I had probably the worst zombie dream last night that I feel could've been suppressed had my boyfriend not been 2 1/2 hours away.
There were George Romero-esque zombies and they only came out at night. I was living in a run-down mansion with Professor Yap from CSUEB (I almost took Analysis with her), my dad, and a bunch of refugees (i.e. humans). The zombies had taken over most of the city, but during the daytime I relaxed by walking alongside the lake (don't ask which, it was just known as "the lake".) During one of my walks one day I happened upon Adrien Brody, all dressed in dark colors and looking like eyecandy. He and I apparently had had a thing going (in a past dream, perhaps?) but broke up due to Gregg being in my life, both in reality & the dream world. Anyway, we walk. We talk. Gregg is not in the immediate vicinity, so I am nervous after awhile. Mr. Brody tempts me. Says I need an older man. Part of me doesn't want to belive him, and the other part just wants to let things happen for the sake of lust, like I used to do. But I stop millimeters from his face because I don't want to break any more hearts due to silly, lustful decisions. We part. I return to the run-down mansion.
My father is living in one of the upstairs bedrooms that has its own kitchen. He is tired of all the moving going on due to the zombie action in the city. I know it is more than his age, it is his body that everyday feels the pain of routine. It sucks and it makes me depressed. Prof. Yap tells us that the zombies have taken over the upstairs part of the house, and we need to move everything we need and ourselves to the downstairs living room, which is fully furnished and which all of us can fit into. Everyone has moved in a matter of a few short hours. It is nearing sundown. Zombie activity has yet to commence. And my father has not stirred from his living space. I am pounding on the door telling him to get a move on, to bring food and a book and let's go! What is wrong? I plea.
"I'm tired," he says. His words hold so much weight.
I know that he's tired because I'm tired, too; but I still fight. Living and being able to live sure beats being stiff, or worse: one of them. I bust open the door and see him resting on his recliner. Ready. I will not take this for an answer.
It is getting darker outside and I'm scrambling to get his recently-bought food that will benefit everyone. Such large quantities of oranges and avacadoes was not purchased by a man who was "ready." He needed to be told a reason to keep fighting because deep down he wanted to fight.
I grabbed 2 grocery bags of avacadoes, 2 bags of oranges, and slung a bag of apples on my shoulder. I could hear them.
I found myself pleading frantically with my own father. I said, holding back my tears and frustration, I said, "Dad, I would rather see you die fighting than see you die to become one of them."
He grabbed a book and we ran downstairs. Around the corner from the foyer I saw a body coming back to life. Prof. Yap opened the foyer door and we leapt in. All the furniture was old and Victorian and upholstered in this crushed velvet material; in other words, not comfortable. I lay on the seafoam green short carpet, joined by my friend Kenny, or the skinny blond-haired equivalent. I wanted to cry, but couldn't. So I just closed my eyes, and let go. Sleep would be the best.
Sleep is such a queer concept when one is being invaded by zombies. You tend to ask yourself a lot, "Who will I be when I wake up? Will I be something else? Will I have the same memories? Will I remember the new ones? Will I ever dream again once commencing the eternal sleep?"