Under a Silent Moon

5

Chapter Five: Damned if I Do

ZACK

I shouldn't, but my legs force me to despite my brain's disapproval, as if they themselves have become sentient. I walk forward, one foot in front of the other, in a zombie-like trance. Nothing else exists, only the blood. Only the thick, pulsating, crimson fluid that sustains life in mortal bodies. I've never been addicted to drugs, but if this is what withdrawal feels like, it's a wonder anyone has ever broken the lethal habit.

As my feet ascended the concrete stairs that led to the parking lot just outside of my former high school, I pulled out a packet of cigarettes--old habits die hard--and reached for a lighter. I've avoided any and all stores since my transition as best I could, but a guy still needs to maintain his personal grooming routine. After about a week of stowing away in the park and the cemetery, I risked a trip to a convenience store right outside of town. I figured I wouldn't bump into anyone I knew there since it was just far enough away for the locals.

During my shopping trip I picked up a few essentials--toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant (have to keep that undead odor at bay), cigarettes, and a new lighter. I'm running scarily low on cash at this point, and I won't dare use any of my credit cards because those could be tracked. It's better off if my family thinks I'm dead, I've decided. Easier than the constant worry and wonder, at least from my sister.

Without my permission, an image of Julia standing over my grave appears in my mind's eye. She's wearing a little black dress and a large black bow that pulls her auburn hair back, revealing the agony on her face. She sets a flower on my tombstone that reads Zackary Ions: Beloved son, brother, and friend. Dad is beside her. He takes her hand to lead her away. I can see the streaks the tears leave on her reddened cheeks. When I attempt to see Dad though, his face is a blur, any emotion he may be experiencing is clouded and indiscernible.

I consider writing Julia a letter so that she doesn't have to wonder what happened to her older brother, but that would make my death appear to be a suicide. My complete and utter disappearance is probably for the best.

I need to get out of here, I tell myself. If I'm to continue this disappearing act, I can't risk being seen around these parts. But, where should I go? How far is too far? How close is too close? I haven't been doing much planning in these few months of my new life. I guess maybe I'm waiting to see if I wake up, or maybe I have some rare disease that mimics death, but that I'll recover in time and can go back to my normal life. The thought alone is laughable.

I catch a glance of myself in a puddle that has formed in the parking lot and wince. I'm looking pretty rough. Nothing compared to pre-dead Zack who had the nicely kempt hair and those stupid button-up shirts with the collar. Post-dead Zack looks like he needs a shower and an alibi. I might as well get a neck tattoo and a scar across my eye to complete this new look.

I take one last drag on my cigarette and toss it into the puddle, distorting my shameful reflection and turn to leave. I shouldn't be here. Here, out of all places. It feels so easy to just walk through the front doors, fist-bump Grayson in the hall, record Mr. Thompson trying not to fall asleep in his first period class, sneak a cigarette in the bathroom before football practice. But it isn't easy at all. I don't have a story. And even if I did, it wouldn't be long before someone noticed my stench or my dad becomes suspicious when I refuse to go to any doctor appointment ever again or I accidentally rip Lizzy's throat out just because she was trying to give me a hug.

This bloodlust has taken control of my life whether I like it or not, and although this was never a part of my life plan, I have to accept that things have changed drastically and create a new path for myself.