I can't remember my name. I can't remember what a sunset looks like, because I don't take the time to watch the ball of fire fade under the horizon anymore. Maybe I never have. Maybe I was never a good person, and this was my punishment. But what did the rest of the world do to gain this same punishment? Did they do something horrible as well? Or did none of us do anything wrong, and this is all in my head?

I like to believe that I'm sitting on some beach somewhere sunny. Somewhere where I can speak freely, laugh at jokes, frown at unhappy things. I wonder if I can ever have this again. If the world can return to its former glory. If it had some sort of glory that it once lost.

The world is dying. It is honestly this simple. How and why it is dying is unknown, or just unimportant. Some kernels of information someone threw away, attempting to gain some feeling that once existed. I hate being like this. I hate the idea of being useless. I hate being alone.

This is as close to dying as one can get. What I am, who I am, it's wrong. Looked down upon from hundreds upon hundreds of people… If they're that many left. We're what's wrong in the world.

I'm dead, but I can think. Stuck in my own everlasting pit of lost memories and forgotten regrets. I was once alive, completely aware of every little change around me. Now I see nothing but death.

Events play out in slow motion, maybe because our muscles don't work very well anymore. Or at all. Some of us have no muscle. Nothing clinging helplessly onto the bones anymore. Those are the people labeled as a lost cause. We don't have many of those, but people give up eventually and they turn into nothing but dust under our shoes.

Or something worse than the dust. Dragged out of the depths of hell. The devil at the gates of insanity. But being insane calls for a conscious mind. They do not have those. They have the infatuating hunger rippling through the decaying bones and maybe whatever dry brain they still have. Do they have brains? Something to be shot at? Something to shoot them dead?

I don't look at them. I can't. I picture sunsets and warm beaches. Because I can picture them with skin. I can imagine them as something whole. Something human. At least I'd like to.

So cold, I know you can't believe it,

Sometimes you gotta face the feelin'.

And if you don't care if you get up again,

There's a thousand things I will not understand…

Wow, this life sucks. Doomed to shuffle around empty streets and abandoned airports. We call it home. I'll never begin to understand why. We'll, being M and I, occasionally break free of the everlasting routines and find some new place to explore. Like Borden Street.

At least, I think that's what it's called. Maybe it's adapted the name since the end of the world and we've just picked it up in our moments of getting high off of brain juice. Or memories, which sounds more socially… Less awkward.

Now, I rather not sound like those stereotypical teenagers who say "there was this one time", but I'm not very certain on how else to begin it.

So, "there was this one time" M and I decided to travel to Borden Street. And with our speed being slower than the slowest turtle, it took about six days...

BORDEN STREET

I feel like I'm dying. The new hunger is a strong thing. It's not just in the stomach, because plenty of us don't have those. It's deeper than that, slithering through our dry veins into the very back of our brains. It overwhelms us. I try and retreat to this "back of the brain", and find nothing but a searing emptiness. Nothing else.

"Rrrrrr." M whispers at my side, tapping my shoulder with one dislocated finger. I look at him, grim distaste flashing in my distant grey eyes. He groans and turns away. M knows I need space. He knows what we both smell and what I'm already regretting.

M picks up speed to the best he can, and to help him, I slow down. On our journey here, many Dead joined us. We are a large, safe group. At least twenty of us.

My head falls down, my eyes dropping to my black-

"Hear…. That?" M asks, already at my side again. I nod. The sound of humanity is near, overlapping with the shuffling of our feet. Music. They have…. Music. No. Someone has music. I lift my head, my eyes spinning around to find the source.

A small, blonde girl is standing in the middle of the road. I sniff. She's young. In her hand is a walkman, the headphones draping over her shoulders as they blast an old song.

Sitting here in limbo,

But I know it won't be long.

Sitting here in limbo,

Like a bird without a song.

Well. That's ironic.

The music cuts off. I consider telling her to turn it back on, but I know my lips won't move in tune with my tongue to form the words.

"Dad!" The blonde girl yells, stumbling back several steps in attempt to get away. I move with M towards her, but stop several feet short. M continues for the hunt.

A man exits the house, wearing all black. Black slacks, black trench coat, black turtle neck sweater. Combat boots: black. Get it? It continues like that. His eyes even look black under the purple, sleepless shadows.

"Julie, get inside." He orders, his voice husky when he speaks. "Now, Julie!" The girl obeys, rushing behind her father to escape from certain death. I immediately feel the removal of her presence. It tugs at my chest, and I groan in response.

"A…. Mmmm….." I croak, lifting a hand limply towards the bald zombie. He ignores me and presses forward. The man pulls a gun from his back pocket, and I think of attacking him there. The little girl was gone, so I can't see a reason why not to.

My feet begin to move. I'm going to attack. The gun goes off. A nameless zombie drops. Another bullet flies. Another one of us falls to hell. Then he runs. This impossible prey turns his back to us and dives for the open door. He slams it behind him and I sigh in defeat. M grunts and spins to look at me.

"-Ou…. Attack." He gasps, fumbling to lift his right arm that had been grazed by a mindless bullet.

I shake my head. "The…. Girl."

"Eat."

"No," I say, shaking my head again as I reel on my heels, sniffing for a new trace of meat.