POV of 3rd Party Zombie

I responded to every horrible and uncontrollable event in my life with intelligence and fortitude. Those who’ve borne witness to any of these events tell me I’m strong. I’ve heard “you’re so strong” so often from acquaintances and complete strangers alike. It’s almost unbearable, as I don’t want to be strong; I want to be normal. After offering empathy for whatever atrocity has just occurred, I’m often thanked for “doing the right thing.” I like that part and often take solace in repeating those words to myself in the inevitable aftermath; when I dive into a bottle of Prosecco or an inordinate amount of food by myself once I’ve deemed the situation safe. Those who thank me don’t understand it’s an uncontrollable urge for me to do a final crosscheck before acting during any situation. The only way I’ve been able to describe it with any success is as follows:  When I come upon a situation where I might end up covered in blood, I automatically consider the mathematical trajectories of the surrounding blood spatter. Whether the blood is literal or figurative, my mind automatically generates the algorithms that identify possible targets of that spatter and I cannot ignore it.

I’ve been hurt and burned so many times in my forty-some-odd years that most people would’ve had a negative internal change of character at this point and no one would fault them for it. To be frank, I consider myself quite lucky I haven’t been institutionalized by now. I should be softly drooling into a chin cup in my paper slippers whilst I sit in that one beam of dusty sunlight that enters my padded room each morning. That solitary beam of light enters my room so that I may read. Reading is the only activity I’ve enjoyed in the institution other than the occasional rape or exciting mix-up with another patient’s meds; how I love those days. I imagine I’d either be reading I am the Cheese or my own treasured hardbound copy of A Brief History of Time. It’s not clear what I’m reading in my padded room because it hasn’t actually happened. I’m still out and about in the world living a complex version of those juvenile novels that allowed the reader to choose their own plot. God, I loved those books. 

Even in youth, it didn’t take long for me to realize the protagonist’s path always ended the same way regardless of the choice they made. Those stupid books always killed the main character, no matter how many times I went back as a young reader and chose not to enter that cave. Just as I did in life, I tried to go through the cave, or set it on fire, or prove it never existed; but I always discovered the path ended in death. The protagonist always died. Ironically enough, I suppose there’s no harm at this point in disclosing I’m technically dead right now. To reject this information, turn to page 307. Surprise, ya dumb ass, there is no page 307. You’re in this. Just keep reading.  

In all regards of defining human life, I am dead. I have no pulse, organ activity, cell regeneration, et cetera; I’m dead. I was one of the six million neurodivergent humans on planet earth with a statistically significant chance of surviving the 2032 viral variant that wiped out humanity. Half of us made it. Half of that half of the populus wanted nothing to do with their “ability” and did not step into their destiny’s arena. I personally tried to abandon it all. When it happened, I found myself different again, but had no choice in the matter. Like everyone else, I was dead, but I had an ability that others lacked. My genetic makeup afforded me the ability to keep my memory, intellectual capacity, and core values … all of which I’d be willing to sell or give away, along with the body I’m told is quite resilient and attractive given my age and current status of “dead.” Even in death I can’t shut off the inner voice that says that because I have the ability, I have the responsibility. Fuck…that…stupid…movie.

I have tried to end my life a total of twenty-eight times in the last year unsuccessfully. You wouldn’t believe how unbelievably difficult it is to commit suicide when you’re dead. It was so unlike being alive and that drove me absolutely mad. Carbon monoxide had always been my go-to in my life in my times of despair. Back in the days before the virus, I’d always had the option of ending everything in a painless way with minimal effect to myself, family, and friends. I remember during my thirties, I had prepared a minimally destructive death using an air mattress and a gently used propane grille. It would have been the best nap of my life that ended in the most peaceful possibility for the demise for a human existence. I don’t know if you’ve ever fallen asleep by a fire at Christmas, but that’s how it would have ended for me. I would have taken a beautiful nap and not woken up. The suicide would have been the most non-violent and peaceful exit on record. I had even planned to put on makeup and done my hair…Like some kind of creepy Sleeping Beauty. But, here I am, alive.

Now, everyone is looking to me for direction. I’m dead, but my abilities are intact. The same people who made my existence a living hell in life are now seeking guidance from me. Do I offer the guidance at a cost for some? Do I refuse the help and cite my reasoning for doing so? Do I choose to save only those who represent what I stand for? With the knowledge I have, there would be unquestionable evidence that I’ve observed the presence of a species with no ability to process the ethical and legal responsibilities of the pre-pandemic past. Shall I respond to all of them destructively?

I don’t think so. But, I remember the number of people who responded to me destructively, affecting my word count. Let's see the current word count. Even in death, my peers hwlos m back, i don't want that,