Walking up the driveway you will notice that the front door is open, which is never a good sign.
And the garage door stays shut when you press the grey button on your remote control because the power is cut.
I’m inside. Sitting in the dark on your recliner. Wearing a zombie mask. Fake blood. Missing teeth. Sores all over the face. And glow in the dark eyes.
The mask won Boy Scout Troop 194’s scariest costume of the year in 1999.
No, it’s not Halloween.
No, I’m not an actual zombie.
But I bumped bath salts earlier tonight.
And watched a horror movie marathon.
Which is why I’m dressed this way for the occasion.
When you decide to walk through the front door, you will see the shimmer of silver steel in the streetlight coming through the window. And a note saying, “The only way to kill a zombie is to destroy the head. Destroy the head. Even if it’s someone you know.”
You will round the corner into the living room with the steel in hand. The only objects you will be able to see are two neon green orbs floating in the darkness. They will stare back at you and shrug their shoulders. Because they are telling you I don’t give a shit.
I hope you scatter my thoughts into the creases of leather so my leaking head can ruin your carpet.
If my leaking head doesn’t ruin your carpet, I will rip your chest open like an eight year old assaulting wrapping paper, and throw different body parts into the air like confetti.
Because I know the fucked up shit I am capable of.
And this is a better option than silently walking away from each other in two opposite directions.
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