Hope
“Hey, hey, hey. What's in your head,
In your head,
Zombie, zombie, zombie?â€Â
-The Cranberries, “Zombieâ€Â
“Hey, hey, hey. What's in your head,
In your head,
Zombie, zombie, zombie?â€Â
-The Cranberries, “Zombieâ€Â
Tuesday. It was the day to ride trains. All day the train would be his roller-coaster, going below, then coming back up again, maybe dipping back into the darkness. He liked riding above ground. The windows turned into a panorama of human existence. The dark tunnels held creatures of their own, some who thought they were above everyone else. But this story is not about vanity, it's about love.
He sat in the corner seat, one leg on the other, reading the 1994 first issue of “Journal of Consciousness Studies†article by Todd C. Moody. Resting his eyes by lifting them off the page and focusing on something more distant, he read the cover of a magazine across the isle. People magazine. His eyes then wandered past the cover and unto the reader. A young woman approximately his own age, olive skin tone (for no good reason he assumed she was Dominican), in a bright red coat and small cat eye glasses.
She looked back. She didn't cringe or change her seat, just glanced back. They continued glancing back and forth until it was her stop. His eyes followed her to the door; she was a goddess! There was some meat on her bones for one, and underneath all those clothes he could tell that she was just his type. As he watched her walk away he felt even worse for not talking to her. Although what would have happened? Even if they both found each other attractive, aesthetically and otherwise, it was only train ride for Pete's sake! If he piped up; “I like people too,†she'd smile uncomfortably because even jokes don't penetrate these florescent lights. But then again, we've already won the ultimate lottery. Competing against a million cells you made it, beat the odds and won the most important lottery. So the questions should be, how can you not find the love of your life on the train?
About two weeks later he tracked a zombie he'd known to exist for a quite some time to a party. It was an arts collective featuring urban-themed work. It seemed a lot more casual than he had thought. In fact, most guests after viewing the artwork, were in the backyard of the venue, smoking, drinking and hanging out. He already had another zombie lined up. His mind began processing ways to kill this one on premises. His thought processes stopped when he saw the girl from the train again.
Cuddled in layers, as if protecting what she's got, she peered at the paintings. He stood next to her looking at a particular piece by Emma Pritchard called “Driving to the city.†The city seemed to melt in it's own rain, and perhaps it's a prophesy, rain turning into acid from all that pollution. He looked over and it seemed as if she was thinking the same thing. Or did he just want her to? It was blurry.
He couldn't find the courage to say anything. How would he begin? And how then to presume? It all comes down to forcing a moment to it's crisis. He found himself recalling a poem by some famous writer and before he remembered it all, with the intention to wow her by reciting it, she began: “Hey, don't you take the seven train?â€Â
The rest of the night played itself out naturally like a good chess game. The zombie soon left the party while his killer spoke with the girl. Yes, he lost the rook but sacrifices had to be made to win her over. Hope was her name, and in the upcoming months she became an important person in his life. He lost the lead on the zombies he wanted to get rid of, but chalked it up to sacrifices. You can't win a chess game without having them.
A few months later she became exposed, physically. Those layers peeling off one by one. He knew now why she was so covered up. Beautiful as she was to him, a jagged scar ran down deep on both of her inner forearms, down to the wrist. We all hate ourselves so pick your poison; blemishes, eating disorders, drug abuse, low self-esteem, body image issues. For her it was a deep case of depression along with suicidal tendencies, no supervision, and a seven dollar box of a hundred single-edged razors.
September. It had been two moths since he last killed a zombie. Hope was hope for a life without zombies. Yet like most hopes, this one won't last either. Sex to him was a battle, a brutal act. He had to show indomitable strength and will for her to finally yield. He would look at a mirror while doing it, glancing at himself giving it all he got. She thought it was hot. Her fingernails dug deep into his back, giving him scars too. But what did he see in that mirror today, September 10th? He watched them go through the motions as if doing it mechanically. He could almost predict what was going to happen before it happened. How long has he been in this trance?
“Baby? Why did you stop?â€Â
“Wait.â€Â
“Oh you want to make me beg for it?â€Â
“Shut up.†He put his hand over her mouth, leaning in and coming inches from her face, staring deep into her brown eyes.
Why has he been so blind? It all made sense to him now. Why would such a beautiful looking girl ever go for a guy like him? He had no money, hated his long nose, chipped tooth, he knew that he didn't satisfy her in bed regardless of what she told him. Not to mention the rather nasty rash on his side. He was the biggest pessimist and cynicism poured out of him like oil from a busted offshore oil rig. It was black and soiled everything.
Now he knew that he was staring into the eyes of a very strange creature. A zombie whose purpose it was to trap people like him, prevent him from killing more zombies? He jumped back in awe of this realization. Her words now meant nothing to him as she pleaded for mercy. She still had futile hope that it might all be role-play. He crammed her body into a nearby garbage container. The next day the smell of death was everywhere. In the city streets, humans and zombies alike were covered by white ash, a proper funeral for Hope.
I’m the bullies you hate, that you became.
