Half-Life (ZombiesRuleContest)

Plop!

My left arm lands on the floor with a disturbingly loud, fleshy sound. Most of the class turns around to look at me, all of their noses scrunched up in distaste. Mr. Bolivian’s eyes dart over to me for a millisecond before he continues to teach, obviously trying to draw attention away from me. I pick my arm up, trying to ignore the hushed voices that suddenly start up around me.

I can't believe they let one of them into school. What if he's contagious? He's freaking gross.

I do my best to ignore them.

“Jesus Christ,” the girl sitting next to me whispers, leaning forward to get a closer look. I shoot her a nasty look and force my arm back into its socket, wincing at the uncomfortable sensation. That reaction actually stings a little bit, seeing as I was just thinking about how pretty she is. Not that I'd actually thought she'd give me the time of day. Her dark eyes are glued on the joint of my shoulder with a morbid sort of curiosity, as if waiting for the arm to fall right back off, and any hope of anything is crushed right there. I'm an idiot for thinking anything good would come of returning to high school.

“Go to hell,” I hiss back, picking my pen back up to continue taking notes. She finally, blessedly averts her eyes. The girl sitting in front of me giggles loudly at the exchange. I want to die from the humiliation of this. The rest of my day had been bearable. I'd been treated like I had the plague--which, techinically, I guess I do--but I can deal with that. Direct insults hurt.

Thankfully, the bell rings a few moments later and I'm able to limp to my locker, where a gaggle of freshman girls has decided to congregate. They quickly leave when they see me heading over, my bad leg giving me more trouble than it's really worth. It's not like I get any feeling from it anyways. I can't get much from the other one, either, though I cling to the dull feeling I do get from it like a lifeline.

Opening my locker takes a ridiculously long amount of time to do, my clumsy fingers unable to manipulate the lock as easily as I'd like them to. I can still remember being able to perform these simple tasks with ease, and the memory sends a jolt of longing through me. Motor skills are the first thing to go after the disease strikes.

It takes me exactly seven minutes and forty-two seconds to get it open. Yesterday it had taken me twice that.

I'm halfway through putting my books away—a much lengthier process than opening the locker—when I smell her. My improved sense of smell is one of the few good things that being diagnosed with mycochloraemia, otherwise known as living-dead syndrome, has given me.

“It's Louis, right?” Even knowing that she's there I'm startled to the point of almost dropping my books on the floor. As it is, my pointer finger detaches from my hand. I try to very subtly jam it back in as I turn to face her.

“Yeah,” I answer. It's that girl from my last class, the pretty one who'd called me disgusting. She tucks a strand of her chocolate-colored hair behind her ear in a gesture that I assume is a nervous habit.

“I'm really sorry about earlier, you know. In English. What I said was really rude and I didn't mean it like that,” she tells me, the words flying out of her mouth in a jumbled rush.

“S'okay,” I mumble, looking anywhere but at her. She must think I'm really pathetic, standing here an hour after school's ended, still struggling to get my stuff. I hate being this slow and useless. I'd never been made fun of before the disease. It's an awful feeling.

“It's really not,” she says, taking a tentative step forward. “It was cruel of me to say. I was just surprised, I guess.”

“It's fine,” I say.

“Um, well. I'll see you later, then.” She does an awkward little wave before turning around and strolling out of the hallway, the scent of her—vanilla, coconut, and something that I can't quite put my finger on—lingering long after she leaves.

As I slowly, painfully make my way to the exit at the opposite end of the hall, I hope to God that tomorrow will be better.