I don't have much time to say what I want to say.

I am a zombie. Or rather I'm becoming one. I hope it isn't as tedious and merciless as Kúru. But hey! Laughing yourself to death doesn't sound half bad.

Since I was a child, I was obsessed with death and dreamed of working with the dead.

Keeping the cemetery tidy isn't exactly what I'd had in mind. I was thinking more along the lines of forensic pathology, but you take what you can get.

Raking leaves and dusting off headstones are common in my work day, but as boring as it may seem, it helps me forget about Kenneth.  If everything is not perfect for him, the devil incarnate comes in the shape of an unimpressive man. At least on the job, I can remember I'm doing something for me...Right up until he's spending the money I earn.

I'm lucky if I don't come home to a swat because of one thing or another. The front door creaking open, a leaf on my shoe, a late response to a text.

Just about anything would do to get away from that prick.

On occasion, there is the rush of digging a grave. The morbid part of me is a disease, I'll admit it. But it's a fun one that I sincerely hope isn't contagious like the whole zombie bit.

Earlier today, I was going about my day at the gravesite as usual, trimming and maintaining the shrubbery when I heard an animalistic snarl from behind me. I figured something from the nearby wood had made its way to my whereabouts. But upon second thought, there was something strangely human about that low groaning.

When I turned around, a woman fell into my arms. I panicked, worried she was unconscious or dying.

Without warning, she grabbed my hand and kissed it before rubbing her sticky, slobbery mouth all over my skin, which nearly made me vomit on the spot. I was puzzled, more concerned about sexual assault than the preceding moments in which her jaw doubled in size and she consumed my entire left hand.

I screamed only when I caught sight of her, pushing her out of the way.  She didn't chase me to the car.  Too damn slow for that.

As I drove to the hospital, fear pounded within me.

Around halfway there, my eyes glossed. I rubbed them, dumbfounded by the sudden blur.

When the blood came streaming down my cheeks, I ran the car off the road and into a tree none other than mine.

Yep.

Big mistake.

The car stumbled up our hill, ramming straight into the lemon tree in my front yard. Lemons busted through the already shattered windshield and splatted all over the car.

Kenneth's car.

I made it out just fine, aside from the phantom pain in my missing hand and stabbing throbs in my eyeballs. It was alarming to see my pale gaze in the reflection of the barely intact window, but, I must admit, kinda badass.

Rather than rush me to the hospital, Kenny took me inside where he pushed and kicked me repeatedly. I curled in the fetal position and rocked, wailing in pain, still a girl. Still human.

I tried to stand, but before I made it all the way up, he grabbed me by the arms, squeezing tightly.

"You're going to think about what you done," he gritted in my ear, dragging me to our bedroom, locking it from the outside with his custom-made shackle.

My mind wasn't my own. It isn't unlike me to be paralyzed with shock as a trauma response, but I have never tried to fight back. Something took over. An unfamiliar instinct. I scratched at the door and slammed my entire body weight against the sturdy frame.

"Stop it, girlie, you're only gonna tire yourself out," he cackled.

Overcome with a superhuman-like strength and godlike confidence I'd never known, I started from the back, by the window with a head-on view of the mess outside, then ran full force, screaming so hard I'm surprised my larynx didn't cave. The door toppled Kenneth over, crushing him. A part of me thinks I could have conjured that strength if I wasn't always living in my head. If I wasn't always hiding. I threw the door off of him to find him unconscious.

Great.

That gave me time to kill him without a fight.

And I did. He woke up shrieking in horror as I dug my fingers into his skull. Blood poured from every orifice of his face, tongue stuck out like a pathetic hound with cotton mouth as I effortlessly cracked him open — a fragile coconut — slurping and wolfing what little contents it offered.

I'm sat here beside Kenneth's corpse, voice to texting my worries away because I know the undead are still fiction to most. (I'd be writing this out if someone would give me a HAND...Too soon? Ah, hell.)

It hasn't been on the news or broadcast on the radio. I guess maybe this isn't the best way to find out...

Sorry probably doesn't cut it, right?

I'm sure there'll be flashing lights in no time. The neighbors never did shit about the abuse, but if his precious car is hurt, that can't be left unacknowledged. God, how I'd like to eat those fuckers alive.

My skin is peeling to the green decay underneath. I know I'm not me anymore. When I'm finished with these last words, I will be sure to put an end to this misery.

But this isn't miserable at all. So why should I?

This is freedom.

I feel something in my bones. A change is coming. The final change.

Until then, I have just one thing left to say.

Go fuck yourself, Kenneth.