Chronicles of Rocky, the boy

March 13, 1995

Mama says it’s time. I am not ready in any way, which is of course something Mama will never know, or understand. I have been awake at nights, thinking. What would happen, if I refuse to do it? Mama would not have it, would call it a sin. How can you sin at 10 years old?

I am writing in a blood-stained journal I found yesterday in the cupboard. I know exactly where it comes from: a middle-aged male, tall and lanky, bearded with glasses. I had not seen glasses before. “Can I have them?” I asked Mama. She would not let me near him. His glasses, however, were on the other side of the room. Twisted, broken. Just like he was, at the time. Even broken, they reflected the light in a magical way. It fascinated me. I was eight.

It was mayhem. The man was howling, Mama, busy with her prey, did not pay attention. I crawled on the ground, and snatched the glasses before she noticed. It was earlier that day that I had seen the journal. He had it with him when Mama brought him home, and was writing before it all started. I was not allowed to talk to him, otherwise I would have asked. Yesterday, looking for a bowl in which I intended to have ice cream, I found the notebook. Mama was out, so I had time. I read every page. He was a man of science, leading a lonely life in the wild. He observed nature, and had noticed strange movements lately. It wasn’t long before he knew what they were. It wasn’t long before he knew … well, too much. Mama had called me sensitive, but it was a sensation I had not felt before: reading his life, I knew him now, as I would know a friend. Tears ran down my face. I could barely breathe.

He was my friend, and I had eaten him two years ago.

March 15, 1995

This morning I woke up with my stomach churning. The ceremony is at five, this evening. I could run, but I’d miss Mama. “You’re a big boy now,” she says. She’s proud of me, calling me her wolf son. She thinks I am brave and agile, and I have good teeth. I would have told her by now, if I was brave. I would have done something, anything. I feel sadness in me, a deepening sadness, eating me alive. If anything, it should be the other way around. The sun is waking up, and I am running out of time. I will go for a walk, and won’t come home until I have a solution.

 --- Later, Early Morning

I am home now, not with a solution but a boy. Not any boy, a human boy. He’s wearing a tattered shirt and looks injured. He didn’t look surprised to see me, he didn’t resist. We haven’t talked much and he’s giving me strange looks now that I am writing in my journal. I know what madness it is to have a human at home, right before the ceremony. I plan to hide him before Mama wakes up. For now, I am giving him food. We have vegetables in the garden.

--- Later, Noon

The boy is called Mika.

This morning I went to the garden to pick him some vegetable. I brought back tomatoes and a whole bunch of cilantro. He was disgusted. “Is this how you kill people?” He asked. Cautiously, I placed the vegetables on the cabinet. “But I’ve heard it’s good for humans.” He rolled his eyes.

It was only then that I remembered the chocolate ice cream in the fridge. Mama makes it, and sells it to the whole village. She’s the best. Some ice creams are human flavored, which sell quickly; fortunately we didn’t have them this morning. Chocolate is my favorite flavor, and turns out, it is Mika’s too. His eyes sparkled when he saw it. “Is that for me?” I could actually see the saliva dripping from his mouth.

“It’s better than vegetable, huh?”

“Sure is.”

He was licking the spoon when he finally asked, “So how does it go? You make me fat, and then you eat me?”

“I am not going to eat you,” I said calmly.

He did not believe me, of course, and raised both his eyebrows.

“You do look kind of normal,” he said, and then quickly added, “for a zombie.”

“We are not zombies.”

“That’s a whole lot of cannibalism for a non-zombie.”

“I don’t know what we are. We just … are.”

I have no idea why I was defending people I was trying to escape. I do love Mama, and some of the villagers, but I don’t want to be one of them. I don’t want to be initiated. Speaking of which, the ceremony is in five hours. Mika is in the back garden, where nobody sees him. I have to find a way out, before it’s too late.

March 16, 1995

Mika was the one who came up with the idea. I was there to water the apple tree which was suspicious enough, and Mama had let it go just because it was my day. “Get back quick, we have to prepare you.” She was singing and swaying with the music in her mind, her baby was growing up. She didn’t know her baby had hidden a potential prey, and was thinking of escape.

“Are you gonna season me too, so your Mama enjoys me better?” Mika was sarcastic, I was beginning to realize.

“I am working on a plan.”

“Does the plan include me on a table, in a dish?”

“You’re driving me nuts!” I said as quietly as I could. I didn’t normally fight with the apple tree.

“Seriously, why did you bring me here?”

“You were wandering into the village. Did you not notice that? Did you WANT to be somebody’s breakfast?”

“I didn’t know you had a village.” He looked around. “I didn’t know you were, you know, civilized.”

“Well, we are. And we have great culinary taste too.”

I was learning from him.

His eyes widened. “Wait, I have a plan.”

His plan was that I show him to Mama. That was the only way he could get across the house, to the front door, and out. “Tell her I’m your first prey,” he said. I was appalled, and then saw the sense in it.

 Mama was beyond excited. She even wanted Mika at the ceremony.

“Of course, that’s why I caught him.”

“You sneaky thing!” She kissed my cheek.

Before we knew it, she was out the door, spreading the word.

“Oh, Mama’s boy!” Mika was imitating her voice.

I rolled my eyes. “You really are chill, for a human before the zombie apocalypse.”

He didn’t know what I meant, until I told him about the ceremony. Each villager would be initiated at ten years old, and the day after they would begin hunting, killing, and bringing food to the village.  

“I wish we had ceremonies like that,” he sounded ecstatic, “without the cannibalism, I guess.”

“You sound like you don’t mind it.”

“I have been hunting animals for a year. After my parents.”

I didn’t need to ask what happened. They might even have been on our table.

“Let’s go then. Mama won’t be back any time soon.”

We circled the village, and then found our way to the forest. After that, he led the way. He knew the forest well.

“Are you sure?” He asked before we left the village.

More than anything, I felt numb. And I missed Mama already. Otherwise, I was positively sure. We went far and it was way after midnight when he stopped, and announced, “we are safe.”

It is the morning after, and Mika is still snoring. This is the first day of my freedom. Mika is my friend, the first real friend I have ever had. He would have been my first prey, if we didn’t escape. I think I am happy.

March 17, 1996

It is Mika writing. Rocky was the not-so-zombie boy who wrote the diary. That morning, before I woke up, the villagers arrived. They were about to attack, when Rocky stood before me, and was wounded with an axe. I took his belongings and ran. If I hadn’t seen enough fatal wounds, I would have hoped he lived. Damn, this is not easy to write. And trust me, I’m not about to get sentimental. I did keep his diary for a year, and read it more times than I can count. Rocky was my first friend, too. So that’s that. I bury this notebook here, in the forest, where he wrote his last words, and was happy.