Muuta

'''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 to 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, but I also know that that fact that even though I will be against the slowest of its kind I will not be forgiven for my short comings. 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 with its limp body rolling off of me. 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 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, my 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 hoard behind the door grows impatient with my will to live. They will start to push against the doors, walls, and remaining windows. I know that soon, my heart will slow as death knocks on my door. My will, will ebb away as the sickness takes hold. I know my mouth will open slightly as a mechanism to give my brain more oxygen. I know that my breathing will grow ragged, and my vision will slowly be chased away by the blackness at the edges of my vision. I know that I will start to move away from the door, 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 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; fore I know I will wake up soon. I know that when I wake up I will stand up, look upon my little crumbling shack with distaste, and 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 reaching my goal. Not even that darned laceration that will now be black, with the discoloration continuing up my arm and to my neck.