I have never been a believer in the supernatural. My sister’s call me a realists, I say I just see what’s there. Which is basically the same thing I know, but I have never liked the word “realists” it reminds me of a self-centered prick. I like to think I’m not one of those. My sisters, on the other hand, can be argued upon.

I’m also not the type to write diaries or journals. Really, it’s whatever you want to call it. However, Mom is acting weird. Now, usually this isn’t a concern. My mother, Rebecca James, has dived a little too far into her delusions with the aid of Vicodin and alcohol, so as the oldest and only boy I have accepted the responsibility of taking care of her and my three sisters. 

Terilynn, my youngest sister, is gone. Nailah and Elin are in hysterics and Mom has not moved from her spot by the window in quite some time. She continues to stare at the...thing that had grabbed Teri from us only hours ago. If I crane my head, I can see my little sister’s body twitching on the ground, arms up in the air, jaw moving. I wish Mom would stop looking.

“Urien,” she speaks now, my name a stranger on her tongue. I ignore her. “Nailah, Elin, Terilynn.” She’s going through the list. Nailah pulls a sobbing Elin close to her chest and glares at Mom.

She’s always been a quiet girl, one that has loved books more than boys or popularity. For a fifteen-year-old, popularity seems to be big too. So, I am surprised by the sudden bout of aggression she shows.

“Why? Why? Why?” Mom’s whispering again. She places a hand on the window which draws the attention of the thing outside of the house. I don’t think she sees this...person[?], but Teri laying, forgotten, on the ground. I want to get up, but I cannot find it within myself to move from my own position. All I can do, is write about our fate and hope it’s all a dream.

Zombies is such a weird idea. There’s so many flaws to them, so many theories that cannot be true. Nailah insists there’s no other explanation though and I don’t have any good replies to her superstitions. The man outside is a good copy of the beasts we have grown up watching through a screen. He doesn’t have an arm and the skin that clings to him is held on by scraps. He is, literally, made out of skin and bones. I cannot help, but think that Teri will end up like that if we leave her body out there with the man.

No, I do not believe in the supernatural.

But, maybe, I should if we’re starting to eat one another like monsters. 

It’s 2:36am and I’m still awake because 2am isn’t anything like in the movies. 2am isn’t for those star-crossed lovers who lie under the starry night sky, dreaming for better days and warm embraces, all hoping for a better tomorrow that will never come. It’s for the poets, the writers and dreamers who can’t sleep because their minds are alive with marvelous words and declarations for someone who’s not there, who’s never going to be there and probably was never there in the first place. It’s for the alcoholics drinking themselves into oblivionation and the smokers who try to hide it all behind some false glaze and a high laugh, all just to forget someone who left without even a first thought to begin with. 2am is for the lonely, the ones who are in love with the loved but are not loved in return. It is a time for us, the damaged souls, so we can trick ourselves into believing we can just get right back up and start anew.

But that’s exactly what it is my friend, a trick. One that starts to wear off in the early hours of our dreaded mornings. It’s then we wait for our next 2am, our next fix. Like clockwork. We go ‘round and ’round until the batteries run out and we can’t find it in ourselves to get out of bed in the morning.

Because what would be the point? We’ve given up by then, we always do in the end. We’re cowards, every single one of us and although most won’t admit it, the truth still lurks in the shadows. It sits on our shoulders, whispering out our little fears into our hearts all day long. There it checks in, it sits and waits for the right moment.

For an opportunity to cut deeper inside of us.

But then again, it’s our own thoughts and insecurities that cut deeper than any blade ever could, than any deadly whisper. Our thoughts do the most damage. They rip us apart from the inside out, evil little smile on their nonexistent faces as they watch us put on a show for others. It’s like a circus show for them, one they know the ending of and somehow that makes it all the more better. Our thoughts are our demons.

And frankly, there’s nothing we can do to stop it. Some don’t even want it to stop, minds set on believing they deserve the torture, the pain. I admit to being one of many who are convinced they deserve to be buried in the dark, trapped in a water filled tank with all my secrets, to slowly starve off of them.

After all, monsters don’t get second chances, right?