like really really bad. That smell, that awful rancid smell is coming from me. It’s not sickly sweet anymore, it's rotten. I shouldn’t have done this, I should have let it finish me off. My body is rotting while I am still inside it. I’m going through the beginning stages of rigamortis mortis every time I stay still, blood following gravity turning my skin odd colors. It feels like it's weighing me down. I can't sleep, I can’t eat, I can barely even write. The skin around the bite is peeling off, it attached itself to my bandage and got ripped off when I tried to change it. It just keeps getting larger, oozing more and paralyzing my arm. And that itch, it won’t stop. My skin is raw and bleeding from scratching but I can’t stop either. There’s something under my skin and it wants out, or maybe I just want it out. God I miss my mom. She would make all this go away, she would find a way to save me from this. Thinking of her is the only distraction from my reality. The way she’d sing while cooking and how she could talk to anyone with so much confidence. I’d give anything to hug her right now, to hear that it will all be okay. She’s dead and it won’t be okay. My name is Ophelia, my favorite color is green, and I am going to die.

Day five, I didn’t sleep. Or at least I think I didn’t. Time itself is escaping me. The shadows are getting closer, the dark is folding in on itself. There are flies swarming me or maybe they aren’t. My hand keeps writing but it doesn’t feel like my hand anymore. That’s because this body isn’t mine anymore, I’m not supposed to be here. The itch has moved now, deeper. Deeper than my skin, maybe even deeper than bone, it's embedded now. An eternal discomfort. I tried to eat, suddenly I’m hungry again, so goddamn hungry. My body is rejecting everything, even water. I keep smelling my mom’s perfume. The one I bought for her birthday just a few weeks before this nightmare began, just before she died. Just before I watched her eaten alive, just before I heard her scream my name one last time. She’s here now though, I hear her humming from the other room. I know she’s not there, I know that I am going to die alone. She’s waiting for me, I hope. My wound.. I can’t even call it a wound anymore. I’ve given up on bandaging it. It's open, black, and pulsing. I want to claw at it, tear through my skin and be rid of whatever parasite is eating me alive. My hair is falling out in bloodied clumps, taking the flesh of my scalp with it. My nails are cracked, chunks of skin are hanging off my arm by tiny tendrils from the scratching. I must look like a walking corpse, or maybe I am one. I want my mom, I want this to end. I hear her, she’s waiting. My name is Ophelia, my favorite color is green. My name is Ophelia. Ophelia. Ophelia. Ophelia. IM STILL HERE.

Day six I don't remember morning. Or night. Just my mom. Just this ritual. The light doesn’t exist, only the itch and the smell. The flies are definitely here, swarming my face and digging into my ears. Maggots so many maggots. I can feel them, everywhere, they’re eating my flesh. The odor, it all smells like me but not me at all. Not Ophelia, just the rotting corpse she used to be. It’s infectious, infiltrating everything with the distinctive smell of rot. This is the only reflection of humanity I have left. My hands.. I see them, but it's not me anymore. They move on their own occasionally, clawing at my flesh. Stained in deep crimson blood, sticky and metalic. Clawing, scraping, itching, tearing, I don't even know if I’m the one writing. Maybe the words are writing themselves. My color is.. it was green, right? Mom? I can see her hands crocheting, or maybe they're mine. They're ripping, not the rhythmic crocheting she used to do. She’s here, god how I’ve missed her. My mom, her voice, it’s inside me. I can’t tell which voice is my own anymore. I try to speak, just to hear my own name one last time before it’s gone entirely. My voice comes out wrong, hoarse and mangled like a dying animal. I guess that’s what I am now, or is that what we all are? I am Ophelia but this body isn’t. It’s not me, this is not me. It’s something, something that was me but not anymore. This writing is all that’s left of me, no one will ever remember I existed. The bite, the crusted black skin falling off my corpse, maggots so many maggots. Mom. That pulsing itch, it's all I feel now. In my teeth, my veins, my lungs, my eyes, my chest. I can’t breathe anymore, I don't think I am. The room moves, the shadows consume me. I can’t remember anything now, only this and my mom. Only the ritual my humanity clung to. My color. My name. She’s waiting for me. This is the inevitable.