She stood before me, tattered and bloody. Her sundress was white and torn along the bottom. It was simple, nothing fancy but it suited her well. A large dark red streak ran horizontally across her stomach from the left hip. She was missing the rest of her arm past the elbow. The skin was shredded, obviously gnawed off. Even in this depressing state I found her beautiful.
I couldn’t help but stare; it was as if she was telling a story. Her petite foot took a step forward, slowly bringing the rest of her with it. She was dead and dangerous, I knew this, but it didn’t seem important. Odd as it sounds, the closer she got the more I thought I understood.
For a moment I visualized her in a small blue house with the back door left open for some fresh air. She sits in a bedroom overlooking a recently deceased family member. Before leaving she hears a noise from her loved one and leans in to investigate. That’s when it awakens, grabbing and biting, taking a chunk of flesh from her cheek. Screaming in pain, the tears smear her make-up. She’s overwhelmed by terror as the body stands up in bed. The pleas for help go unanswered, her hero isn’t coming. It turns to face her, with blood on its mouth and she panics, stepping backwards only to trip and smash her head into a light stand. I end my scenario with the hopes that she wasn’t conscious when it tore into her arm.
She’s closer to me now. I looked into her intense blue eyes that were beginning to be covered in a white film. A brief scent of vanilla whispered in the breeze. I wanted to hold her and say things were alright, but it was too late. I raised my shotgun, with the pull of a trigger and the sound of thunder, something that was once alive and amazing becomes a memory. When the body drops to the ground, I pray that her soul is free.
As I walked away, I wondered about all the stories that will never be told, the people that will never be remembered. I know I have already been forgotten.