One Foot in the Grave: An Almost Zombie story

CHAPTER THREE: JUST CALL ME 'HANDY'

CHAPTER THREE: JUST CALL ME 'HANDY'

In a vain attempt to get my mind off the winged thing at the church, I decide to go home and sort laundry. I've been neglecting it since Mom's been gone and it's starting to crawl up the walls. If I don't get it done, I might find myself smothered in my sleep by jeans and t-shirts. Oh, and I've got to wrap my wrist in an Ace bandage; the sucker is really starting to ache and it's already begun turning colors, which is fairly alarming. I try to pull open the door to my apartment building, but my palm is covered still covered in sweat. I wipe my hands down the front of my jeans.

"Hey, Isis, how're things going?"

I smile. The voice belongs to Sam Allen, my lab partner in high school who just happens to be the hottest guy around. If you're into Vikings, and probably even if you're not. Seriously, the guy looks like he could bench press a semi. Oh, and he lives in my building. Lucky me. "Hi yourself, Sam. What's going on?"

He shrugs awkwardly. "Just delivering for Bruno's...he told me you came in and bought raw brains. What's up with that?"

Crap. "I...uhhh...just an experiment," I lie. "You know how my mom is."

"Your mom's awesome. Kind of weird, but awesome."

That pretty much sums up how I feel about her, too. I fidget from one foot to the next, not sure how to continue the conversation. "So, got any cool plans for the summer?" Gah, that sounds so cheesy, but I can't exactly take it back.

"Just working," he says. "My car insurance is killin' me. What about you? Still dating that Andrew guy?"

I shake my head. "Not anymore. We just had different...goals in life." Like he wants me dead and I want me alive.

He nods like he totally understands. Maybe he does. I don't doubt he's had more girlfriends than anyone else in our graduating class. He's just one of those guys: not a 'player', but not a monk, either. Popular.

"Did he do that to you?" Sam points at my wrist.

"Indirectly, yeah. But it's okay," I say. "It's just a sprain."

"What a jerk. Good thing you dumped him."

"I think so, too."

"I'd better get to delivering these." He juggles the small box of meats with one hand, and reaches for the door handle with the other. "Here, let me get that for you."

"Thanks," I say, and walk inside ahead of him.

"Hey, some of us are getting together tomorrow at The Coffee Jar. Want to come?"

I'd be crazy to say no. I've wanted him to ask me out, in any regard, since I was a freshman. "Absolutely. Just call me and let me know what time."

He nods. "Will do. See ya later."

I actually hum my way to the elevator. The day is definitely looking up and even the prospect of mountains of dirty clothes doesn't bother me.

#

The next morning doesn't start out so badly. I check my wrist by wiggling it slightly, having wrapped it the night before. It feels wonky, but a visit to the doctor after I get control of the laundry should fix that. But first, I crack two eggs into a bowl; scramble them with two tablespoons of milk, then pour the concoction into a frying pan. It's not until I put a forkful of the delicious, perfectly scrambled eggs into my mouth that my stomach goes 'Nopefish!' and clenches into a knot. I don't even get a chance to truly enjoy the fluffy goodness before I'm racing for the bathroom.

It sucks, but I'm determined to eat something that's not raw meat. I've never liked steak tartar, and I'm not about to make it part of my regular diet. Not if I can help it. The pig brains were bad enough. I manage to keep three minuscule bites of a banana down by sheer strength of will. It's stupid, but it totally makes me feel like a winner. I grab the full laundry basket and head to the elevator. There are definitely days I wish my mom had paid for an apartment with washer/dryer hookups. Today is one of them. I don't want to deal with people, and my building is full of nosy little old ladies. I push the down button, and wait a few minutes. It doesn't take long for the doors to woosh open.