The life of the dead is placed in the memory of the living.

  -Marcus Tullius Cicero

  Tristan awoke with a start, unable to catch her breath. She looked around wildly, expecting to see dead bodies shambling around her, but she was alone. Not only was she alone, she was also in her bedroom. She tried to remember what had happened after her fight with George, but her memory was like Swiss Cheese.

  She remembered sitting there for a moment and crying as she processed what she had done. She heard a sound coming from the bathroom and approached it with a cautious optimism, hoping that Jennifer was still alive. She remembered sitting back down in the hallway, shattered. She was clutching the handgun and staring at George. She remembered seeing his hand start to twitch and move again. She remembered feeling her finger gently pull the trigger on the gun.

  She was startled out of thought by the sound of scratching at her bedroom door and jumped out of her skin. She looked around her bed, hoping that she had taken the handgun home with her. No such luck. Feeling very underprepared, she crept towards the door. The scratching grew more urgent as she approached, sending her adrenaline through the roof. This was it. George was right.

  When she reached the door, she took a shuddering breath and steeled herself. She started to take a mental inventory of everything in her apartment that she could use as a weapon. Her concentration was broken by a small meow coming from the other side of the door and she suddenly felt very silly. She opened the door and let Winston, her fat tuxedo cat, into the bedroom. Tristan hazarded a glance towards the living room, but everything was as she left it. Winston jumped on her bed and meowed at her expectantly. She rolled her eyes and sat down next to him. He did his usual greeting of walking back and forth on her lap, smashing his head into her face. As Tristan pet him, she tried her best to remember how she got home.

  The only thing she could remember after shooting the seemingly reanimated George was being wheeled down a hallway in what felt like a hospital bed. She remembered the hallway being a deep blue and having an odd logo emblazoned on the wall. She had tried to ask the person wheeling her a question but the memory stopped right as she started to look behind herself. If that was a hospital, how long had she been there? She checked the date on her phone which was, thankfully, fully charged once again. To her surprise, she had only lost one night. If all of that happened last night, she thought, then maybe they don’t know. Frantically, she dialed her dad’s phone number and called. The phone rang three times before he answered. “Tristan? Are you okay?” He asked, groggily. “Oh thank god. Where are you and mom right now?” Tristan asked. “We’re in bed.” He said. “It’s 6 in the morning. Are you ok, sweetie? Do you need us to come out there?”

  “No! No, stay where you are, please.” Tristan said. “It’s not safe.”

  “What do you mean it’s not safe? Are you sure you’re ok?”

  “Yes, dad. I’m sure. I… I saw some stuff last night. You’re not going to believe me at first, but I need you to listen.”

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  Tristan explained the events of the previous evening to her father. He was quiet for a moment after she finished. He took a deep breath before speaking again. “We’ll be there in an hour.” He said, firmly. “No, dad, it’s not safe! You need to stay there.” She exclaimed. Tristan heard her mom clear her throat. “Honey, no matter what’s happening, you are not doing well.” She said, carefully. “We will be there in an hour.” Tristan laughed, tearfully. “I’m not crazy.” She insisted. “Oh, no, sweetie. Nobody said you are.” Her dad said, gently. “We just want to help you.” Tristan nodded, even though they couldn’t see her. “Ok.” She said. “But I need you guys to be open to what I’m saying.” There was another moment of silence on the other end. “Mom? Dad?” Tristan asked. Tristan’s mom piped up. “We’ll listen, we promise.” She said. “We love you, sweetie.”

  “Love you too.” Tristan said, before hanging up the phone and sobbing into her cat for a moment. She thought of Sharon and Jennifer on that bathroom floor. She thought of the confusion in George’s eyes as he slumped to the floor.

  She wiped her tears with her sleeve and started looking online for news articles related to the night before. To her surprise, she found none. Not even a post in the local Facebook groups about gunshots or missing persons. She moved to the national news channels to see if she could find any mentions of mystery viruses or cannibalism, but all the coverage was focused on the trade wars raging around the world.

  Confused, she looked around her apartment for discharge papers from the hospital to try to get some idea of what happened outside of that office building, but she found none. Winston watched her from the TV stand as she frantically searched around. Once he had finally had enough, he decided to get her attention by knocking the nearest item onto the floor. Tristan sighed and turned to him. “Sorry, Winnie, you’re right.” She said. “You need f-“ she cut herself off when she saw what he had knocked off the TV stand. On the floor sat a pair of stainless steel scissors that did not belong to her.

  Tristan sat at her kitchen table anxiously bouncing her leg. She stared at the pair of scissors, inspecting them. She could still see a bit of blood caked under the pivot screw. Whoever had cleaned it had done a good job but missed that one little spot. Why leave it here at all? She thought. She pulled out a piece of paper and did her best to draw the logo that she had seen on the wall of the blue hallway she had been wheeled down. It was a large tree with deep roots that looked almost like tentacles. It looked familiar, but she couldn’t place where she had seen it before.

  She heard a knock on the door.

  Instinctively, she picked up the shears and looked through the peephole. She breathed a sigh of relief as she saw her parents standing there. “We come baring gifts.” Her dad said, holding up a Tupperware container. “Your mom made crumb cake.” Tristan opened the door and let them in, glancing behind them as she did.

  Her parents walked in, looking at the mess Tristan had made while she was looking for any clues as to how she had gotten home the night before. While they were distracted, Tristan placed the scissors on a shelf by the door. Best not worry them too much. “Uh.. welcome to my humble abode.” She said, gesturing towards the ransacked living room. Her dad looked at her wearily. “That’s one way to put it.” He said. “Harry, why don’t you go put that crumb cake in the kitchen?” Tristan’s mom interjected. Tristan’s dad started to say something but was silenced by a glare from his wife. He grumbled and left for the kitchen.

  Tristan’s mom sat on the couch and beckoned for her daughter to join her. Tristan obliged and was quickly pulled into a tearful embrace by her mother. “You really worried us with that call.” She whispered. Tristan nodded, holding back tears herself. “I know, mama.” She said. She felt a sob escape. “I’m telling the truth.” She insisted. Tristan’s mom took a deep breath and kissed her head. “Walk me through it again.”