“The Soulless” IX

Again, pardon the delay. Today I have not as good an excuse as teeth extraction, only I can say the hours being wasted on ‘The X-Files’ episodes are taxing. The relentless carnage produced by merely hearing those telephonic chimes so associated with the opening title sequence, have rotted away an entire layer of my brain. Therefor, I cannot remember what day it is, and also, when I do remember, I forget what that means. Decidedly, as I love ‘X-Files’ with an altruistic and unhealthy passion, I will blame the hydrocodon for short-term memory loss. Thank you, enjoy. 

I wake. I begin to move deliberately, worriedly accounting for all my limbs. First I think, 

Is my brain in my head? 

I touch my forehead, run my hand along my brow, down my nose. I open my eyes and inhale air, but it hurts. The same burn in your throat produced by alcohol is being caused by air. I need some water or something. When I try to stand, I feel the jolt of pain in my previously immobile right hand. My shoulder, I had been shot. I forgot. Momentarily, I believed I could have dreamt it all–but no, unfortunately. My shirt is covered in brown, red, the tried blood is caked onto my skin, in my hair. I try to open and close my fist, it is hard and my fingers are covered in sticky blood. I sit up, gradually, and see Anya sitting by her father, he’s dead. 

“Why did he act like that? What was wrong with him?” Anya begged no one in particular. 

“He was bitten, look at his arm. It must be one of the side effects, you know? Like with rabies, or something,” Frank says solemnly. 

“We’re surrounded by those things, if we put him out there, it’ll just attract them,” I manage. 

“Are you alright?” Frank asks. I realize now my wound had been bound by makeshift gauze. 

“Yeah, I guess. This sucks.” 

“No kidding.” Frank sighs. 

“Anya, I’m sorry…” I manage through a mouth that tastes like metal and feels like sandpaper. 

“He would have died anyway,” she replied, she stands up and walks towards me. She lends me a hand and we stand up. We walk into the living room together, not sure of what to think or say. 

A week goes by quickly. Everything returns to something mirroring normalcy. Anya reads to us. I’m still slightly nervous, checking windows all the time, making sure the doors are locked, watching for zombies, but we’ve seen none. Frank even walked outside a few times. He said he was going to try and hunt them, if he could. He said he walked in and out of the woods several times, attracting none and finding that they all had evacuated the area. 

I walk to Anya in her room. She is drawing a picture of something, but won’t show me what.  She says, “I’m very fond of Jeb, what do you make of him?” 

“I think he’s a nice guy.” 

“I think he’s a very nice guy, what do you think of Frank?” 

“Frank? He acts like a tough guy. We don’t know much about him. His family or anything,” I say. I sit on her bed and rest against the pale blue wall. 

“He doesn’t have a family. He lives by himself. His mother is still alive, she lives in a retirement home in Boca Raton, Florida,” Anya tells me, she smiles and then holds up the picture. It is a drawing of a deer. 

“That’s pretty good,” I say, quietly. I suddenly become flush and very self aware. I can feel everything. I am conscious of every body part. Every sound I make, audible or otherwise, is amplified and I think she can hear it, too. 

“This one won’t get eaten,” she laughs. “How’s your arm, Tom?” 

“It’s fine, luckily Frank knows something about first aid,” I say. 

“Luckily.”

The door, being open, is subject to Jeb’s investigation. He comes in dressed in clothes he had found in a trunk upstairs. 

“Do I look like Malvolio?” He asks. He is wearing several kinds of scarves and robes and yellow pants. A coonskin cap, too small for his large, boxy head, rests on the brim of his skull. Moths and dust fly from his arms every time he makes any extravagant gestures. 

“Oh, you do,” Anya assures, looking at me with a bemused smile. 

“Let’s give wrestling a go, Tom!” Jeb hisses. 

“Jeb,” I wiggle anxiously, “I just got shot in the damn arm; let it rest.” 

“Nah, nah, you’re overreacting! You barely got shot!” Jeb counters. 

“How does a person barely get shot, Jeb?” Anya tests. 

“It’s all in  your head!” Jeb waves his hand and a spider flies from the sleeve. I rotate my shoulder. He was right, the shot itself hurt more than the injury. The injury, despite the pain and trouble, hadn’t been that severe at all, and I had regained the majority of mobility over the weekend.

“You’re crazy, Jeb. Even with a busted arm I’d hurt you.” 

“Then put your money where your mouth is, Lestrange!” Jeb cackles. He begins to jig with excitement and Anya, completely mesmerized by the oddity whirling before her, says, 

“C’mon, Tom, give it a go.”