The television crackles as it comes to life. That hasn’t happened in a week, so you scoot closer to it, and couple pieces of your bones splinter into your skin. You don’t wince anymore; pain is something you can’t feel. There’s a really pretty lady on the television. Your mom called it a ‘telly’, now she just kind of sits all slumped over like and mumbles to herself. When you try really hard, you can remember what she used to look like, and that makes your chest hurt. You think that feeling is something called an emotion. You think you used to have a lot of those.
The lady on the television starts to talk, and you’re trying really hard to pay attention, but you’re hungry. Now that you think about it, you’re always hungry. You focus on her lips. She has nice lips. They look like you could chew them of hours and hours. You bet if you could eat her lips you’d never be hungry again. You shake your head really hard back and fourth, pushing out the thoughts of eating the pretty lady, and the thoughts about mamma and how everything used to be.
She’s calling your name; at least, you think it’s yours. “Emery?” she calls. You place your hands, palms up, on the silky smooth surface of the screen. The lady smiles happily, her silver eyes sparkling.
“Oh, there you are my little Emery, my little bás dubh...” You try to smile at the old Irish, but you can’t remember how to use those muscles. “It’s time for you to eat okay? Are you hungry?” You nod your head quickly, like a little dog’s tail. “Now, now, use your words Emery; I know you know how to use them.”
“I am hungry. I am always hungry, strainséir” Your voice comes out slowly, and the vibrations hurt your throat. If the lady’s voice is caramel, your voice is gravel. She smiles and you hear the metallic scraping that means someone is opening the door to your little room.
One of the nurses you remember smiles at you and holds out her hand. You think that she has nice fingers; they’re shaped just like the chicken fingers your mom made you before the doctors came and took both of you away. You don’t take her hand because they’re so clean and big while your hands are stained and small. She walks two steps in front of you. At least, you think its two steps because you can’t really count any higher than that anymore. “Did you know you’re getting cured today?” she asks as she leads you through a maze of hallways until you reach a big white room, you shake your head no. There’s nothing in there except a wall of windows and two metal doors on opposite sides of the room and a big drain, right in the middle of the sleek floor. The metal door on the left is where all the people who never leave come from. The one on the right is the door you enter and go back into. The wall of windows is where the pretty lady and her smart friends watch and take notes. The drain is where all the memories of the people go.
The door on the left opens up and black gloved hands push out what you think is a boy. You can’t remember if it’s a boy or a girl. You don’t even remember if you’re a boy or a girl. He’s about as old as your brother. He turned fourteen when you were taken away. He didn’t cry. He said it was for the best. You stand, well as standing as slumped over can get and stare at the boy, and for a moment he looks triumphant, like he just won something. Then a nurse comes up to him and pokes a little needle into his arm. The smell of the blood confuses you, and makes you even hungrier. The boy gets a shocked look on his face as you come towards him with more determination and focus than he’s ever seen before.
When the fuzziness clears from your vision, someone is hosing down the room. You watch the as the red mixes with the other water and circles the drain. Once the man is done spraying down the room, he sprays you off too. Normally you’d be angry, but now you just smile as the redness pools at your feet and makes patterns on the smooth floor. The garbage guy comes and scoops up a pile of white-washed bones and shoves them into a plastic bag.
The pretty lady comes into the room through the door that you come through and puts her hand on your shoulder.
“Cén chaoi a bhfuil tú ag mothú?” [How are you feeling?] she asks, putting her hand on your shoulder.
“Much better.” You say “Tá mé a thuilleadh ocras.” [I am no longer hungry].
“Good, good.” She mumbles, she has that look in her eye, like mamma had, like she’s thinking of something else. “You are a buachaill beag cróga.” [brave little boy].
You grin up at her, you like the sound of that. Mamma used to call you that. Whenever you climbed really high to get your brothers kite for him, or to help someone. You think maybe that’s why he hated you. “Why am I a brave boy?” you ask.
“Not many people would eat their own brother just to be cured from the Zombie Infection.”
Your face gets red, then your stomach starts to hurt. You think you’re gunna be sick. Tears find their way out of your eyes, and the salt in them stings the remaning open sores on your face. You start to think that eating people is probaly wrong
The lady on the television starts to talk, and you’re trying really hard to pay attention, but you’re hungry. Now that you think about it, you’re always hungry. You focus on her lips. She has nice lips. They look like you could chew them of hours and hours. You bet if you could eat her lips you’d never be hungry again. You shake your head really hard back and fourth, pushing out the thoughts of eating the pretty lady, and the thoughts about mamma and how everything used to be.
She’s calling your name; at least, you think it’s yours. “Emery?” she calls. You place your hands, palms up, on the silky smooth surface of the screen. The lady smiles happily, her silver eyes sparkling.
“Oh, there you are my little Emery, my little bás dubh...” You try to smile at the old Irish, but you can’t remember how to use those muscles. “It’s time for you to eat okay? Are you hungry?” You nod your head quickly, like a little dog’s tail. “Now, now, use your words Emery; I know you know how to use them.”
“I am hungry. I am always hungry, strainséir” Your voice comes out slowly, and the vibrations hurt your throat. If the lady’s voice is caramel, your voice is gravel. She smiles and you hear the metallic scraping that means someone is opening the door to your little room.
One of the nurses you remember smiles at you and holds out her hand. You think that she has nice fingers; they’re shaped just like the chicken fingers your mom made you before the doctors came and took both of you away. You don’t take her hand because they’re so clean and big while your hands are stained and small. She walks two steps in front of you. At least, you think its two steps because you can’t really count any higher than that anymore. “Did you know you’re getting cured today?” she asks as she leads you through a maze of hallways until you reach a big white room, you shake your head no. There’s nothing in there except a wall of windows and two metal doors on opposite sides of the room and a big drain, right in the middle of the sleek floor. The metal door on the left is where all the people who never leave come from. The one on the right is the door you enter and go back into. The wall of windows is where the pretty lady and her smart friends watch and take notes. The drain is where all the memories of the people go.
The door on the left opens up and black gloved hands push out what you think is a boy. You can’t remember if it’s a boy or a girl. You don’t even remember if you’re a boy or a girl. He’s about as old as your brother. He turned fourteen when you were taken away. He didn’t cry. He said it was for the best. You stand, well as standing as slumped over can get and stare at the boy, and for a moment he looks triumphant, like he just won something. Then a nurse comes up to him and pokes a little needle into his arm. The smell of the blood confuses you, and makes you even hungrier. The boy gets a shocked look on his face as you come towards him with more determination and focus than he’s ever seen before.
When the fuzziness clears from your vision, someone is hosing down the room. You watch the as the red mixes with the other water and circles the drain. Once the man is done spraying down the room, he sprays you off too. Normally you’d be angry, but now you just smile as the redness pools at your feet and makes patterns on the smooth floor. The garbage guy comes and scoops up a pile of white-washed bones and shoves them into a plastic bag.
The pretty lady comes into the room through the door that you come through and puts her hand on your shoulder.
“Cén chaoi a bhfuil tú ag mothú?” [How are you feeling?] she asks, putting her hand on your shoulder.
“Much better.” You say “Tá mé a thuilleadh ocras.” [I am no longer hungry].
“Good, good.” She mumbles, she has that look in her eye, like mamma had, like she’s thinking of something else. “You are a buachaill beag cróga.” [brave little boy].
You grin up at her, you like the sound of that. Mamma used to call you that. Whenever you climbed really high to get your brothers kite for him, or to help someone. You think maybe that’s why he hated you. “Why am I a brave boy?” you ask.
“Not many people would eat their own brother just to be cured from the Zombie Infection.”
Your face gets red, then your stomach starts to hurt. You think you’re gunna be sick. Tears find their way out of your eyes, and the salt in them stings the remaning open sores on your face. You start to think that eating people is probaly wrong
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