Human no Longer - IVMature

I flip the page to the entry marked October 16th, 2009. Here, the handwriting changes. It is the same scrawl I saw on the first entry I’d read: masculine, hurried. The page is wrinkled with what must have been drops of water, now dried.

Slowly I realize that these drops were not water, but tears.


October 16th, 2009

I failed.

I want nothing more than to scream, to slash profanity across the walls, the floors, this page. But I won’t desecrate her memory. No, I must keep it close and safe, even though I failed to keep her safe.

It’s my turn to be alone. It’s what I deserve, really. It should’ve been me. That’s what people always say at times like this. It should’ve been me.

The man standing watch with me fled when they came. He screamed and ran, firing shots blindly at the creatures. Some bit flesh, some hit walls. One hit the woman he was with.

Bitch came off lucky.

Olivia woke up, of course, and rushed with her shotgun to help me. There wasn’t much use, really, but we were going to go down together. We’d made a pact: if one of us went down, the other would kill us both. She didn’t want to turn into those things, and neither did I.

I failed her twice today.

I was so confused. We both were. That many bodies in such a small space, neither of us could help it. When those grasping hands brought her down–

I missed. I missed I missed I missed.

Fuck. I, I– FUCK.


The book trembles in my hands. He’d failed her three times that night: he hadn’t kept her safe, he hadn’t killed her, and he hadn’t kept her journal unsullied.

The rest of the page is marked over and over with the word Fuck, in varying sizes and intensities. By the end of the page, though, there are only scribbles. Scribbles, and the wrinkles left behind by his tears.

I turn the despoiled page over, and come to the one I had started with. I read it again in full, reading past the point I had stopped before. As I do, I notice that the writing seems more calm, more subdued. The anger that had controlled the previous entry seemed absent.


October 17th, 2009

I haven’t slept in days, but not just because I’m alone. True, there’s no-one to watch the doors while I slumber, but I can’t sleep because I always see her, every time I close my eyes. It was two days ago that she was torn from my grasp, and her frightened face haunts me.

I need to see her again. I need to know that she isn’t in pain anymore. I can’t go on with these fears pressing me. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t even fight anymore. I used the last of my ammo last night, so I can’t even shoot myself. I still have a knife, but I’m not brave enough a man to kill myself with that.

But I don’t want them to kill me, either. At first I feared them because they wanted to kill me. Now, I fear them because they want me to join in their lonely hunger.

Their hunger is different, though. It’s not the hunger I feel, not the hunger that humans feel. I’ve been told that emotions make us human. Even those corpses have hunger, rage. I… I have nothing left to feel anymore.

I passed a pharmacy today and went inside. I stole some painkillers, sleeping pills. Anything to make the pain stop, to let me sleep, to take her face out of my mind.

I can’t even bring myself to write her name.

But it’s a fear I must conquer, since I’ve failed in all else.

The End

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