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I have planned out everything.
I know that in the future, I will check my arm. That the discoloration around the slight laceration on my forearm will prove to be my undoing. But I will die fighting the force that wishes for my mind to not be my own. I know that I will get this laceration in a too close for comfort accident. I know that it will sneak up behind me, trying to catch me off guard with its silent shambling movements. I know that when I turn around with my retaliation, it will be too late.
When it falls upon me, I know I must get to its head to stop it from getting to me. I also know that even though I will be against the slowest of its kind, I will not be forgiven for my shortcomings. What I am saying must be causing discomfort, but I cannot help the fact that I know. I know that when we both fall, it will be able to get hold on my arm with its unbreakable grasp. I know that when the moment comes, I will be able to get free and with its limp body rolling off of me I will be able to retreat.
I know that when I retreat to my shelter, with my heart pounding in my chest and my arms and legs pumping, that I will be happy. I will be happy that I got away from the horror that once was my neighborhood. I know that when I reach my shelter, I will have to board up the door to prevent the rest of the horrors from getting in. I know that when I get to my shelter, my kingdom (the one and only place that is my own), I will look at my arm.
I will check my arm, and the discoloration around the slight laceration on my forearm will prove to be my undoing. I will fall back against the boarded-up door, the rough scrap wood slightly catching the ends of my hair as I slide down to the floor, never taking my eyes off my arm. I know that I will lie on my side as the horde behind the door grows impatient with my will to live. They will start to push against the door, the walls, and what's left of the remaining windows. I know that soon, my heart will slow as death joins the horde at my door.
My will to live will ebb away as the infection takes hold. I know my mouth will open slightly, as a mechanism to get more oxygen to my brain. I know that my breathing will grow ragged, and my vision will slowly be chased away by blackness. I know that I will start to move away from the door and to my cot at the other side of the room, on unstable limbs. I know that when I reach the edge of my bed, I will collapse as my motor skills finally betray me. I know that as my brain chooses to focus on nothing else but my breathing and what is left of my will to live, I will become tired.
I know that when my eyes start to close, and my breathing slows to non-existent, I will think of you. I will hope that you have not made the same fatal mistake I have, for I know I will wake up soon.
I know that when I wake up, I will rise and look upon my little crumbling shack with distaste. I will start to stumble towards the door with only one thing in mind: the hunger. With a blank mind, low hanging head, and stumbling feet, I will be driven by a hunger like a fire in my soul. A hunger so strong nothing can stop me from feeding it.
Not even that damn laceration on my arm.