An Undead Boy

I arrive home from school early because P.E has left me feeling dejected. I'm sure that Mr. Robson has noticed my absence and will be infuriated that I managed to slip out from under his nose but I'm not planning on returning to his lesson again. There isn't a place for me there anymore.

The walk home was an uneasy one. As I walked through the street, I could see my neighbours peering out from behind their lace netting and floral curtains. I'm clearly still a marvel to them; this is probably the first time they have seen me since I died. Mum never let me leave the house after she drove me back from the hospital in the dead (pardon my phrase) of night until today and that was only because I am obligated to go to school. As I made my way warily down the road, I grew self conscious of my movements. They're not as fluid and natural since I changed and it's one of the traits of a true zombie I have inherited. Must be something to do with blood circulation but don't hold me on that, I was never any good at science alive and doubt I will be now that I'm dead. I could only imagine what those neighbours think of me, stumbling down my garden path with my corpse-like appearance.

The kitchen is empty and I wonder whether I should call Mum. I hold back; I am certain that she will not reply to me even if I scream for her to come, begging. The house feels deserted though. My mother usually sits in the front room at this time, watching daytime soap dramas. In life, we had an unspoken agreement that I never enter the room whilst she was watching these programmes. That rule sort of applies to every room now.

Alone and with nothing to do, I place my bag on the kitchen table and walk over to the fridge, opening it. I'm bizarrely fascinated by the food on the shelves; the vegetables and fruit healthy yet unappealing, the packaged cheese and meats and yoghurt's barely touched. It's strange because they hold no interest for me now. I haven't eaten since I woke up from death.

I vaguely remember the first night being back home and my mother standing with her back against the kitchen work surface, as if afraid to let me out of her sight. Not because she was worried for me but because she was worried about me. I think she thought I would attack her. I should have told her she'd been watching too many horror films. She didn't look at me directly, she just stared at my shoes. Maybe it made it easier for her, focusing on something that she was familiar with rather than the new, gaunt me? She had mumbled something about dinner and I had refused, realising I wasn't remotely hungry despite the fact I hadn't eaten for weeks. I'd never really thought about food at the hospital, I guess my mind was occupied with all the experiments they were carrying out on me. Since then, she never raised the subject again and I continued to stop caring about food.

Until now.

Should I eat something? I don't know what affect it could have on me but I can hardly see any harm. The worst that can happen has happened.

Gingerly, I pick up the cheese and carry it over to the chopping board we keep behind the bread-bin. Almost gently, my fingers peel off the cling-film wrapping and I pull out a knife from the drawer. With careful precision, I press the blade into the cheese and produce one thin slice. It's almost translucent but it's about as much as I think I can handle right now. I'm apprehensive as I pick up the cheese slice between my skeletal fingers. I can certainly smell the odour radiating from it but it fails to make my mouth water. I'm let down and know that this is an uninspiring beginning. Cheese was always a favourite of mine.

Realising that I can stall no longer, I bite into the slice and immediately gag. It's disgusting. Stomach churning, I race over to the sink and spit out the chewed up cheese, resisting the urge to throw up. In the back of my mind, I find it amusing that I'm even fighting against nausea when there hasn't been anything in my stomach to regurgitate for months. After a few moments, my insides stop squirming and I brace my arms against the sink, shaking violently. I turn the tap on and rinse water around my mouth, grimacing at the feel of it before spitting it out. Food is definitely off limits.

The sound of keys turning in a lock startles me and I rush back to the cheese, wrapping it hurriedly and shoving it back into the fridge. I grab the towel and roughly wipe the knife clean before dropping it into its drawer. My mother is standing in the hallway, shocked to see me home from school so early. For a split second, I think that she's going to scold me for skipping school but she remembers what I am and steals herself into the front room without a word. It's surprisingly hurtful. Even after all this time, her shunning me feels fresh and her betrayal is as new and disturbing to me as the first time.

I thought that perhaps with it being just the two of us my whole life that our bond would grow stronger. I'm not an idiot, I know that having your child's body reanimate itself is probably one of the most unsettling and distressing things that could happen to a parent but it was always just us. I thought that she could overcome this, not just for my sake but for hers. Without me, she's alone. We have nobody else. My father left before I was born but we've always managed, together.

I haven't just lost a mother. I've lost my closest friend; one of the only people whose love I thought was unconditional.

I stare blankly over at the sink, lost in my grief. Something on the tap catches my attention though. I lean in, peering at it with complete concentration, utterly bewildered at what it is. Had it been there before? Had I not noticed it when I turned the tap on? I look down at my hand, checking to see if the substance had rubbed off onto my skin.

Across my milky white palm, there was a thick smudge of dark green. I wet the dishcloth that was sitting on the side and wiped at the mark but the green liquid quickly pooled back in my palm. I scrubbed the cloth against my hand but again, the mysterious liquid reappeared. And then I finally clued in.

The green ooze hadn't come from the tap. It had come from my hand.

It was my blood.

I must have cut myself when I cleaned off the knife I used for the cheese. I couldn't feel a thing though. It didn't even sting. I raise my hand and examine the deep cut, too astonished to be squeamish.

My body is still unveiling unpleasant surprises and I'm not sure if I like it.