Hell. 

I don't know what to write. Or why I'm writing. I guess I hope someone sees this before I die. It's late and it's pretty bad out there. 

Who am I kidding? It's terrible.

The constant fear that one of them might get you. I heard it started here. It's a small island and we're going to be gone in a few days. I've seen them. They don't look any different from us, not like those in the movies. They just walk stiffly and their eyes, they're soulless, dead. 

Not empty but crazed. 

The street outside is empty, illuminated by the lamppost. God, I hope they come soon. The helicopters, I mean. The other countries are supposed to help us, but they're afraid too. If it starts in another country, it's practically the end. There's no turning back.

I'm hiding now. Wherever this place is. There's another guy here but he's sleeping. It's my turn to keep watch. My daughter's head rested on my lap, bringing back some hope. My wife's out there, alone. I hope she makes it. 

It's only been a day, but many are gone. The army's waiting for backup and there's nothing I can do but hope. 

I don't know how long this will last, I don't know when I'll see another zombie again. I don't know if Riley's even alive. Jesus. I don't know.

It's getting desperate up in here. The footsteps are coming closer. I can hear them while I'm writing. It's definitely another zombie. No sane person would walk the streets at night during the apocalypse. I don't know many things now, but I know two. One, a zombie does not fight with other zombies for food. Two, they can sense two things, humans and zombies.

Oh and last thing? I know it's going to turn away. The footsteps are growing fainter.

I'm gonna have to close this entry soon, I have to go. I'm sweating although it's 25 degrees in here. My right arm's hurting and I'm starting to bleed through the bandage from all this writing.

Well, the bite mark doesn't hurt that bad. It just stings. I have to go out now. I sense more zombies. 

I hope I can still come back tomorrow. If you see me, and I don't look at you like a father? 

Run.

That very question used to leave me paralyzed.

"Who am I?"

Despicable is what I used to think of myself. I'd poke and prod the only parts of myself left in tact after a past of bumps and bruises both in and outside of myself.

Who am I? I am that paragraph and so much more.

I am still standing,

Though I've been knocked down.

I am thriving,

Though I've been completely numb.

I am strong,

Though my strength has been tested.

I am beautiful,

Though my past isn't.

I am loved.

The darkest parts of myself have had light shed upon them, they've been seen and accepted along with the light.

This question, it excites me now! Who am I?

I am whole. I am complete.

I am my soul, my mind, and my body.

I'm me.

When I look in the mirror, I see the person I've always wanted to become.