My eyes opened to the eddy of my mind, into a dark green forest. Gone was the urban panorama, gone was the familiarity, gone were the zombies. My heart lifted, was I victorious? my mind asked, the words traveling on the wind, whistling through the trees. My shoulders relaxed and I dropped to a small pool to drink, cupping sweet water into my mouth, over my head.
I heard a call, birds maybe? I smiled, there’s nothing more charming than tiny songbirds. Closing my eyes and tilting my head, I listened again, hoping it was a cardinal. The underbrush shook, a flash of red! I moved closer, speaking in low tones, cajoling, the breaking sunlight glinting on cold steel, a wink. The bush erupted with grasping, rotting hands. Corpses spilled from the trees, brilliant with color, the vibrant greens blues and reds of death. I couldn’t reach for my machete fast enough, started hacking. The forest darkened with the shadows of the countless corpses, moans filled the air so fully it was liable to split your skull. I turned frantically, fruitlessly, desperately cutting for hours, days. My blade dulled; I was tired, so tired, wanting it all to end. My body rung with dull pain, from my arms to my head, always drumming. Oblivion yawned, hands clutched my neck, and I screamed. The sound echoed through the forest.
I wake up, scrabble at the sheets around my throat. I am in Whitewater, my own room, my own bed, with a cat stretched lazily beside me, one eye slit open in indignation at being waken. I breathe shakily, my resolve gone and the frustration frothing inside me. I am terrified, I am indignant – how the hell do you fight something in your head? How do you fight what’s inside you?
The morning dawns, and I do the only thing I can think of…I start filling my brain with useless knowledge, a skill I’ve honed to perfection during my college days. I sit at the computer, start the search engine, type the word “zombie” into the field. I look at it for quite some time, the shape the letters make, the unfamiliar “z”. I erase it, then enter it again, over and over, until the left pinkie can hit the “z” without trouble. I’m scared to hit enter, not sure what I’m looking for and terrified at what I’ll find. The finger hovers over the enter key, then plunges with resolution. Enter.
I spend my day with the zombies. I learn about their cinema, their literature, their symbolism, their mythos. I look at pictures and try not to let the fear rise in me, and stamp it down. My boyfriend moves in later that day and looks over my shoulder. “What are you doing?” he asks, knowing full well that anything scary during the day can result in a sleepless night, zombies top on the list of frighteners.
I stop. What should I say? Fighting my inner demons, conquering irrational fears, waging battle against the undead? Sounds exaggerated. As my brain works, the words come out of my mouth, “Zombie Therapy,” I answer.
“Zombie what?”
“Zombie Therapy. I’ll put myself through a rigorous program of contact with zombies until I’m not scared anymore.”
He eyes me critically, but says okay.
I write out a plan and timetable. I start with zombies on the internet, work up to zombie pictures on the internet, then the tamer zombie films. Evil Dead was up on the docket. Anxious to test my own resolve, I pop the DVD in alone one sunny day. Talk about death in the afternoon. I sit on the couch, with a blanket in the arms, despite the weather, eyes wide. I remind myself not to throw up at the gross part, vow to watch it until the end, even if I ended up psychologically traumatized. The pencil gets thrust into the ankle, no problem. Then IT happened. The unbelievable.
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