June 19, 2240
Three days after.
Our town is hollow, lost without the soft music of the werewolves' howls, some of which were yours. We're not allowed to say it anymore, but we loved those howls. Every night, we were frozen with anticipation, waiting for the sweet melody to sing us to sleep. Every morning, we mourned its loss. Now that the howls are no longer, the town is like it was the minutes before the howling started. Numb, unsure, and worried. We are always worried.
We'd known that the zombies would come. We'd known we couldn't always live as we did. But we hadn't known this enough because we still hoped. We allowed ourselves to believe that the zombies wouldn't come, that we could stay as we were, run down and whole-hearted, a town that held dances every night when no one could sleep. Our graceful movements lit by fading candlelight, the rain echoing the rhythm of our feet. It was never too cold for dancing.
I can still see your swollen eyes that looked to me when I was dancing. Eyes that knew they should be up there on the pavilion, reflecting the fire that lit it.
June 16, 2240
They came last night.
For half-decayed creatures, they move very quickly. We'd all been restless that day and had spent it ridding our gardens of non-existent weeds, wiping away the dust from our windows, and talking about nothing in particular.
At night came the dancing, the howling too. We'd expected to let go of a breath we'd known we were holding, but the howling only made us more anxious. Be quieter; we wanted to whisper. Be still, our frequent glances outside the pavilion said.
In the end, we couldn't do anything to stop it. We'd endured the werewolves' cries of pain. And we'd known it was coming, but we still stood there in shock. You did too. A zombie reached for you from behind, and you just stood there, eyes on the moon, heart in your stomach.
The zombies have had twisted jealousy of werewolves since the beginning of time. They feel trapped in a decayed body and envy that werewolves don't always have to be in their un-natural form. Zombies started hunting them when they discovered werewolves became paralyzed when they looked at the moon. We'd hoped they'd never reach us.
And, now that they have, the only thing I can bring myself to do is write. A time diary for you. For all the time that we won't have.
June 20, 2240
Four days after.
Election Day is coming soon. There won't be as many voters or candidates with the werewolves gone.
Election Day is a celebrated custom in our small town. It gives us a chance to celebrate the people that help people, the kindred spirits.
I'd been planning on voting for Bach, a werewolf in her twenties who helped everyone plant a garden. She was patient with me, even when I ate the tomatoes too early and let you dig holes in the soil. You must separate the soil for gardening from the soil for amusement, she'd said. Sometimes I wonder if that relates to feelings and how you must separate your big feelings from the ones that can't hurt you. The big feelings need a fence, like the one I had to put around my garden at first so you wouldn't destroy it. The big feelings can only grow where they can't be touched.
Bach told me it had taken her a long time to resist digging in her garden, and that she'd wanted to teach other werewolves how to do the same. I did a little digging of my own because I was so anxious for the food to come.
It's a wonder, with you and I both digging, that it came at all. But it came, thanks to the fence that frustrated me and that you had a hard time figuring out. Once you did, the game was over for you. You knew that the garden was precious, that we needed the garden.
The fence around my big feelings frustrates me too. It makes me want to create a new key, one to replace the one that I buried long ago. I want to fling open the gate and let my feeling free, but I know that, once I do, they will be ruined. You had a hard time figuring out the fence around my big feelings. You didn't understand why there was one, as you didn't understand why there was a fence around the garden. Once you figured it out, the game was over for you. You knew the feelings were precious, that I needed them locked away.
On June 1st, 2239, I moved into the quiet village. I'd been expecting to have to hide my identity, but I'd know that I couldn't stay in the city for much longer, the city, where people are awake at all hours of the night. I wouldn't have been able to be caught howling there. But in the village, with the community of people who knew people, I could howl all I wanted.
Other werewolves soon caught wind of my free howling. My joy, loud and free, and never-ending, echoed through the air. I found you in the village. You tried not to care too much that I was a werewolf, and, I think, that was better than if you hadn't cared at all.
It was so freeing, the howling, the other werewolves, after all that time I spent in the crowded city. It was so freeing to recognize every face I passed; for every face I saw to recognize my face.
But, eventually, it had to end. The zombies had been roaming about for a while. They were ready to attack.
Sometimes, I wish you'd tried to save me, that you hadn't just stood there and stared. Sometimes, I wish you hadn't had to write a time diary, for all the time we'll never have.