The constant air of sadness surrounding me has numbed my soul. I really thought that the beginnings of my mind’s slippage would take longer than a month, but it’s funny how things stick with you, especially things like visions of the bus stop kid. My tolerance for this life is continually tested, and, at times, continuing on is difficult.

This particular instance stuck out more than others. It is hard to look upon zombie children, but even worse is the zombie who retains its childish features. Masking the gore and lack of soul is the retaining of innocence and frailty. Lost in a sea of circumstances far beyond their control, their lives and very essences.

The bus stop kid was difficult to swallow. It just stood there, no matter how close I got, looking up and down the street. Still waiting for the bus, the “child” could not understand that it would never come. I could see no physical damage or hint as to how the child was infected; though, you could clearly see that it had taken part in feeding. Maybe, a poor soul like myself saw the child standing there and tried to help, only to be thanked by a sudden violent attack. Gnashing jaws, tearing and ripping, no chance.

I approached it slowly pulling out my weapon, steadying myself for what I would have to do. The child looked up at me, a saddened look on its face. It reached towards me, and whimpered a little as it grabbed onto its backpack.  “Its ok little one,” I said in a quiet tone, “The bus is almost here… It will all…be…OK…”

(BANG)