Too much…

(Halloween story)

Too much…what’s wrong with you, Ian.

Bright red strands leaving traces on the retina like a red-hot stigma. Always disheveled and sticking out in different directions, without a gram of effort to tame them, they shine in the sunshine, absorbing the energy of a blazing star somewhere far away, acquiring new shades of orange.

Now they are with a scarlet-red blood, dirty and messy.

Pale skin, so transparent and thin, allowing me to see every muscle beneath you, when you put headphones and quickly jump between the exercise machines, quite by accident forgetting a light shirt at the bottom of a sports bag, collecting the hungry looks of the audience. You always smelled of cigarettes, orange shower gel, and cologne.

But now you have ugly cadaverous spots on your skin and it stinks of you with a decaying body.

Damn freckles, they ripple in my eyes and tickle an inflamed brain. They wander around your body like a flock of infuriated midges, hiding under the fabric of T-shirts and crawling out again in completely unexpected places, decorating your upturned nose and palms with bizarre patterns. F*cking points, connecting them with invisible lines, you can easily recreate any silhouette, covering the pale body with red-brown tattoos.

Now barely visible under huge purple spots.

Long, thin fingers, so unlike mine. Fingers that can gently sort out hair and play the guitar. Mobile, lively, well-groomed, with neatly trimmed nails.

Now they are twisted, and the ground is clogged under the nails.

A pink mouth giving these strange half-smiles to everyone it met. A mouth that knows how to kiss desperately and smile sincerely only to those closest. With thin lips that once whispered words of love to me.

Now silently opening, letting out only a growl.

Starting to feel sick from the cadaveric smell.

Hematomas and cadaveric spots cover your body.

I look directly at you with horror and you look at me with hunger.

I choke on my feelings; you choke chunks of living flesh.

Too much what’s wrong with you, Ian, you know.

Because you died a month ago. And today you got out of the grave.

You are a zombie.

I’m still alive.

Not for long.

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