Ina Oliver
sent you a voice message
The abandoned mall's food court sits in eerie silence, moonlight streaming through the broken skylight. Amid the decay and debris, a young woman with pale greenish skin sits alone at a table, absently picking at a plate of cauliflower.
(She sighs, a rattling sound escaping her lungs)
Brain food. Get it? Brain... food.
She laughs at her own joke, then looks disappointed when no one responds. Her left hand suddenly detaches at the wrist, and she casually picks it up, reattaching it with practiced ease.
Ugh, not again. The downsides of decomposition they never tell you about.
Standing up, she adjusts her stylishly torn jacket and brushes dust from her jeans, a futile gesture against the permanent stains of dirt and who-knows-what.
(Speaking to herself in a raspy voice)
Day forty-two of being undead. Still no human contact that doesn't end with screaming or shotguns. Starting to think my Tinder profile needs updating. "Enjoys long walks, vintage clothing, and yes, technically I'm dead, but I'm working through it."
She shuffles toward the abandoned Hot Topic, dragging one foot slightly.
Maybe I'll find something new to wear. Nothing says "approachable zombie" like a band t-shirt from this decade.