desolate minds

i. the darkest burning star

I remember running from them. Their loud groans and heavy breathing  were enough to keep me going, my adrenaline high only amping my speed  all the more.

It wasn't enough, though. It was never enough.

In my panic, I tripped over one of the corpses that littered the infested city's ground. Only it wasn't really that dead. It's boney, grotesque hand (or what was left of it anyway) snapped up and tried to claw at my ankles.

My breath had hitched, fear striking me in the back of the head like a metal baseball bat. I was frozen solid for an entire second before I quickly curled my legs closer to my body and scrambled backwards onto my  feet (it wasn't enough; nothing was).

I needed to keep running. The horde was getting closer.

I had been living in this nightmare for over a year. I had witnessed my friends and family either die, or lose themselves in a downward  spiral. Right now, the only thing keeping me going was my will to show  those undead-living fucks that they can try to take over the world, but they sure as hell weren't going to succeed.

Not while my group and I were around, working on a cure for this insane disease.

My legs were in motion again, but they were stinging now and it hurt so so much to move them. I couldn't— wouldn't stop though. Not until I reached the safe zone. I was almost there; it was right around the corner. Right there.

It was too late, though. Running was never enough in this world. The survivors had to be cautious, wary, quiet, and armed. Along the way, I had forgotten a few of these things.

I watched a whole horde swallow and rip him apart. My brother, my poor baby brother.

Panic consumed, gasps fill the air. Their dead eyes were on me now. Must run, had to run.

Slippery fingers dropped the sharp blade; the only thing worth using that was with me. All I had were my legs then, so I ran and ran and ran.  

There was a gun in my pocket, but with only one bullet left. It was for me. It was always intended for me.

My legs caved in on me, and I slid across the pavement. I was so out of it that I couldn't even cry out in pain. Instead, the only thing I could comprehend at all were the long, disgusting looking scratches on one of my ankles.

Despair, horror, dread, and so many other things rushed through me.

Time to stop running. You've fought for so long, why not stop for a little while? Leave saving the world to the pros; the ones that don't  forget the rules along the way.

With crying eyes and shaking hands, I watched the approaching horde of the undead with a smirk on my face. My pistol was in my hand, cocked and ready to fire. I aimed it at the closest zombie— the one that I had  tripped over; the one that had marked the end for me.

"You can try all you like, but I will never be one of you."

With the barrel on my head, I pulled the trigger.

If you're not afraid to die, then I guess you should keep on living.

× × ×

Before the world went to shit, I was your usual male college student, trying to make a name for myself as a major in immunology. The only  thing particularly unique about me (or something others would often question me about), was that I was born as female.

The story there isn't anything too amazing. In short, one day I  realized "she/her" wasn't me, and slowly began to start transitioning myself. For awhile, I identified as a trans male, but around my senior  year of high school, I finally managed to complete my conversion.