Event II

I have no choice but to walk through the blood. I notice that there are already bloody footprints all over the office floor, but I am oddly reluctant to step into the rapidly-congealing pool of the former girl’s life. Odd, that is, for someone whose stomach is still rumbling for another serving of brains and eggs minus the eggs. Making a decision, I take a deep breath.

That was a mistake.

In all the books, people talk about the metallic smell of blood. Sounds clean, doesn’t it? In my admittedly limited experience, it doesn’t smell like any metal I can think of; it smells like rot and death.

Now I gag.

I briefly consider just breaking the window in the door, but I don’t know if there is anyone else in the building and I don’t want any (more) surprises. Besides, it’s got that honeycombed-pattern of safety glass.

I try not to think about the sticky, slurpy sounds that my rubber-soled Keds are making and get close enough to get a good overall visual of the body. I find it easier to think the body, not the dead girl. It doesn’t quite cancel out the smell, but it helps.

Gingerly leaning to each side so that I don’t have to move my feet any more than I have to I check around the sofa. I can find no evidence of a purse or keys on the floor. I turn my attention back to the body. It may not come as any big surprise to you, but I was a bit peeved to discover that pockets are evidently not standard on leather bustiers. I put one hand on the back of the sofa and lean over to get a better look behind the body's back. I can’t see anything and I realize that I’m going to have to move it.

I lean inwards, putting more weight on one hand and very reluctantly reach over with the other and take the body by its shoulder.

And die.

My right hand, the one touching the body, goes stiff and cold. The coldness creeps up through my arm to my shoulder and spreads to the rest of my body. The anticipation of it stops time and I feel as if I am caught in an exquisitely slow trap; in truth, the whole process probably takes less than a second. As death hits each joint, I feel the terrible cold arthritic ache of the grave. I try to pull my hand away, but it is excruciatingly painful and unresponsive. I feel my face go rigid. I stop breathing. I stop thinking. I am a corpse.

But I live.

My brain slowly grinds back into action, but it takes effort to think. I sense motion to my left and I rotate my eyes. It feels like are covered with grains of sand. Finally, they orientate on my slowly moving hand. It is still tightening its hold on the body’s shoulder, apparently following the last clear signal from the brain.

I hear the sound of the shoulder joint as it is crushed.

I don’t think about this, though, or the fact that my arm—disconnected from my consciousness as if it belongs to someone else—is still moving, my hand still tightening on the shoulder, because I can see. And I can hear. And smell. And dear God forgive me, taste.

The aftertaste of the brain is like the sweetest memory on my tongue. The aroma of the blood like the bouquet of the finest wine. I am suffused with hunger; it is like a living organism that has taken hold of me demanding to have its way. Every microscopic trace of blood stands out in bold, almost neon color. The hunger is seeking satisfaction, but there is nothing alive here that can satisfy my desire.

As if the realization that there is no satisfactory prey in the immediate vicinity has freed my mind, my thoughts return to the here and now. I notice a flickering image, like a double exposure of the body. I stop my arm from where it has almost pulled it off of the sofa and the flickering also stops. With great effort, I coordinate my actions and rock the body back and forth. The doubled images are identical, and not.

The body is solid, its features unmoving, but there is another image. Whiter, more ethereal. Understanding comes. It is the girl’s soul.

The soul image (like I think of the body, not the girl, I think the image of the soul and not her soul) is still moving. Now that I know what it is, I no longer have to manipulate the body to see it. Now it is there, overlaid. I can see both clearly. The soul’s eyes are the same startled blue, but clearer, less glassy. Its face has the same outraged look of surprise, but its lips are soundlessly moving. I concentrate and with effort I can read them. She is saying three words over and over.

“John. Zombie. No.”

So I that's how I know my name is John Zombie.

The knowledge gives me no comfort.