I’m sorry, Mom

I feel like, somehow, it’s my fault.

I mean, I know, logically, that it isn’t. I know that I didn’t start this, however it started. Voodoo, or aliens, or a virus mutating, or a chemical weapon gone wrong. Whatever happened, I know it wasn’t me who did it

It’s just…I’ve always loved zombie stories. I’ve watched all the movies, Night of the Living Dead, 28 Days Later, Evil Dead; even Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. Walking Dead? I invited my friends round ever week to watch the new episode. We dressed up, we had themed snacks. And video games? I’ve spent hours with a gun-shaped controller in my hand blowing the brains out of computer generated zombies. Days. Weeks. God, I don’t know.

And I know that it’s normal for teenagers to get angry at their parents. To say things in the heat of the moment that they regret. I said I wished she was dead. I didn’t mean it. I was trying to stop myself saying it, even while the words were coming out of my mouth. I couldn’t. I didn’t mean it. I know she knows I didn’t mean it too. She’s my Mum. She just looked across at me with that mixture of hurt, anger and disappointment that twisted my guts and made me want to cry like I haven’t since I was 8. I wanted her to make it all better.

But now there are zombies all around the house. The rotting, reanimated corpses of our friends, our neighbours. Even the god-damned preacher. Ha. I guess God really did damn him. I’ve told her I’ve got this. I have the gun. She made a joke, she said, ‘I guess I was wrong about those games being a waste of time!’ and we shared a sick smile.

She thinks I’m going to use the gun on them. But I know that’s no use. There are so many of them, I know how this goes. I’ve seen the movies. No, there aren’t enough bullets in the world to kill all of them…