17th
Conversation 16
When it’s dark outside I always fumble with my keys while unlocking the front door to my house. I try to look smooth and efficient to mask the panic that is racing through my mind, because every sound that I hear behind me or in the bushes next to me is making my stomach pounce into my throat.
And it’s not people that I’m scared of. Real people, anyway. I have this horrible image in my mind of a zombie stumbling out of the bushes or climbing over the fence while I’m trying to open the door and tearing the living shit out of me.
Sometimes I fight back. Sometimes I yell out and my bag makes contact with the zombie’s head, and then I brace my back against the front door and kick out as hard as I can, pushing the damn thing over. I pick up the cement rabbit that has sat by our door ever since I can remember and go fucking insane for a few minutes. When there is no more movement I sit down on my front porch and breathe for a second, the blood stained rabbit staring innocently back at me.
Sometimes I am victorious.
But mostly I just imagine myself getting torn to fucking pieces.
