Post by Tiara on Aug 13, 2012 15:57:08 GMT -8
We may only have tonight
But till the morning sun, you're mine
All mine
Play the music low
And sway to the rhythm of loveShe smiles at you, her lips bitten to mimic a shade of lipstick she saw in an old photograph red as cherries. The trunk she found was full of old things, things she hadn't known she'd missed.
Somehow, the record player still works after all these years, but the single record is warped and scratched. She doesn't mind. Not at all, in this tiny reprieve in the dank, decrepit kitchen where she can pretend.
The dress she wears once might have been as blue as her eyes, but not any more. The lace is yellow, and moth eaten. But if you close your eyes, it looks brand new from one of the old department stores. Back when people had time to waste, and houses full of furniture and china.
Not like now, where houses are falling apart, and ransacked clean, everything useful taken, and divided. Except that trunk full of her old-world treasures.
"Don't you wish we could have been alive back then? Before?" She asks, leading you around in a turn in her silly dance.
You smile, "yeah, I think it would have nice..."
The songs ends, and the record needle clicks back and forth, waiting to be reset. She waltz over, and flips the dusty record.
The speakers pop and crack as the song starts. This one is a fast song, and she starts shaking her hips and shoulders, laughing.
But her laughter is cut short, and her face goes pale. Her scream is ear splitting.
They moan and claw at the wooden door which you both have been to dumb to barricade. Their broken, filthy fingers scratching and scraping to get in.
"I don't want to die," she whimpers. She's clinging to you now, trembling and weeping.
They break down the door; the wood was so rotten, it practically crumbled to dust beneath them as they shuffled closer. Their smell filling the small kitchen with the stench of rotting flesh.
There is nowhere left to go, and no way you two could fight them off with a trunk full of old junk. That stupid trunk full of stupid old junk and her stupid romantic ideas of the old times, the times before the virus, the death, and the zombies.
One of them grabs her dirty, knotted hair, it's fingers getting caught in the tangles. She yelps, but there is nothing you can do. It's saliva dripping on to the skin of her bare, tanned arm.
"Help me!" She screams this with as much might as she can, but it's too late.
One has come behind you. You hadn't even noticed the familiar scraping of it's rotting limbs against the dirty floor. You had been to preoccupied with watching her until it was already sinking it's rabid teeth into your shoulder.
The needle begins to skip, stuck in a time before. Before the virus, the death, the zombies, and the two of you, lying still on the floor of a small, archaic kitchen.
