Hi Mr. Journal. I think it's all starting to get to me. I did not have a very good week here at all. Nothing bad happened, which is awesome really, but I think spilling my guts last Tuesday opened up some fucking epic wounds I had really forgotten about.
I'm sitting here with tears welling up in my eyes as I think about the fact that I did not go and at least try and find Cass. Cassie. Just typing her name is hard for me to do right now. I sat here looking at this blank white sheet of pixilated paper for almost an hour just trying to think of something to write about but I couldn't. All I could think about was the fact that my awesome goddamn plan that day didn't include at least trying to rescue the woman I should've married.
I mean, I'm alive, and that's good, but it all seems pretty fucking pointless without her here. Like, why do I even bother to make myself dinner when she s not here to tell me how bad my cooking is? We were together for so long and I just don't know why I didn't ask her to marry me sooner. Fear of commitment? Wedding was too expensive? Was I afraid her parents would say no? Shit I don't know. And it kills me I never will know. My mouth is bone dry right now. I can't even swallow.
I've sat in bed, snuggled up with Otis and just laid there thinking about this. I've been so busy getting this place safe from the zombies that I haven't had time to really think about it until now. She has to be dead, right? She was never the survivor type. She lost her goddamn mind when there was a spider in the house, I can't envision her keeping her shit together when people are dying all around her, then sitting up and attacking her too. My most frequent delusion about her death is that she died in a car accident trying to get out of the city. You know, she would've taken the stairs to get out of the building, ran to her car, dodging the undead's awkward lunges. I can see her starting her little car, backing out into the street, and then getting creamed at an intersection by some fucking asshole in a giant SUV trying to do the same thing as her. In my guilt filled vision she not only is killed instantly, but is either decapitated, or is so mangled that she can't get back up as the undead.
I think thinking of it that way makes me feel like it's better that way. At least if she died that way she isn't hurting anyone else, and at least that way I will never have to worry about seeing her disintegrating body shambling towards me someday. Man I hope that never happens. I don't think I could take seeing that. Seeing her beautiful face all ashen and bloody, teeth bared, slowly clawing at the air as she comes toward me.
Just typing that makes my fucking skin crawl.
There's this enormous part of me that says I should go get a truck from the maintenance barn and make my way to her work. For closure. I know I won't find her, at least, I know I won't find her alive. I think if I did find her car smashed to shit in an intersection I might feel better about myself. About my decision that day. You know at least I could say that I was right about not going to try and find her. She was probably already dead by the time I even knew what was going on that day. There was no chance that I could've saved her.
Then the little prick inside me says; Adrian, but what if you find her dead, walking along the road, slowly making her way home, slowly making her way back to you? And my ambition to go get closure just dries right the fuck up. I think that little prick, that little voice inside me is my cowardice. I never thought of myself as a coward. Really. I've waded into some pretty dangerous shit in my 34 years on this planet, and not once did I give it a second thought.
Why the fuck did I give up on her so easily that day?
Fuck you Mr. Journal.