But then I see her walking next to Mark. I see Barbara walking there at his side, and that’s when things go dark.
Barbara likes birds.
She watches them. She’s a bird-watcher. She attends bird-watching events. She’s rather devoted to them. She donates money and time to the Audubon Society. For a while, before Mark made her give them up, she owned parakeets, four or five of them. At one point, they had babies.
Once she told me she wanted to change her name to Bird, change her name to Barbara Bird. She told me that and then she laughed and then she blushed and then she said, “It’s dumb, it’s stupid. It’s a stupid name,” and I told her, “No, it sounds nice,” and she said, “Mark says it’s dumb.” She said, “He’s probably right.”
I’m not fond of birds, personally. For what it’s worth, they’re not fond of me, either. Most animals aren’t, but birds are at times aggressive in their dislike.
They have dead eyes, is the thing that bothers me most about birds. They have dead eyes and they seem to me lifelike but lifeless, or maybe it’s the other way around, or maybe it’s nothing like that at all.
But still, her attraction to them gave me some amount of hope. Not a large amount of hope. Nothing has given me anything more than the smallest amount of hope. But still. The birds and their dead eyes: Are they so different from me?
Dead-eyed me.
Lifelike yet lifeless me.
I can tell you now, though, I can tell you now with confidence, with utmost confidence: It is not a hope worth hoping.
The thing is: Barbara likes birds, maybe she even loves birds, maybe she even likes me. But she cannot love me. She simply cannot.
I know this now. I can accept this now. This is a basic fact of life that I can now accept.
You could argue that her being twenty or thirty heartbeats away from death, you might argue that the broken form of her laid out awkwardly across my desk, you might argue that the misshapen state of her really leaves me little to no choice in the matter.
But that’s not entirely true. It’s not entirely true that I have no choice in this. It’s not entirely true that there are no options left on the table for me.
There are steps, there are a number of steps I could take. At least let’s recognize this: It’s my choice not to take these steps.
Her husband is nowhere to be found. I can’t see him, in any case, glancing briefly around my space, or in any of the cubicles near mine. Granted, there is a lot to see. Granted, there are a lot of bodies to see, and it’s possible he’s one of them. It’s possible he’s one of the many, covered, perhaps, by one of the others.
I am, admittedly, fuzzy on the details. Let’s just say that my command of the details is not very commanding.
How about, let’s say, of the details, what I know is this: Things did not go according to plan.
Or let’s say that things did not go according to my plan.
Not that my plan was an especially good plan, not that my plan didn’t have its own inherent flaws. Not that I don’t know that my plan to help Barbara make sounder decisions in her life by taking care of Mark, by which I mean killing Mark, wasn’t necessarily the best-laid plan.
But still, it was a plan. Still, it was a simple plan. It was a simple plan that did not, I know for a fact, include the slaughter of my office mates, least of all the slaughter of Barbara, who is even now making a soft gurgling sound as she’s lying there across my desk.
The point I’m trying to make being: The zombie has plans of his own.
By which I mean: Some of the bodies are beginning to stir now.
What truly surprises me, though, what comes to me as completely unexpected is this moment right now, this very moment, this moment of wakefulness, of cognition.
I saw Barbara and things went dark, and things could have remained that way, could have been kept dark for an eternity, and what would I have known about any of it, what would I have been able to control of any of it? Yet here I am, things decidedly not dark, and I am not sure what to make of it, to make of any of it.
By which I mean: Is this a gesture of cruelty or generosity?
Is this the zombie laughing at me, laughing at my weak attempts to effect some change in me, in her, in the world? Or is this the zombie saying, “Here you go, one last look, one last look at least, a moment, at least, a reward for your efforts, doomed though we all knew them to be”?
Frankly, though, I don’t care.
There is shuffling now going on behind me. There are groans, and there are things — picture frames, computers, file cabinets — crashing to the floor.
I don’t care. I take my one last look.
As to the circumstances surrounding my arrival, I have no memory of this moment. I have no memory of who I was before, or what I was before. It’s a blank. It’s a pleasant and unassuming blank.
There was the one time. There was that one time with the memories, a slew of them. Relentless memories, a series of them, flashing through my head for fifteen, twenty, thirty minutes, one right after the other, nonstop, these memories, in no particular order, of no special significance, but personal, deeply personal, brief sensations, images, smells, sounds, forced out of hiding, maybe, by that darker part of me, forced out into the open to be devoured or simply to dissipate, those last remaining pieces of the me that was me before. A park bench, the quality of light in a dormitory cafeteria, the smell of lavender, the smell of cooking oil cooked too hot, a swimming pool, a bloodied knee, soft, soft lips, a blue couch, a dark room, a bright blue sky, a man’s voice saying “Sometimes I just don’t know about you, son,” a flat tire, a long, hot stretch of road, mist rising off a small pond, a kite shaped like a swan overhead, the first cool day in October, on and on, these memories rose up from within me, traveled through me and then out. I staggered under the rush of them, and then they were gone, so quickly gone, I stumbled, grabbed for a chair, sat down hard on the floor, and that was it. I remember them still, but I remember them now as things I have seen in a movie or on the television, as disconnected sensations that don’t touch me at all.
So let’s not demean ourselves with talk of who I was and if this person still lives inside me. If my eyes are this person’s eyes and if in them you can see remnants of who this person once was.
Let’s not resort to this kind of nostalgic preening.
Let’s not reduce my story to that kind of tragedy.
Instead, let’s remark on how unsurprising this outcome really is, and then let’s move on, inexorably, deliberately on.
To pick up where we left off: Her body bent awkwardly over the desk, the soft gurgle escaping her lips.
I want to tell her, It wasn’t supposed to happen like this, you know.
I want to take her head in my lap. I want to smell her hair, smell her wrists. I want to kiss her neck.
I want to say to her soft, lovely things, whisper unyielding truths in her ear. I want to run my finger along the length of her nose, from the bridge to the tip, and then over and onto her lips.
I want to feel the warmth of her as her living body warms my thighs and my feet and the lower part of my stomach, makes my skin, which is cold and rubbery to touch, feel pliant and lifelike again.
These are the things that I want. These are the things I have wanted for some very long time now. I imagine that these are the things I have wanted since even before I became the kind of thing that could not have them.