Zombies

011/365

Some of our memories are tainted with trauma. Do not let them break you down. Release them into the wild and be a better you from the lessons you learned in the process. 

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The thick strands of black smoke slither out of the cigar like a serpent slowly sizing up its prey before a deadly strike. Converging and forming into a poisonous cloud that circles in the stale air around us like a murder of crows above a graveyard on a bitter winter night. He fills his lungs with the tar-like fumes taking in as much as he can at once; inhaling deeply, willingly, longingly. His eyes film-over after just one pull: a clear indication that the substance is not only powerful but seductive. He continues to chase the high not wanting to let go of the rolled-up concoction lit between his fingertips.

The smog reeks of death. Unlit it smells of permanent marker dipped in gasoline, but once the flame is put to the tip it ignites a pungent odor that reminds me very faintly of the funeral home where my mother used to work. I would sit on a stood beside the long white table watching intently as she cut and sowed the body upon it with such skill and dignity that one could only admire her craftsmanship in awe. I could almost hear her sweet voice echoing off the tiled walls as she enthusiastically explained the process to me:

“First you locate the carotid artery which is along the right side of your neck somewhere under the ear and above the shoulder…” She would say gesturing with gloved hands at the spot on the corpse she was referring to.

               “…and then you turn the machine on and it pumps the embalming fluid throughout the body so that it preserves and disinfects it for viewing purposes. It’s also a very dangerous chemical which is why we have all these big fans and ---is your mask on tight enough? I don’t want you breathing in this stuff…” Her voice fades along with the tufts of smoke now rolling out of his mouth and disappearing into thin slivers up, up, and beyond the cracks of the dilapidated basement we are all sitting in.

The living room floor is caked with grime, garbage lines every surface in sight, discarded wrappers are tossed haphazardly about the place with no regard for cleanliness. Its owner is a zombie too far gone in her own addictions that she neither knows, nor cares, what we (a group of thirteen to sixteen-year old’s) happen to be doing on a school day, during school hours, in her hole-in-the-wall of an apartment. The décor doesn’t bother us though. All we want is to be free. To do what we want with no consequences or punishment. To drink and smoke as much as our naïve mischievous little heart’s desire. There are six of us in total. I sit on the shabby old couch between my best friend and a friend of the zombie’s son. The zombie’s son lingers by the fridge talking to the beefy boy lounging to the left of me.

My head is light and fuzzy around the edges like when you first awake from a dream in the morning; the memories fading as the details of your room slowly begin to refocus. I find myself staring absentmindedly at the boy in front of me. He is positioned no more than five feet away, eyes bulging out of his head as he gapes at the boy in the chair beside him, commanding him to hurry and finish rolling up the next blunt. He is standing stiffly, zombie-like in his demeanor. A 9mm handgun hangs limply in his hand. I briefly wonder if it’s loaded. The joint isn’t sealed yet, and I can see the black dust sprinkled heavily on top of the cigar leaf like ashes on the earth. He fidgets, eyes wide with impatience.

Immediately I’m annoyed, angered even. I look up into his brown eyes and see a lost boy. When did he go so…wrong? What happened to the boy I thought I knew? How did he become so warped by the streets that he is slowly, but surely, morphing into one of the zombies he once so harshly criticized? He has parents who care about him and a loving family, not too many people we know can say the same. So how could he be standing there smoking the same chemicals that our mother pumps through the lifeless slabs of flesh on the prep room table? A man-made drug that is as equally popular amongst the dead as the living.

 “You guys are disgusting!” I yell unexpectantly. “You’re already high out of your minds and you still want more?!”

He gazes back at me blankly.

“I hope that shit falls on the floor and you can’t smoke it anymore,” I said aiming the comment at the boy holding the joint.

It’s as if God himself hears my please because just as the words leave my lips the kids’ fingers twitch and he drops the blunt spilling all its contents on the dirty basement floor. Frantic, he jumps out of his seat to scoop up his losses. My brother glares at me accusingly. Body still in his drug-induced trance, he gently lifts his right hand in the air, and inch by little inch raises it until I am staring directly into the barrel of his gun. I freeze as the two on the couch beside me dash instinctively for the exit. Nothing happens for what seems like forever.

An explosion of sound rings off in my head as my brain is flooded with images: memories of moments just like this when he would be holding a gun that ends up going off accidentally. Once in the house, once in the car, once in grandma’s house where he nearly blew the clock’s head off. He was high off g-smoke just like he is right now. And even then, I don’t think he aimed at any target in particular the way he is so steadily aiming at me. The look on his face is vacant. There is no sign of emotion behind his stare, just bloodshot eyes set in a pale face, mouth slightly ajar in a stupefied expression. A little like a deer caught in headlights.  

I see his finger waver over the trigger. I see the pin hit the bullet and I see it travel down the cold metal pipe at such a velocity that it shatters my bone hard skull with as much ease as a hammer cracks into a walnut. Gore splatters the wall painting it red. I watch as the thick lines race down the filthy yellow walls and pool together in a bloody puddle on the floor, only to be trampled by my brother’s footsteps seconds later as he runs as far away from my limp body as his shaky limbs will take him. I see the kids outside recounting the details to authorities and I see them dragging my shell-shocked brother off in handcuffs to his doom. I see my mother, unable to cope with the loss of both her children, driving off the side of the road in a state of complete delirium and depression.

I snap back into reality suddenly aware of the feeling that every muscle in my body is full of tension; head is nearly bursting with adrenaline. The wave of panic that had rushed through me just moments ago fades to a low heart aching throb. I exhale, fear quickly lashing out into anger. I stand swiftly, reach out my hand, and slap him hard. The smack seems to echo in the dead silence.

“Don’t you ever do some shit like that to me again!” I roar before storming out and bursting into tears.

I run all the way home not stopping to talk to anyone. I cry myself to sleep thinking about what could have happened. What would have happened if he had shot me? Images of my poor mother pushed to the brink of insanity or worse, suicide, after hearing the news stain my retinas. Thoughts of my brother coming down from his high, realizing that he hurt or worse, killed me, and then having to live suffering from guilt threatens to tear my heart to pieces.

I wake up the next day and vow to make it out of Newark, and to take my loved ones right along with me. To escape the quicksand of the concrete jungle and make it to where the grass is greener. To truly thrive and not merely exist like the soulless zombies who wander the streets waiting for their next fix; living day by day and never planning for tomorrow. Never expecting it to come. And even though I could have died that night it instilled, in me, a will to live greater than I have ever felt before.