As the days pass, time begins to blend into a simple matter of dark and light. We make unnecessary weapons until all chair legs, table legs, and slates are now sharpened to a point. My companion and I have become close somewhat, her constantly encouraging me to think harder for the rest of my name, that ambiguous title that must so define me. Why was it so important to her? I was a zombie, albeit a thinking, speaking one. I muse to myself as I sit on the floor trying to figure out how to use those matches two matters; one, she pities me, and feels guilt for having obtained her name so easily. Two, I know what these little sticks do, but for the life of me I cant make my fingers pick one out to test it. The logic is there, but when I look for past experience, I draw a blank. Of course.
The woman, I find, when I look up to check for her presence, is sat at the desk, doing one of the few things she can do. When she's not arming herself, she's trying out for names. When shes not doing that, shes sleeping. When shes not sleeping, she does what shes doing now; stare at the photograph of her nameless friends. She showed me the image just hours ago for the first time, in a hope that a member of the undead would know. The only emotion I gathered from the experience was a disinterested dislike for the grinning orange haired idiot. He looked arrogant. I despised arrogance.
"Wo-oman."
Her hair shifts, and out of it her tired eyes peak from behind. She hmms a light note, much to high for me, and smiles a drawn, tired smile. I lift the little box slowly. "Can y-you...figure them...out?"
"Theyre matches, create fire. Have you never-...oh, sorry."
...
The longer I spend with him, the more alive he seems to me. I begin to get a general image of him before all this, and realise that he must not have been so different. He'd have had a beating heart, faster, more eloquent speech, granted. But I often get guesses that seem to suit him of the way he would walk without dusty limbs; graceful, sure, purposeful. I imagine his voice ghost like when I remove the scratchiness of his throat. I think back to the dream, and instantly place green irises on top of the grey. I am sure that as time passes, the dream-like emerald coaxes back into them.
But, that's just madness. I've never met the boy before.
But had I?
In what context?
For whatever reason, I cant place him in my everyday life. I cant even remember what that meant for me.
He interrupts me from my reverie, and I almost jump. What he asks seems dumb and obscure, and I cant help but begin a little short. In apology, I stand and demonstrate by scraping one of the sticks across the board. "See?"
"Hmm. Int-teresting." I smile at the term. Never before had I heard matches refered to as that before. I cant help but revel over how fascinated he is over the flame between my fingers.
"Can't you remember them? Matches? Fire?"
"No-not...like that. I know of f-fire. I can usually...place things. R-recognise them."
I nod in understanding, and move to sit by his side on the windowsill. "What can you be sure of remembering?"
He pauses to think, his blank expression creasing ever so lightly between his brows. "It sounds...depressing."
"Tell me...please?"
For the first time that day, our eyes meet, and all I see is the emptiness.
"Noth-thing worth...remembering. Ash...fire...noth-thing much...different to this-s.
Ash...
The dream flashes into mind. I picture his hand withering away over mine, just before I catch it. I picture those emerald orbs, a distant sorrow, eyes that had never seen brightness.
Never before had he looked so familiar than then.
All I find to reply with is, "that doesn't sound nice at all." My voice sounds fickle and young. He hums in response, and fumbles his fingers in the match box. He plucks one out, and strikes it. We both watch as it turns the rest of the wood black, and burn out at his fingertips.