The irony makes me smile every time; everything started off so routinely. I stared at Facebook for 15 minutes, as usual, with Alex Turner murmuring clever lines in my headphones as I awaited for my mom's inevitable "You hungry"?
"You hungry?", she asks as she enters the room.
The question always led to a yes followed by a "What do you want?" It's a deceptive question; a Hispanic family only offers a choice between frozen food, or rice and beans. Pretty shallow menu. I was Dominican though, so plantains was the bonus third choice. Woo-hoo.
"Do you want pizza or rice?" Guess plantains weren't available that night.
"Ehhhh." I responded, somewhat callously. I must have had rice 5 nights a week. I liked spicing things up.
It always disappointed me that spicing it up meant getting microwave pizza. But I'd live.
Later on, I was gearing for my nightly routine. Peeing, playing a Dead Kenndys riff out of insomnia on the guitar, wondering if masturbating's worth it tonight, and, hopefully, sleep. I examined myself in the mirror for a moment. I had shabby dark brown hair, ceasar-style, with a black Muse t-shirt hugging my admittedly skinny body as some "vintage" (Which was a hip way of saying "old ass") jeans covered my legs and draped over my white socks. My eyes were equally dark brown, face somewhat long.
I did this just to give myself a boost in self-confidence. I loved how in deep I was with my chosen rock sub-culture. It was a smugness that would soon be humbled.
I started walking out of my kitchen. I had a habit of scanning it when it was dark, my parents having long since gone to bed. The stove was as plain as it could be, with pots scattered on its squares, rice still in them. Previously filled glasses and my dog's water bowl had small drops of water twinkling from the TV glow that had escaped my room as I left the door open. My parents loved their water. I could live without it.
I lazily shuffled my way into the bathroom, and turned on the light. Parents' bedroom was a door away, but I slammed the door I came through anyway. Being 19 doesn't offer much room for courtesy. I heard the disgruntled groans of my father in the bedroom. "You'll go back to sleep", I murmured.
I scuttled pass the porcelain sink and made my way to the toilet, which was to the left of a tub that was covered by a couple of sliding mirrors. I lifted the toilet seat, and began whipping it out of my pants. I was satisfied by the stream, and began relaxing. As the stream slowed, I felt the looming shadow of my father in front of the bedroom door. Odd that he'd come right in as I'm peeing, but I wasn't bothered.
His silence threw me off however, so I decided to break the ice.
"Don't you hate those post-piss drops? You gotta shake them off and shit. So irritating." I quipped as I tucked myself in.
He replied with a quiet, but heavy sigh.
"Alright I'm goin--" I said, as I tilted my head in his direction. I found myself quieted as I peered into his lifeless eyes and colorless skin. He had nothing but his boxers on.
After some silence, I reached for his face, but stopped. The lack of warmth suggested I shouldn't.
"Oh shit. No way!"
He dropped his jaw completely and let out a strange roar, his breath wreaking of death. He placed both arms up and lunged at me. I gasped and dropped downward to avoid his pounce. He crashed into the mirror as we traded places. He turned around and repeated the same motion as I made a break for the door, but the moment I escaped the bathroom, another obstacle stood in my way.
"What are the fucking odds...what are the fucking odds...WHAT ARE THE FUCKING ODDS" I kept repeating. I had to start planning the exit. There was no escape from my room besides going through the kitchen. I'd have to...
"I HAVE TO FUCKING FIGHT THEM" I yelled, with the greatest "WHY GOD WHY" inflection possible. But there was little room for me to start a relationship with God when Dominican zombie parents were clawing at my bedroom door.
I started placing ym classic Chuck Taylor's on and began zipping my head back and forth, trying to find my weapon of choice. There was only one decent candidate: my guitar. I pocketed the car keys near the computer and began staring at the knob.
"Okay. How do you fight a zombie. Man I fucking brought all those Max Brooks books as a joke." I thought. Humor and irony was my savior in tense situations.
"Fighting two zombies up front is stupid...I need to play it smart here..."
I situated myself to the right of door, so that I was out of sight from the outside. I started gripping the knob.
"They're your parents..." I said, bracing myself, "But they're zombies now...zombie parents, but, zombies...alright...alrigh
I let out a deep sigh and pulled the door open, letting it swing freely in the opposite direction. I moved my arm out of sight as quickly as possible. I held my breath, like a sniper preparing a shot. I gripped the guitar's neck with both hands and kept it set next to my left leg, waiting for the opportunity to swing it up and forward.
The footsteps are what fucked me up the most. I flinched a little as they apprehensively tapped the floor, with a slow and lurching tempo. Each step grew louder as it crept towards the door; it knew I was around. It was growing eager.
It finally placed its foot into the door way. The blue hue from the TV illuminated the leg. Slippers. My mother.
Her body came into view. I clinched my face and immediately let out a yell. Her head spun in my direction, but found itself smashed as I violently introduced it to the back of my guitar. The clang of its strings filled the tense air as they bounced off her brittle, and now cracked, skull. Blood spurted onto my face and splotched on the guitar. The force lifted her from the floor for a bit and sent her staggering back until she fell.
I moved in front of her and stared. It was a difficult sight; she was laid out on the ground motionless, her head caved in. But there was no room for mourning yet.
I stepped over her and looked at the end of the darkened kitchen to find the silhouette of my father.
"Shit. Shit shit shit." I uttered. No other choice; had to move right through. Gripping its neck, I ran at my dad with the guitar held over me like a samurai making a dash at his foe. He ran for me with the same intensity.
"Oh come on, they're not even slow zombies!" I thought to myself.
I swung as soon as I felt I could connect, but was startled. He stopped the guitar with his arms, and pierced my ears with a ferocious scream. He was but a couple steps away from me, and was going for my throat. In a matter of nanoseconds, I came upon a realization.
If he was as fast as a regular guy...he could fall like one too.
I instantly brought my right foot up and smashed his genitals in, which buckled his knees. I proceeded to bring down my newly freed guitar from its height onto his head, which was at my stomach, and smashed it, lacing my shoes with fluids and creating a vicious busting sound. Dead.
I began breathing heavily. I hadn't realized that I was holding my breath during the encounter. I walked towards the door in the living room, which was not far from a grand set of windows covered by curtains. I turned back before I left. I couldn't ignore having killed my parents, zombie or not. I teared somewhat as I let things sink in. All I could hear was the sound of my breathing as I saw the bodies of my mother and father lying a couple yards away. It was unreal.
Taps began to fill the air.
"What." I said with disbelief.
It got louder.
"WHAT." I said emphatically, frantically scanning the kitchen.
It sped up in tempo.
"WHAT THE FUCK--"
The water bowl was empty.
I looked behind me to find my dog in midair, eyes pale and teeth unsheathed. I thought of making this kill particularly flashy. I could dodge it, then smash him. Kick him, then smash him. Or even him punch him out of the air. Then smash him.
"Aww fuck it."
I swung my guitar to the left, and simply smashed him out of the sky and onto the floor beside me.
"Just smash 'em." I said to myself.
I sat down for a moment. My immediate family. My dog. Dead. All this just after I had to piss. I wanted to bury them, give them their proper respect. No one deserved this kind of death. Much less to be laid out on the kitchen floor and left there. My doctrine respects life more than that. But I couldn't risk infection. And staying put was not an option.
I got up and opened the door. I looked at the kitchen of bodies for a second.
"I'll live as much as I can for you guys." I promised to myself.
I exited the house, entered the car, threw my guitar in the back, and turned it on. "Brianstorm" spilled from the speakers and cut the night sky as I texted the closest friend to me to find out her status. Needed to set up the group. "Might as well start now", I thought.