Massage at Gunpoint
I looked out the window at the dull, undead faces keeping me here. They stared back with an empty knowing- aware that they wanted to consume my flesh, but in a way that requires no conscious thought.
My bedroom had a nice view over the driveway the 30 or 40 undead stood in, hoping I might emerge. They all stood at the door of the half basement below me, enthralled like moths by the neon lights I hung there to distract them from trying to find any other points of entry. Every night when I got home I pulled the steel gate across both sides of the glass door, flipped on the neon lights, then bolted the reinforced door that led up from the basement.
I know it seems strange to leave the lights on. Why would I want to attract the Dead so close? Why waste precious power on these lights? Well, I found out pretty quickly that the Dead weren't my only concern once things got bad. Humans were horrible creatures before the Fall, but there were benefits to hiding the disgusting truths of their impulses back then. Now, with no real benefits to civil behavior, I would be naïve to think that I was safe from those impulses. I realized that, no matter how much these other people wanted to get into my home, they'd always avoid it if a horde of hungry corpses lined the entrance. My greatest threat was also my greatest defense, unfortunately.
One of the Dead looked up into the window I peered at them from. Half of her left cheek had gone missing, but it didn't stop her from making the usual snarling expression the Hungry made at anything warm. Her sense of urgency didn't change, though. There was a relaxed calm in the system I had implemented: they seemed to appreciate that the cost of their light show was my ongoing survival. At least, that's how they acted. I'm not sure they were capable of that level of thought, to be honest.
It's a strange experience to recognize that your sanctuary is your prison. This is my home, and I have done my best to keep it secure and safe for me, my wife, and our three cats. I fought every day to keep what went on inside those walls as separate from what was going on outside as possible. It was the one place in the world were those I loved could join me in relative warmth and security and simply be.
Yet every night a horde of wardens would come stand outside my door to make sure I dutifully locked myself into my cell. I was safe enough, but not free, and learning to need but despise something that ensured your living another day created an emotional complexity I'm not sure I was built to understand. Feeling the warmth of one of my cats lying next to me at night while hearing the moans of those who deem me livestock is confusing. Imagine getting a massage while a violent murderer points a gun at you. It's something like that, I think.
I can never be truly comfortable here. There is this real but seemingly manageable threat that circles me always, like a vulture waiting for the smallest mistake, the slightest falter, that infects my sleep, my comfort, my sanity. Perhaps if I hadn't lost most of my friends and family in the Fall, this might be different. Maybe we could have given each other that sense of community that instills peace in the minds of the vulnerable, and purpose in the minds of the strong. I suppose that doesn't matter now, though. They are one of them, and even if I were to see one of them while I was out scavenging, I'd have to remind myself that they are gone; that what I am looking at is an echo, not the sound.
There are other survivors, I'm sure. I think if I can make it beyond this prison that I'll help build that community. Maybe. Or perhaps I'll remain the hermit I've become so good at being. I have my wife, and my cats. Maybe letting others in is too risky anymore. I don't know. I guess none of it matters until I can find a way to move beyond this house and set up camp somewhere else- somewhere safer. If there is such a place.
Once I wake up I'll need to take the pole and clear out the remaining Dead and head out to find food for the cats first. They're always running a bit lower than I'd like. Then whatever I can find for us. I hate it, but I know I'll have to kill others, too. Not just the dead. It's almost a foregone conclusion, anymore. Meet another Living, and they are going to disappoint you, attack you, or betray you. If you're smart, you put the knife in them first. Hope is a luxury of the past, and it tends to kill anyone looking for it.
Maybe I should look for a way to keep the pole from falling during the morning clear-outs, too, while I'm out there. Last week I stabbed a little beyond my reach and had to retrieve the pole from the 6 or so Hungry left out there. The system works, when it works. Stabbing from the window helps make sure I hit their heads, and it keeps me a safe distance away, but I can't risk dropping the pole again. Maybe I'll find a way to mount it tomorrow. I'm tired of finding new ways to keep surviving in this prison, in truth. I'm not sure how long my sentence is, though, and I'm not the only mouth in this home, so I've little choice than to claw forward bit by bit.
Maybe I'll find a way to mount the pole so it doesn't fall anymore when I'm clearing out the dead tomorrow.
This story was inspired by a dream I had 2 nights ago. I've been living in a home that I don't want to be in for nearly a year now, and I've lost a fair few people in the same time. I woke in the middle of the night, wrote down the details of the dream, and returned to find the beginning of this story the next morning. I am amazed at the mind's ability to make metaphors more telling than the truth sometime, but the feelings of this dream have hung like a dark cloud over me for 2 days now. I hope that writing this out will help me shake the feeling of imprisonment it gave me.
My bedroom had a nice view over the driveway the 30 or 40 undead stood in, hoping I might emerge. They all stood at the door of the half basement below me, enthralled like moths by the neon lights I hung there to distract them from trying to find any other points of entry. Every night when I got home I pulled the steel gate across both sides of the glass door, flipped on the neon lights, then bolted the reinforced door that led up from the basement.
I know it seems strange to leave the lights on. Why would I want to attract the Dead so close? Why waste precious power on these lights? Well, I found out pretty quickly that the Dead weren't my only concern once things got bad. Humans were horrible creatures before the Fall, but there were benefits to hiding the disgusting truths of their impulses back then. Now, with no real benefits to civil behavior, I would be naïve to think that I was safe from those impulses. I realized that, no matter how much these other people wanted to get into my home, they'd always avoid it if a horde of hungry corpses lined the entrance. My greatest threat was also my greatest defense, unfortunately.
One of the Dead looked up into the window I peered at them from. Half of her left cheek had gone missing, but it didn't stop her from making the usual snarling expression the Hungry made at anything warm. Her sense of urgency didn't change, though. There was a relaxed calm in the system I had implemented: they seemed to appreciate that the cost of their light show was my ongoing survival. At least, that's how they acted. I'm not sure they were capable of that level of thought, to be honest.
It's a strange experience to recognize that your sanctuary is your prison. This is my home, and I have done my best to keep it secure and safe for me, my wife, and our three cats. I fought every day to keep what went on inside those walls as separate from what was going on outside as possible. It was the one place in the world were those I loved could join me in relative warmth and security and simply be.
Yet every night a horde of wardens would come stand outside my door to make sure I dutifully locked myself into my cell. I was safe enough, but not free, and learning to need but despise something that ensured your living another day created an emotional complexity I'm not sure I was built to understand. Feeling the warmth of one of my cats lying next to me at night while hearing the moans of those who deem me livestock is confusing. Imagine getting a massage while a violent murderer points a gun at you. It's something like that, I think.
I can never be truly comfortable here. There is this real but seemingly manageable threat that circles me always, like a vulture waiting for the smallest mistake, the slightest falter, that infects my sleep, my comfort, my sanity. Perhaps if I hadn't lost most of my friends and family in the Fall, this might be different. Maybe we could have given each other that sense of community that instills peace in the minds of the vulnerable, and purpose in the minds of the strong. I suppose that doesn't matter now, though. They are one of them, and even if I were to see one of them while I was out scavenging, I'd have to remind myself that they are gone; that what I am looking at is an echo, not the sound.
There are other survivors, I'm sure. I think if I can make it beyond this prison that I'll help build that community. Maybe. Or perhaps I'll remain the hermit I've become so good at being. I have my wife, and my cats. Maybe letting others in is too risky anymore. I don't know. I guess none of it matters until I can find a way to move beyond this house and set up camp somewhere else- somewhere safer. If there is such a place.
Once I wake up I'll need to take the pole and clear out the remaining Dead and head out to find food for the cats first. They're always running a bit lower than I'd like. Then whatever I can find for us. I hate it, but I know I'll have to kill others, too. Not just the dead. It's almost a foregone conclusion, anymore. Meet another Living, and they are going to disappoint you, attack you, or betray you. If you're smart, you put the knife in them first. Hope is a luxury of the past, and it tends to kill anyone looking for it.
Maybe I should look for a way to keep the pole from falling during the morning clear-outs, too, while I'm out there. Last week I stabbed a little beyond my reach and had to retrieve the pole from the 6 or so Hungry left out there. The system works, when it works. Stabbing from the window helps make sure I hit their heads, and it keeps me a safe distance away, but I can't risk dropping the pole again. Maybe I'll find a way to mount it tomorrow. I'm tired of finding new ways to keep surviving in this prison, in truth. I'm not sure how long my sentence is, though, and I'm not the only mouth in this home, so I've little choice than to claw forward bit by bit.
Maybe I'll find a way to mount the pole so it doesn't fall anymore when I'm clearing out the dead tomorrow.
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