You get to a certain point in your life when you realize nothing is ideal. Novels and stories try to tell you that you'll eventually reach a climax, an ideal point in your life. You might think you're there, only to find out you're worse off than before.
When I came home from college, I decided to stay with my parents and younger brother in Marietta, Georgia.
"Haze!" yelled my brother, Emile, as soon as I walked through the door. He ran into me, nearly knocking me over with his hug.
"Welcome home Hazel!" called my mother from the kitchen. This house really didn't feel like home though. Aside from Emile, nobody hear really cared about me.
"How's my favorite girl?" asked my dad in that big booming voice of his. His hunting boots made a lot of noise as he made his way down the stairs, leaving a trail of mud.
"Just fine," I muttered awkwardly as he pulled me into a hug. "And the eye is fine too," I said in a preempted response.
I had been blind in my right eye ever since I was born, but my condition worsened after a hunting accident when I was eight. I traced the scar with my finger.
"Okay everyone! Dinner is ready!" shouted my mom "And to celebrate having my baby girl back, I made something special!"
"I'm twenty-six!" I snapped "Don't refer to me as a baby!" My mother's normally happy face flickered to pain for a second, but then returned to a smile.
"Alright, I'm sorry Hazel," she said softly, setting a dish on the dining room table. I walked to my seat cautiously, knowing the potential of my mother's cooing. She had the ability to cook something so much it explodes within five seconds of sitting on the table.
Sighing in relief when it didn't, I fully sat down and made myself comfortable in the chair. Emile sat next to me and my father across.
The food was served and everyone started eating, or at least tried to. My mother couldn't make cereal, much less a full dinner. I almost felt glad I had come back. A nice, normal family dinner was what I needed to cut the homesickness. That is, until the fighting started.
My mom had decided to put on the radio, which is usually what starts it. She put on a news station with a man droning on about politics, elevator music playing quietly in the background.
About halfway through dinner though, his voice began to pick up.
"Breaking news, it seems as though there has been an outbreak of some disease in the south-east United States," the newscaster said, his voice wavering "Atlanta has been hit with a serious case of it. If you live in the surrounding area, it is recommended that you take serious precautions and stay inside.
"Symptoms include fever which may lead to death. In some cases, the infected have been known to come back to life-" At this point, my father shut off the radio.
"Bull shit," he muttered, clenching his fork so hard it started to bend.
"George, maybe we should lock the doors and windows and stay in one room together," my mother suggested, lightly touching my father's arm "I just want us to be safe."
"Lilly, you're being crazy," he said reassuringly "It was probably a slow news day for them and they started making up stories for excitement."
"Please? I know there's a high chance it's not true! I'm just worried!"
"No, trust me, everything is going to be okay!"
This simple conversation turned into a full out argument. They started throwing things and shouting different profanities. It reminded me of what went on when I was still living there, and I suddenly started wondering about what Emile had been put through.
Knowing that it wouldn't calm down for at least another hour, I took Emile out to my car where we both fell asleep.
The next morning, I woke up with a stiff neck. We were both in the back seat, and I was curled around Emile, as if protecting him. I got up, carefully laying my brother back on the seat, and looked out the window.
It was busy outside. Several people were in their cars driving along the road, and others were walking on the sidewalk. There was something strange about the ones who walked though. They stumbled around as if they had problems with their legs. Their arms were bent at odd angles and their skin had taken on a weird coloring, green almost, as if they were decaying.
I got out of my car and went inside the house to see if my parents were happy or still fuming. What I saw inside shocked me. My mom and dad were sprawled across the table, apparently dead. My father had a bite mark on his arm. My mother also had one, but on her neck. Blood covered the silverware and plates.
I wanted to take them to a doctor, but I knew they were already too far gone. My problems really began when they both started to stir. For precautionary reasons, I took a rather large kitchen knife and the shot gun I knew my dad kept under his bed.
When I stepped back outside and entered in the driver's side of my car, I looked around me and realized this was no normal disease. I had entered the world of the walking dead.