It's #zombieZaturday on a Sunday. . . because I forgot about it yesterday and I still don't have a #zombieZunday graphic. Yup, I'm a mess. More on that later!
For now, how about a sneak peek on what you could be reading over on Channillo? That's right, here's a slice of Zombie Zorority!
Zoey's Diary: An Excerpt from Zombie Zorority
Property of The Paranormal Agency: Research and Resource Area #1
File: Psychiatric Notes and Observations of Dr. Robin Galwinsky
Subject: Para id #357609 Para Name: Adams, Zoey F.
Additional Document: Personal Diary
8 July 2013
Dear Diary (sarcasm)
Dr. Robin is sitting across from me and refuses to leave until I’ve written something in this stupid notebook. Now that I’ve done that she can stop asking me how I feel and looking at me like a specimen.
Love Always (sarcasm)
15 July 2013
To Dr. Robin
I want to thank you for being true to your word and leaving last week but I don’t appreciate still being forced to do these stupid entries. That’s how I feel - unappreciative. They will not help me - only you. And I get that I’m a wondrous experiment for you all but I’ve been here a month or so now and I’ve been poked and prodded and questioned and all I want is to go home and not be at the mercy of freaking doctors any more.
Yours Truly ( w/irony)
P.S. I think the letter format actually helped. It gave me, like, a target to shoot at.
22 July 2013
Yet another obligatory entry/letter that I’m writing while you watch over me like a . . . . Tutting hen? . . . A nag? . . . Idk annoying thing. You don’t think I’m being clear enough with my emotions? That I’m not going in depth? Here’s this for depth — Fuck off. Fuck this. Fuck y’all. I fucking hate it here. I’m fucking angry and frustrated . . . And pissed. No one tells me anything. Everyone condesends to traet me like I’m normal while I’m obviously not. People come in and out and meanwhile I’m fucking—stuck—STUCK in this same stupid grey and hospital green room with even more doctors and government officials watching my every move from the otherside of the mirror or hidden cameras I can’t even see. Why am I being imprisoned? I’m the victim! I’m innocent. I hate, HATE, HATE it here, and this, and you!
25 July 2013
I’m only picking this up and writing in desperation because I want to cry but I can’t. I try but I just end up looking like a bad actor imitating heartbreak. I make all the right motions but no tears fall and I can’t get that release from the indulgence great big tear soaked wallowing. Instead I’m giving into Dr. Robin’s stupid journal. And I’m writing but all I mean to say is they told me today. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, they told me what everyone else must have known all along. Every time I asked a nurse or a doctor or an orderly or even Dr. Robin…THEY knew I was never going home again. They knew that this was my life now - a government lab rat. Everyone knew and no one - not one- until now had a grain of compassion and human decency enough to let me know. They just fed me false hope - egging me on to continue with their experiments and test. Only when their lab rat became uncooperative did they reveal the truth. The truth. From some suit I’d never seen before. He told me I will never go home and . . . And Dad thinks I’m dead.
There’s nothing to go home to. That’s what that guy in the navy suit had said. I’m dead, everyone thinks so, had a funeral and everything - nothing to go home to. I’m trapped in here for ever and poor Dad thinks he’s alone in the world, no other family left.
I wish . . . I wish I was dead. . . Really dead. . .
This is stupid. I want to cry and I can’t. This journal had only made me want to cry more and I still can’t. What’s the point?
5 August 2013
To Dr. Robin,
You know what? I know I refused to make an entry earlier and I still don’t want to now but . . . But . . You know what? What you said earlier really pissed me off again and I can’t stop thinking about it.
You just want to help me? No one here wants to help me. You all work for the government, for the Paranormal Agency. You’re part of their effort to cover their own asses. It’s their fault that I’m like this, that I’m a monster, that I’ve lost all my friends and family and any hope of any kind of life. It was their fuck up and everyone else…Everyone who’s said they want to make sure I’m taken care of, I’m adjusting well, I’m as healthy as I can be, I’m comfortable and whatever line of bullshit they feed me whenever they feel like it, they are all a part of it.
Dr. Robin, you are a part of it. There is no damn way you could want to help me for my own sake. What you really want to know is if the zombie virus is destroying my brain. If the virus is making me angry and violent and paranoid. You don’t care that I become well-adjusted, if I come to terms with my “condition”. How could you? You can’t work for them, keep me here, lie to me, lie to my dad, and be on my side at the same time. You told my dad that his only child by his dead wife is gone forever, also dead, a total lie. No decent person can do that and have some kind of altruistic desire to help other people, specifically the aforementioned not dead daughter.
And as for me being angry, violent and paranoid….who wouldn’t be? Make any other normal person and force them to switch places with me—hell, you switch places with me—you wouldn’t even have to make them a zombie or sick in anyway, just keep them locked up for days and days and days on end with nothing to do and no one to see but fucking doctors and g. i. suits and see who isn’t angry and paranoid at the end.
So, again, fuck your so-called help. No one can help me. No one could help me. What would they even do?
13 August 2013
Dr. Robin says I should try to write my dad a letter. I think she’s trying to give me something to do that’s not just being angry at her. Or maybe some kind of lame entertainment mixed with a homework assignment. And I’m getting annoyed that it’s kind of working. Not that it makes me feel any better but that this stupid notebook the government probably buys in bulk from the dollar store or something is the only thing I have to do. The only thing I’ve had to do since I got moved here. I tried to sing songs to myself, to see all the lyrics I could remember, but the only song I could remember was that “I Love It” song but you know, I only knew that one part: I don’t care, I love it. And I really, really don’t love it. I tried to think of other songs, like random words that might spark other lyrics but I couldn’t get the stupid music from that one out of my head and nothing new could get in. That song has been stuck in my head for over a month now, that’s got to be some kind of record. It’s just this annoying background sound to my thoughts now, like a buzzing fly stuck in my brain that I’ve learned to ignore, that might even be comforting now. Though if I ever meet those “I love it” bitches. . . I’d bite at least one of them.
I can’t write a letter to my dad, it hurts too much.
22 August 2013
Dr. Robin thinks I should try the letter anyway. I’ve been thinking about it. I wouldn’t know what to say. Well, I only know the one thing to say.
I miss you.
Oh God, now what am I suppose to do with all this sadness. With all this sobbing that produces no tears. This heartache that makes my chest burn, that makes it so I can’t breathe. What am I suppose to do now?
If you want to read more about Zoey and her life as a zombie, be sure to check out Channillo and subscribe to Zombie Zorority!
Until next time,