The Killer In Me Is The Killer In You

Gerard's P.O.V


The dead don't sleep. A lesson I learned rather quickly after becoming a walking corpse three months ago. I also learned that the only thing I can taste anymore is human brains and if I don't eat some I become something that not even I can control. So as I stand here at four o' clock in the morning on top of the grave of my newly deceased algebra teacher, whom I hated anyway and was an asshole in every aspect of his pathetic life, be thankful that I'm not about to consume your brain and that you're not lying six feet underground in a wooden box sheltering maggots in your rotting skin. You're welcome for that lovely image.

I pull my black hood over my head and grab the rusty shovel I stole from my parent's garage. Raindrops begin to fall from the dark sky, wetting the already muddy soil before me. I sigh and take one last look at the fuckface's tombstone before I disturb his final resting place.

Brian Dickson, Born: October 1st, 1960, Died: September 5th, 2015. May he rest in peace.

The school said that he died from a heart attack but I never quite believed them. But then again I don't really care. The shovel connects with the dirt as I begin to dig. Digging for scraps of human brain left behind by the maggots and flies, is this what my life has come to? The rain pounds against my back, making the black fabric stick to my pale skin.

As I dig and dig, I remember how I got to this point. Three months ago, I was just another average dork. Sitting alone at lunch, sitting alone in class, content with my small existence. The only friend I had was my brother, Mikey, which is quite sad, I know. But hey at least my mom thought I was cool. One day after another uneventful day at school, I came home to find Mikey smiling and waiting for me on the front porch outside of our bland, suburban home. He began to inform me on how he was invited to the biggest party of the year and how he wanted me to come with. I immediately said, "Fuck no, unicorn boy." And ran to my bedroom, otherwise known as my fortress of solitude. But after hours of pleading from his part, I begrudgingly agreed. And that's how my little version of Night of The Living Dead began.

I am interrupted from my thoughts when my shovel hits something hard. Brian Dickson's coffin. I throw my shovel on the dug-ed up ground and push away the remaining dirt on top of his black wooden death box. The rain falling harder and harder.

I sigh and move to a spot in his grave that gives me easier access to open his coffin. I close my eyes and rest my dirtied hands on the wood, I don't want to do this. But I have to. The anticipation and hunger takes over my actions, causing me to forcefully swing open his coffin. The smell is the first thing that hits me.

Death, decay, rot, and douchey old teacher. Those smells mix together to create something truly horrid. Something that causes me to almost die again. I put my hand over my mouth and look inside the coffin. The withering shell of a man lies inside, gray skin falling off his bones in clumps, maggots protruding from his empty eye sockets, not even assholes are safe from the ravages of time.

Even though I've done this before, I can never get used to it. I move inside his coffin, trying to ignore everything that surrounds me. I reach inside my jacket pocket and pull out a miniature bone saw. I position the saw on top of his skull, preparing to extract the remnants of his brain.

I'll spare you the gory details, let's just say there was a lot of oozing and gushing of juices that I didn't even know the human body contained. As I climb out of Mr. Dickson's grave with his brain in hand, the rain has finally stopped and now the faint light of the sun is staring to show on the New Jersey horizon, alerting me that school will start in a matter of hours.

I sit next to my shovel on the surface of the graveyard and pick off a piece of the dick's brain and shove it into my mouth. The gooey substance sticks to the inside of my mouth, making it hard to swallow but I manage. The visions of his memories hit me. Flashes of his childhood, his mother, his little yellow bicycle that he named George, his alcoholic father who used to throw empty beer bottles at him. The pain fills my own brain, the only downside of consuming someone's brain is that you get access to their memories, and when they come they don't come peacefully, they come forcefully and they hurt.

I try and push Mr.Dickson's memories out of my mind while stuffing the rest of his brain into a little Batman plastic baggy. I'm one badass motherfucker. I shove the plastic bag into my pocket and begin to shuffle out of the graveyard, picking up my shovel and leaving Mr.Dickson's open grave behind.

Notes

*hides in corner* hey people I'm sorry it's short and most likely sucks ass but it will get better I promise. Please leave a comment, anything would be greatly appreciated. Love you random person on the internet who bothered to read my crappy little story :)