Alternate

The mirror showed a reflection that wasn't my own. It couldn't be. The flesh on my face was a rotted greenish grey, a large piece of flesh is missing from the juncture where my shoulder meets my neck, dried blood stains my clothes, my eyes looked clouded over and bluish, my hair a mess, and my clothes torn in multiple places. I stood there studying my reflection, and then looked at the empty bathroom behind me: it looked normal and untouched. The door was still locked, there was no sound coming from outside other than the occasional footsteps echoing in the hallway, and the chatter of nurses from their desks a twenty feet away from the bathroom.

I look back at my reflection and see that it hasn't changed; there's still a grotesque version of myself staring back. I begin to run through scenarios in my mind, and my hands subconsciously wander to my pregnant stomach, and I watch as my reflection does the same, her eyes never leaving mine. I wonder what would happen if the apocalypse started while I was here in this bathroom. I wonder what would happen to my husband at home. I began to run through different scenarios in my mind, each worse than the last, and I began to fear that I would be defenseless on the fourth floor of the hospital, trapped in a bathroom with no way of knowing what the other side of the door holds beyond it.

I remind myself that I would have heard people running, or screams if the apocalypse had broken out, and that such is a thing is unlikely to happen. It reassures me, but only for a moment. I begin to hear people talking excitedly outside the bathroom door, words that I can't make out. My mind wanders back to my thoughts on the apocalypse that may or may not be about to occur, and I wonder to myself what that would mean for my unborn child. If I get bitten by a zombie, would she turn while still in utero? Would she chew her way through my stomach after I turned? Would I be able to get out of here fast enough before it completely spreads? Has it already reached my apartment complex? Is my husband safe? Do I send him a text saying to stay inside and not let the dogs out? Do I send a good bye text to my loved ones and family, explaining the situation and that I may not make it out alive?

I realize that I'm being ridiculous and wasting time in the bathroom, so I wash my hands, dry them, and leave. I return to the little room they had me waiting in, wondering what is taking the doctor so long to arrive and get me checked out. My thoughts wander back to my reflection and how different it was, and how the bathroom looked as though nothing had happened. It didn't make sense, then again, not many things in life do. Eventually, the doctor shows up, and there is no sign of the apocalypse outside. It's been a few days since then, and I've been paying more attention to current events; waiting for someone to say something. My husband has no idea about what I saw that day, because I haven't told him and I don't plan on doing so. I'm extra cautious when I take my dogs outside now, watching the sky to see if there's any potential for an airplane or helicopter to crash in the parking lot due to an infected patient or passenger.

I watch, and I wait. I've seen the walking dead, and I've read a book about how to survive the apocalypse, but I know that fantasy and reality are two entirely different things, and that if the apocalypse does come, there is little chance of my fiance, my dogs, my unborn child, and myslef surviving. We'll hold off as long as we can, but there is going to be someone who decides to open the security door, or leave it propped open, the day or night that the apocalypse does come. As I said before, I watch, and I wait.