Eating With The Greens

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I'm not quite sure when my life became the Walking Dead, but I do know that it's my fault. I stare at the small house I've lived in my whole life. It still looks the same on the outside. The clean white stucco that's power washed by my dad every summer and the lawn is perfectly manicured by him as well. My mother's beautiful gardening skills don't go unnoticed by anyone passing by. She's got a green thumb for sure, and I don't just mean figuratively speaking. In fact I see her entire green hand waving from the window. The curtains sway as the bright red door swings open. She looks just as dead as she did this morning, but still smiles when she sees me.

"You're going to miss dinner," she says, waving her arms in the air.

"I'll be right in."

A white flyer rustles in the wind on the telephone pole next to me. I glance over and a cute little curly white haired puppy with a pink collar stares at me from the picture. Cut out pieces on the bottom of the flyer are full and have a phone number written neatly in black sharpe. I've seen a lot of these lately, it's like almost every telephone pole has a missing pet flyer. I shake the thought and head into the house.

My older brother Stefan stands in the doorway in an old football jersey from his "glory days" in High School. His green complexion and newly formed muscles pop through the old jersey. I can't tell if they realize what they've all become.

A strange scent hits my nose as I enter the house, in fact I've noticed that a lot lately too. My mom has been cooking up some strange recipes since the incident. In the kitchen she's got a huge pot on the stove and looks like a witch leaning over her cauldron to make poison. Dad sits at the table covered by the newspaper, his green rotting hands wrapped around the paper. It's been a month and I still can't figure out how to fix it all.


Stefan calls from behind me. I'm knocked in the head by a football, his strength has also oddly increased, but his strange limp is getting worse. I stare at my family as they all gather in the kitchen. Mom is now pouring strange looking red soup into bowls. Her cooking was almost as spectacular as her gardening, but lately it's been awful. However, there's only so many days I can eat fast food instead of coming home.

I rub along the spot where my brother nailed me with a ball, "What happened to not playing ball in the house?" I question.

"I'm not a kid Sally. I'm a grown man," he says.

He should be in college, but one thing led to another and he decided college wasn't for him. Before my family changed he had just found a job, but the day he woke up green it's like he'd forgotten all about it. Both of my parents are retired, so at least they didn't have a job to worry about.

We sit at the table and I stare down at the strange concoction in front of me.

"Mmm," I say, smiling. "What did you make tonight?"

"Oh, it's a new recipe," she says, just like she repeats every night I ask.

"Smells really good," I say, through gritted teeth.

"Thanks sweetheart. I'm thinking of bringing it to the potluck dinner at the Harrisons next week," she says.

"Oh, yeah. I'm sure they will love it," I lie.

I lift the silver spoon to my lips, my gag reflexes are hating me so bad right now. The moment the stuff hits my tongue something strange - almost like fur is in my mouth. I stare down into the red liquid and stir it around. A small hairball floats to the top of the bowl. I jump up so fast I knock the chair over. Thankfully the bathroom is close and I make it in time to throw up everything I ate for the day.

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