It's been two weeks since I relieved my Grace from her needless suffering. And I still can't move past the agony of what I've done, although I had no choice. I'm violently writhing in a world of pure pain. I wish there was someone would relieve me of my suffering. I'd do it myself but in the end, I know I'll pussy out. There was one time I did gain the nerve to go all the way through with blowing my head off. The only reason my cranium is still intact is because when I pulled the trigger nothing was triggered. The gun I ate had jammed. I squeezed the trigger a second time hoping a bullet with charge through my pain addled brain. Nothing. I was still living. I was still aching. I don't relish the notion of suicide, in fact, I find it repugnant. Suicide is not pretty and it damn sure isn't painless. Unfortunately, there is no other escape from my misery. With the legions of living dead swelling and resources for life depleting things are only going get much worse.
Seeing Grace again cracked open a dam overflowing with memories I wish had remained walled up. Memories of brighter, better days long, long gone. Days when I used to have lots of people who loved me who I loved right back. I grew up in a house of seven children and a mom and dad who always had supported me unconditionally even during my severely troubled years as a teen and a early twentysomething. I constantly wonder about my family's whereabouts. Are they still alive somewhere struggling to survive through all this shit? Have their wonderful hearts and minds been savagely consumed by the teeming dead? Even worse, maybe they're lifelessly lumbering in agony like Grace was. I wish I knew and at the same time, I really don't.
Recollections of I wooing the ladies with twenty inch guns and a six pack you could 've grated hard cheddar with smacked my mind. I used to be able to bench press five hundred plus without the assistance of steroids. Although, I readily admit to juicing very briefly for a amateur competition back in the day. I was finally going to start capitalizing on my rock hard physique for something more then just showing off and getting laid. I got the ball seriously rolling on making it as a professional fitness model. Then everything that could go wrong FUCKING DID! The DEAD ROSE BACK! And all life has been drowning in a whirling cesspool ever since.
Earlier this evening, I stared at myself in a smudge ridden mirror appalled by what I saw, which was me - gaunt and grimy. I can't believe how skinny I've become. It's frightening. I used to bear bulging biceps that would stop traffic. Now my arms could be used for cleaning pipes. I'm literally less than half the man I used to be. During my dating days you wouldn't catch me walking around in anything but the latest, hippest designer threads. My current attire at the moment: unwashed, filthy, and ill-fitting rags.
Despite the despair, there are times I genuinely do feel lucky to be in a position of a survivor. There something about the word survivor that strikes a powerful chord. It' is a strong and indelible word I'm proud to label myself with. Like I said, there are times that I feel lucky. This isn't one of those times.