Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance
Maimed
I remember when they first took over. I remember how the government played it down, said that it was not going to affect the good ol’ USA, just third world countries that couldn’t afford the correct weapons. The government was lying. Either that or they really were as stupid as they fucking looked. I remember my mother’s petrified, agonized screams as the hideous creatures tore at her body with their teeth; teeth infamous for being sharp enough to devour a human yet blunt enough to make it drag out in a way that only sinners waiting in purgatory for their certain descent to hell can empathise with. I remember watching with wide, thirteen-year-old eyes as my father tried to save her with his government-issued weapon. I remember how it didn’t even stun the creatures and how they slowly devoured him as well. I remember my big brother yelling at me to run to him before they cut off the doorway out of our house. I remember the pure, unbridled fear burning wholes in his eyes at the thought of losing me; his only unchanged relative left. By the time a splatter of my mother’s blood spraying onto my face had knocked me out of my terrified trance with horror it was too late. They were already advancing upon me, my parents’ maimed corpses among them. I remember seeing Gerard’s best friend, Ray Toro, dragging him away from the doomed house before he made the same mistake I had. I remember my eyes being too horrified to watch yet too unwilling to let go of my final moments to look away. I remember every part of my being telling me to make a final bid for the door and big brother, but my legs shaking too much to even make a step in any direction. I remember the searing, putrid sensation of the first bite and the numbness slowly overtaking me as the group of five (originally three before the cruel addition of my parents) started to feast relentlessly on my pale flesh.
That’s the last memory I have before I woke up as what I have become; some sort of monstrosity that is neither human nor zombie. Zombie. Wow, that sounds strange considering how often I used to watch cheesy zombie movies with my brother to fill up empty Saturday nights. I remember how we used to laugh at the implausible story lines and how stupid the zombies looked, how easy to escape they would be. How ridiculous the idea of a “zombie apocalypse” was. But then something happened, just what nobody other than what’s left of the government quite knows, something that suddenly made the movies not so laughable and a hell of a lot more feasible. And, just like in the movies or cheap television programmes, it spread like wildfire; claiming all who had the misfortune of stumbling into it’s fiery depths. Like my mother. Like my father. Like me.
But not me. I don’t entirely know what happened to me, only that I’ve come across no one else in my somewhat compromising and seemingly unique situation. No one else with nowhere to go, without a purpose to live or fight for. No one else with the inability to sleep, or feel pain, or get hungry. No one else with parts of their flesh missing, in some places down to the bone, where they were almost turned. No one else with my glassy eyes and greyed skin. No one else who is exactly like a zombie in every way other than that they still possess their tortured soul and precious memories. Because there is no one else; I’m the only one of my kind. But what the fuck is my kind? I lost the privilege of being called human when I let my fear and cowardice get the better of me, yet I am not fully cursed with being a zombie due to some unique fluke in my genetic code. I guess some would call me a miracle; the fact that I “survived” a zombie attack. I call it a scourge upon my being that some greater force inflicted me with because I was one bad motherfucker in some past life.
Being this, this thing that I am forced to be robs me of everything I once took advantage of and somehow treasured deeply at the same time. I can’t feel pain; something I never treasured I guess, but I miss the occasional clumsiness that reminded me that I was alive because without pain, how do we know what the opposite feels like? I can’t cry; I have to keep everything bottle inside of me, the pressure of the trapped tears explosive, as though they are scratching and tugging at my insides in their search for an escape. I can’t eat; I miss tasting the burnt toast that I used to eat every morning, I miss the feeling of Gerard’s famous black coffee crawling down my throat and kicking me into a state of being fully awake with it’s delectable bitterness. I can’t heal; every wound I have obtained since the attack that changed me has been still adorns the hideous flesh that it imprinted itself on, I try to hide my wounds with clothes and accessories. I can’t age; it’s been ten years and I have yet to leave the features of a teenage boy behind me. I can’t sleep; therefore I can’t dream. More specifically, I can’t dream about him.
Him. I miss him the most, perhaps even more than I miss Gerard. I miss my best friend and first boyfriend, Frank Iero. I remember the last time that I saw his perfect face before I changed; it had been just two hours before the attack. We’d gone to the forest despite our parents’ (and Gerard’s) best wishes, to our old tree house. To that palace of fond memories of happier times, times before having the soul sucked out of us was an imminent threat. We’d spent the whole day chatting about anything but the current international crisis; reading the Watchmen comics that I’d stolen from Gerard’s bedroom; laughing at whatever lame jokes we told each other; gazing into each other’s lively, youthful eyes; holding each other’s warm, loving hand. We shared our first and only kiss that day, a kiss that kills me to remember because I know that I can never have it again.
But it would damn me to forget because, without my memories of what I once was, I am a soulless shell of a being; I am a maimed, ugly, freak of nature without those agonizingly wonderful memories. Memories of what I was, of what I still am deep down inside. No matter what I look like nor how many people scream in fear upon seeing me and instantly despise me because I defy nature, I still am who I am.
No one and nothing can change who I am, no matter how maimed I may become.
A/N: Thanks for reading! I’ve never written something like this, with zombies and no actual dialogue so I hope it wasn’t too bad. This is kinda irrelevant, but if anyone read this week’s Kerrang! I wrote the letter of the week in the Feedback section (about the Sex Pistols and British punk). Anyway, enough about that. Thank you very much for reading, please rate (if worthy) and review (no matter what you think)! Thanks again! :)
I remember when they first took over. I remember how the government played it down, said that it was not going to affect the good ol’ USA, just third world countries that couldn’t afford the correct weapons. The government was lying. Either that or they really were as stupid as they fucking looked. I remember my mother’s petrified, agonized screams as the hideous creatures tore at her body with their teeth; teeth infamous for being sharp enough to devour a human yet blunt enough to make it drag out in a way that only sinners waiting in purgatory for their certain descent to hell can empathise with. I remember watching with wide, thirteen-year-old eyes as my father tried to save her with his government-issued weapon. I remember how it didn’t even stun the creatures and how they slowly devoured him as well. I remember my big brother yelling at me to run to him before they cut off the doorway out of our house. I remember the pure, unbridled fear burning wholes in his eyes at the thought of losing me; his only unchanged relative left. By the time a splatter of my mother’s blood spraying onto my face had knocked me out of my terrified trance with horror it was too late. They were already advancing upon me, my parents’ maimed corpses among them. I remember seeing Gerard’s best friend, Ray Toro, dragging him away from the doomed house before he made the same mistake I had. I remember my eyes being too horrified to watch yet too unwilling to let go of my final moments to look away. I remember every part of my being telling me to make a final bid for the door and big brother, but my legs shaking too much to even make a step in any direction. I remember the searing, putrid sensation of the first bite and the numbness slowly overtaking me as the group of five (originally three before the cruel addition of my parents) started to feast relentlessly on my pale flesh.
That’s the last memory I have before I woke up as what I have become; some sort of monstrosity that is neither human nor zombie. Zombie. Wow, that sounds strange considering how often I used to watch cheesy zombie movies with my brother to fill up empty Saturday nights. I remember how we used to laugh at the implausible story lines and how stupid the zombies looked, how easy to escape they would be. How ridiculous the idea of a “zombie apocalypse” was. But then something happened, just what nobody other than what’s left of the government quite knows, something that suddenly made the movies not so laughable and a hell of a lot more feasible. And, just like in the movies or cheap television programmes, it spread like wildfire; claiming all who had the misfortune of stumbling into it’s fiery depths. Like my mother. Like my father. Like me.
But not me. I don’t entirely know what happened to me, only that I’ve come across no one else in my somewhat compromising and seemingly unique situation. No one else with nowhere to go, without a purpose to live or fight for. No one else with the inability to sleep, or feel pain, or get hungry. No one else with parts of their flesh missing, in some places down to the bone, where they were almost turned. No one else with my glassy eyes and greyed skin. No one else who is exactly like a zombie in every way other than that they still possess their tortured soul and precious memories. Because there is no one else; I’m the only one of my kind. But what the fuck is my kind? I lost the privilege of being called human when I let my fear and cowardice get the better of me, yet I am not fully cursed with being a zombie due to some unique fluke in my genetic code. I guess some would call me a miracle; the fact that I “survived” a zombie attack. I call it a scourge upon my being that some greater force inflicted me with because I was one bad motherfucker in some past life.
Being this, this thing that I am forced to be robs me of everything I once took advantage of and somehow treasured deeply at the same time. I can’t feel pain; something I never treasured I guess, but I miss the occasional clumsiness that reminded me that I was alive because without pain, how do we know what the opposite feels like? I can’t cry; I have to keep everything bottle inside of me, the pressure of the trapped tears explosive, as though they are scratching and tugging at my insides in their search for an escape. I can’t eat; I miss tasting the burnt toast that I used to eat every morning, I miss the feeling of Gerard’s famous black coffee crawling down my throat and kicking me into a state of being fully awake with it’s delectable bitterness. I can’t heal; every wound I have obtained since the attack that changed me has been still adorns the hideous flesh that it imprinted itself on, I try to hide my wounds with clothes and accessories. I can’t age; it’s been ten years and I have yet to leave the features of a teenage boy behind me. I can’t sleep; therefore I can’t dream. More specifically, I can’t dream about him.
Him. I miss him the most, perhaps even more than I miss Gerard. I miss my best friend and first boyfriend, Frank Iero. I remember the last time that I saw his perfect face before I changed; it had been just two hours before the attack. We’d gone to the forest despite our parents’ (and Gerard’s) best wishes, to our old tree house. To that palace of fond memories of happier times, times before having the soul sucked out of us was an imminent threat. We’d spent the whole day chatting about anything but the current international crisis; reading the Watchmen comics that I’d stolen from Gerard’s bedroom; laughing at whatever lame jokes we told each other; gazing into each other’s lively, youthful eyes; holding each other’s warm, loving hand. We shared our first and only kiss that day, a kiss that kills me to remember because I know that I can never have it again.
But it would damn me to forget because, without my memories of what I once was, I am a soulless shell of a being; I am a maimed, ugly, freak of nature without those agonizingly wonderful memories. Memories of what I was, of what I still am deep down inside. No matter what I look like nor how many people scream in fear upon seeing me and instantly despise me because I defy nature, I still am who I am.
No one and nothing can change who I am, no matter how maimed I may become.
A/N: Thanks for reading! I’ve never written something like this, with zombies and no actual dialogue so I hope it wasn’t too bad. This is kinda irrelevant, but if anyone read this week’s Kerrang! I wrote the letter of the week in the Feedback section (about the Sex Pistols and British punk). Anyway, enough about that. Thank you very much for reading, please rate (if worthy) and review (no matter what you think)! Thanks again! :)
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