Gasoline | Ben Parish

8

I thought this would make me numb, get me to snap out of this little panic attack. Instead, it sends me deeper into it.

I really am alone.

No, shut up. I'm not alone. I have a whole squad. I have an ass-hat for a drill instructor. I have the nicest doctor a couple of wings away.

But Croak won't let those people in. Croak doesn't need anyone. Croak likes being alone.

But Mary Beth doesn't.

Who gives a damn what Mary Beth cared about? She's dead.

I sink lower and lower. I'm drowning. The current is too strong and I can't fight it this time. The boat is heaving above me, cap-sized and angry as the waves toss it back and forth. The water is cold and stinging and biting. Something is touching me.

"Croak?"

I jolt, staggering to my feet. The water is gone. My lungs are empty. I whirl around, hair hanging limply in my face as I yell, "Go away!"

Zombie stands in the doorway, face a mixture of shock, confusion, and fear. Shock because cool Croak has snapped. Confusion because Croak actually has emotions. Fear because Croak is not Croak at the moment, she's the risen Mary Beth, fresh from the grave.

"Croak..."

"Get out of here!" I snap, slapping away the tears on my cheeks. I turn my back on him then, crossing my arms and staring straight ahead. "Just leave me alone!"

"Croak, please..."

Please what? Please stop? Please let me help? Please come back?

I'm shaking hard, almost unable to remain standing. My voice is hollow and hoarse when I gruffly murmur, "Just go." I fight the impulse to sniffle, still wiping my face. "I'll be fine. I just... want to be alone."

"Are you sure?"

I scoff. "Yes."

He hesitates. I know he's still standing behind me. I don't find it in me to yell at him again, so I let him stay. I take several deep breaths, constantly dabbing my leaking eyes.

I hear him trot into the bathroom. The sink turns on. I remain where I stand, tense and searching for the unfeeling feeling I cling to as Croak. As me.

Zombie comes back from the bathroom. He stands about a foot away from my shoulder. Probably too scared to come too close. "Put this on your face," he says softly. "It's all red and puffy."

In most cases, I would've refused his damp towel. I would've rolled my eyes and made some sort of witty retort.

But I don't. Instead, I hold my hand out behind me. He places the cold rag in my hands. I press my face into it, inhaling the stink of the cabinet under the sink, and take another breath.

Zombie tentatively steps closer. I can feel his jumpsuit brush mine. His hand comes up slowly – I see it out of the corner of my eye – and carefully tucks my hair behind my ear. "It's okay," he says softly.

I jerk away instantly. "Don't." I warn, looking him in the eye for the first time since he walked in on this fiasco.

He sighs and stares at me forlornly, like he's attending one of Mary Beth's funerals. I can't tell if he's sad to see her go or if he's like damn, this bitch just won't stay dead. I know the latter is what I'm thinking.