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And so, I dream...

And so, I dream of my love, but it doesn’t matter.

By Steven ParkerPublished 3 years ago 4 min read
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And so, I dream of my love. I look at her heart swinging from the shell tube of my shotgun. Not her actual heart, her heart shaped locket. The one she kept a photo of us in. Now it is sealed in black electrical tape to hold in the drops of her blood I collected after she was gone. I tap it and it swings free but concealed in its cover. No shine, no sound. No problem.

I wish I could say it all started with some earthshattering event, a cataclysm or some zombie outbreak. But no, it died with a whimper. I whimpered as I found my love swinging in the basement. We were hunkered down and were quiet. I fell asleep watching the swarm, the horde flowing down the street and past. When I rose the sun had come up and the horde had moved on.

I had dreamed of my love and woke to the quiet of the house. I wandered from room to room, but couldn’t find her. The last place to check and I stood at the door, listening. Quiet and still, our house smelled of piss and shit. Death. My love was dead, but my love had not died. Quiet as I could I cut her down and wept. She had stopped and I could not. As stealthily as I could I carried her upstairs and into the back yard. There I buried her near the tulips and daffodils. She had planted them “to liven the place up and add some color.”

I went back downstairs to bring the supplies up to where I could use them. I stood looking where she had been hanging. There was a puddle of piss and blood and other filth with the locket sticking up out of it. She had torn it loose in her throws. I wiped it clean and opened it to see the photo covered in blood. I closed it and wrapped it in the electrical tape from my work bench. The chain was shattered and so I strung it on a piece of cord I had and placed it around my own neck. Later it would hang from my shotgun. A silent reminder of my love, my undying love.

I sat for days, looking out at the backyard grave site and listening for the distant crowd to approach. First my fresh food ran out. I started going around to the neighbor’s houses at night. I would break in, but it was usually just finding an unlocked window. I collected their food, ignoring what had happened to them and searching. That was how I found the shotgun. It was still propped under the man’s shattered chin, blood drying on it when I pried it loose.

After, I searched the house and found the cleaning kit and ammo. I hauled it back with me and cleaned the entire weapon. From that point on it never left me. Daily my circle increased until I came upon the horde.

I spotted them at night and backed away to the extreme distance that I could still watch them at. I watched them by their fire’s light. They were as savage and hate filled as only the truly civilized can be. Ripping and tearing at everything, roasting some dead thing on those fires. I watched them till the sun came up and they started their fun again. Then I slunk away.

They are now a few blocks off and I can hear them raising havoc and their victims wailing. I had checked those houses and they were empty at the time. Refugees must be sneaking into the area or away from the mass. I am waiting, hunkered down here in my quiet hoe. Our quiet home. I am waiting for dark and the chance to slip away. Slip away to what I don’t know. I could creep to them as they sleep after their debauch and kill them. Perhaps I would get a dozen before they had me over their cooking fires, but not all of them.

And so I sit here waiting for my chance to flee. And I think of my love. I think of her outrage and fear. Of how I couldn’t answer her questions and explain to her why the world had gone mad one person at a time. I could never be what she needed and she couldn’t understand that I could be enough because she was.

Screaming in the distance. I thought all of those houses were empty. They must have found someone. I am going to have to move early. I hoist my pack and cradle my shotgun. I leave the backdoor open. What does it matter?

Cross the lawn we had hoped to have children playing in to her grave. I look at the disturbed earth and am clutched by the fear that they might dig her up. I drop my cargo and move the picnic table over to cover the grave. It looked like there was just bare earth where people had scuffed their feet. Good, that mattered to me.

Crossing to the gate into the alley I listen then lift the latch quietly. Scanning the gravel paths, I see it is clear. I turn and the locket taps against my hand. I look at the picnic table and wish I knew what I could say, what I could have said. And so, turning away, I dream of my love. And it doesn’t matter. I step away.

Horror
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