The most unsatisfying thus unacknowledged tragedy is that of the star-crossed friendship.

If nothing else, doomed lovers can vainly seek solace in the justice of their romance’s righteousness, hearing the sighs of those enamored by their plight whilst ignoring the gagging noises emitted by those few cynics who scorn their impulsiveness. The ill-destined leader will at least get a few seconds satisfaction seated upon his throne of absolute power even as he sightlessly sows the seeds of his own demise, leaving onlookers in fear and disdain. Those wise no men who in pridefully ill-judged moments call out their own names, may be warmed for days or weeks or even decades by the fire of their hubris before realizing all they lost in the sea of glory’s temptation, much to the casual observer’s anguish.

But who is entranced by the tale of a friendship which the fates have clearly conspired against? Who will speculate upon the fatal flaws, minor mistakes, and cruel coincidences that drive a stake in their affection? Is not the tragedy of Horatio and Hamlet a tale worth telling? Are Mercutio and Romeo not as entertaining a couple with as sad of a downfall as that of the latter and his lover? Are not the small everyday occurrences which rip a relationship asunder as surely as a knife as worth the Weird Sister’s attention as the larger events which shape the world?

Are these occurrences not just as irreversibly problematic?

First, one’s called into work, then the other gets in a minor accident. There’s concocted plans, canceled plans, life events that change each colorfully constructed character both dramatically and subtly, the slow erosion of a solid foundation. But they’re still friends, of course, they’re still friends, how could they not be?

Yet, it’s been six months since either half of the pair has seen the other. When they reach the same crossroad, they go different ways, unaware of having passed. As miles of asphalt become indistinct recollections, the distance grows.

Weekly calls become monthly emails, monthly emails devolve into monthly texts then monthly to bimonthly and soon only birthday and holiday cards are exchanged between those who’d once planned to support the other at the altar, be blessed as Godparents to one another’s children, end up seated across from each other at the chessboard in the nursing home, driving electric wheelchairs side by side, reminiscing the good old days.

Could they feel the tree’s life being sapped away by time and mishap? Did they wonder what could’ve been done? What support system could’ve been maintained? What protein shake for emotion could’ve strengthened both resolves to keep each other close? What cat could they have pried off their tongues to keep the channels of communication open? Was there anything that may have fortified their humanity, their empathy, or their sympathy in such a way as to salvage a sinking ship?

Years later they meet again by accident, still friends at heart, but strangers of surface, awkward and out of place, encountering a relic of ancient history amidst admiring a piece of modern art. Could they be friends again? Maybe enough of a fossil remains to construct on. But, they have newer friends, friends who understand them better, friends who actually fit their context and complete their current collage.

They speak, get a coffee, friend one another on Facebook, then pass down different crossroads yet again with a wistful wave.

No one, not even the players, openly mourns the death of friendship. Just as the cultivation of a friendly network of support is considered natural, so is some prudent pruning, even if it's unwilling and unintentional. Yet that doesn’t mean it could not have been prevented. It doesn’t mean some fruit is not rendered bittersweet.

Perhaps the tragedy is not the death of the friendship, but the fact we’re not supposed to care.

Late Afternoon.

There I was, pipette in one hand and microfuge tube in the other, almost done setting up a PCR, when a bang caused me to look up.

The glass across from my bench, normally a window to the walking path outside, was stained with blood.

Suddenly, a hideous, decaying face was pressed against the glass. The sort of face you only see in movies, the kind that should already be heading for a grave.

It was a zombie.

Even now my main thought is: Holy fucking shit. This cannot be real.

Only in that moment did I register the shouts, the feet racing past the lab. A quick glance into the hallway revealed a pilgrimage of panicked labrats racing to their cars. Dr. Mortium, who I stopped in the hall, said that there was some sort of outbreak at the medical school. A quick check on social media confirmed the evidence of my eyes and ears.

Zombies.

The bloody, mother fucking undead had actually climbed out of the crap shoot of pulp fiction and into reality.

If I weren’t agnostic, now would be the time to pray.

I’m the only one in the lab today, so that’s good. But, after some consideration, I think my best option is to get home, get gas, get non-perishables, get George, and drive as far into the countryside as possibly. Thankfully, we’ve got a lot of emergency supplies leftover from hurricane season.

To make sure I can get out I’ve grabbed some hydrochloric acid, sodium hydroxide, and organometallics. I figure the first two can burn the zombies and the last makes a great just-add-water explosive.

Still, there’s no guarantees I can make it down five flights of stairs and through the parking lot to my tank of a truck. This is a battle I’m going into blind, ignorantly entering the fray. Hopefully, things haven’t gotten that bad yet.

Still, I wanted to leave a last note, a final entry in this journal, just in case:

Mom, Dad, and Connor-I love you, always have, always will.

George-I saw the ring in your jacket. I would’ve said yes.