I shifted and turned consistently in my sleep until I inevitably stopped pretending that I was asleep and was just bothered by a nightmare. As the realization had set in, the one where I would have to spend the night with no sleep at all, I technically woke up—I was enlightened that pretending or trying would be in absolute vain—in cold sweat, feeling the frozen air wash over me like a thin sheet of guilt as it rested in my stomach uncomfortably, reminding me over and over again of what had happened earlier, of what I saw, of what I caused.
I've recently condemned Lowell to his second death, the one that would settle on him. . .permanently.
Maybe it was the PTSD, the effect of Everett's stress-induced brain I've consumed. I tried to reassure myself, tried to give myself a bit of relief, tried to give myself over to reason, weighing over the heavier pros and the lighter cons of what I did, reasoning that what I'm feeling will soon be over once I get my hands on another brain on a stainless steel platter of the morgue. I've tried to convince myself that this feeling was only temporary and that it was a fleeting moment for guilt to take over, something that's going to pass me by sooner or later. Yet, despite those heavily reassuring claims my brain gave off, I knew, deep down inside, that this was not a fleeting moment and that this feeling will last longer than I would like to admit.
I was plagued by the memories of tonight, watched as the murder replayed itself in my mind over and over again. I mentally berated myself for eating all of Marvin Webster's brains because that was the only form of relief I could give myself, even if it was only for a short amount of time before I grew disgusted of my uncaring self. I would be disgusted at the way I act if I consumed his brains—but I would still eat his brains again because the pain I felt, the ache my undead heart gave off was simply unbearable.
I lifted my hand towards my chest and pressed it hard, as if it was some kind of remedy for the pain—if it was, then I'd say it's a pretty crappy cure because it's not working.
A silent sob escaped my lips as I noticed the hot and salty tears running down my face. I immediately smothered my face into the pillow, not wanting to disturb or concern Peyton in any way possible.
Soon, when I was confident enough to be sure that I won't cry out an ocean and be a sobbing mess, I faced the ceiling and started to think of ways I could have not failed Lowell earlier this evening. I thought of ways on how I could have possibly saved him and, at the same time, ended the world as we know it.
If I had eaten an actual psychic's brain and found out about that certain event, then by God and his means, I wouldn't have stopped—I wouldn't have chickened out and I would have willingly started the zombie apocalypse if it had secured his survival.
Anything that would save him, anything that could keep him alive, or undead, and with me.
Suddenly, and unsurprisingly, it didn't matter to me that we were together only because we're both undead, that we're together because we're the same kind. It suddenly didn't matter because I knew that even though I was with him for some sort of relief, like a safety hatch after Major—that he was my rebound—I still loved him, truly and unconditionally. I knew that I had to love him as much as I could, for as long as I could. I knew that I had to love him because the time we had, though zombies practically immortal and all, was limited for various factors and reasons.
You could laugh, seeing the fact that we're undead means we have lots of time but we don't. Ravi was developing a cure, there were threats to my undead life, and we're far too unlike to be with each other. If we weren't zombies, I doubt that we'd actually be together—I would be married to Major and planning a family (Because that's totally Major.) while Lowell could have been hooking up with equally famous models who were in the same league as he is, the models who would enjoy the big life he had.
It hurts my head, thinking of the ways of the past, thinking of how we would have been if we were not zombies. It hurts because I love him and the idea of not being with him was tearing me apart, slowly, from the inside.
I felt a pang jealousy as the thought of him with other women started flooding my brain—mental images were produced and tears would stop at nothing, dominating my face in seconds. He was more than a rebound, although I have to admit that he was, in fact, my rebound, he grew to be so much more than that. He proved to be so much more than that.
And all I could do was wallow in my pain as I endure the moment alone, wishing that I've figured out how much I loved him before he was taken away from me. "Sometimes, a crime of passion is not realizing the passion in time." A quote streamed through my head. I've realized that I've committed one against Lowell and against myself. "But most crimes of passion are actually a crime." It was a truth I've yet to conquer and a reality I've yet faced, how I abandoned him in the time of his need, but I would right all wrongs—tomorrow, I would commit a crime of passion.
Tomorrow, I swear to God, I will kill Blaine DeBeers.