Zombie Cuisine
I am a zombie. There. I said it. Doesn’t sound so bad once you say it out loud. Well, to tell the truth, it does sound bad if I’m the one who’s saying it. The decay has taken its toll on my vocal cords and my voice isn’t as sweet and melodic as it once was. These days, when I speak it sounds more like the rusty hinges of a rotting outhouse door that hasn’t been opened since the mid-sixties.
Being a zombie isn’t so bad, aside from the never-ending, insatiable hunger that subsides only momentarily each time I feed. It is this all-consuming lust for flesh that drives me. I am undead, and I crave. Feeding this craving is my reason for being; my one and only purpose.
Just to clarify things – movies have misrepresented zombies somewhat. Hollywood’s exaggerated portrayal of my kind has most likely given people with the wrong idea about us, especially when it comes to our dietary requirements. I’m referring, of course, to the myth that zombies dine solely on brains. Don’t get me wrong; we do love our brains – what zombie wouldn’t? After all, brains are delicious and probably nutritious as well. And ohhh, so delicious. I said that already, sorry. My own brain certainly isn’t what it used to be.
But brains, yes. Oh, how I love the way they slip and slide between my rotting teeth as I tear them from my victim’s skull and then let them slither down my throat into the abyss that was once a functioning digestive system. It’s a feeling unlike any other in this hollow existence that allows me to feel only hunger. The hot salty taste of that fatty grey matter is a tiny bit of Heaven in this Hell that has become my non-life. And the scent…ahhh! Nothing beats the heady aroma of fresh brains bulging forth from a newly cracked open skull, awaiting the first bite.
Brains are a zombie’s crack, and it’s true what they say – the first hit is always the best. That first bite is the ringer, especially if the victim’s heart is still beating.
I digress once again. It's not all about the brains. As I was saying before, brains are not the only food a zombie desires. Every part of a living thing has its own unique appeal. The lean sinewy muscle tissue, torn from struggling limbs is also quite satisfying, although I personally prefer the internal organs. The guts are a bountiful buffet of different scents, flavors and textures, guaranteed to drive any zombie wild with hungerlust. The juicy sausage links of the small intestine are perfectly complemented by a steaming slab of freshly torn out liver or a still-beating heart. The gall bladder is a particularly unique and tasty delicacy once one becomes accustomed to the texture. The stomach is the piñata of the human body. It’s a bit like opening a Christmas present from a secret Santa because you never know what half-digested delights it might hold, unless of course your victim has already puked at the sight of you and ruined the surprise.
The other great debate when it comes to zombie cuisine is, human or animal – which do we prefer to eat, or does it make a difference? Well, as a human zombie, I can honestly say that cannibalism of my own former species is definitely the way to go. An animal will do in a pinch, but only if nothing else is available. For some reason, animals fail to satisfy my hunger for very long, if at all. Though, when you’re talking about a relentless, insatiable craving, is it ever truly satisfied? No. It is not. It is never satisfied. I am undead, and I crave. That is my endless existence.
Some might wonder how I became a zombie. To tell the truth, I can’t actually remember anymore. Did I ever remember? I honestly don’t know. I suppose that maybe I was bitten by another of my kind at some point, but the precise moment that the transformation took place has faded from my memory, like every moment of my previous life. My memories have been replaced only by memories of hunger.
I know that I was a living, breathing person once; we all were. I was a woman as far as I know, and judging from the blurred image I see when I catch my reflection in a window, I may have been called beautiful once, long ago. The mirror is no longer my friend; the reflection I see with the one eyeball that isn’t dangling from its socket is not a pretty one. Not a hottie, even by zombie standards. I don’t rely much on sight anymore; it's the scent of my prey that draws me. I am a creature of instinct, fueled by hunger and guided by my all-consuming lust for flesh.
I sometimes get flashes of an old life, but can’t grasp the memories. I think the feeling is called déjà vu. It’s as if certain things are familiar but I’m not quite sure what those things are. The details are forever elusive, hovering about me like mists; untouchable, fluid, never taking a definite shape. I am drawn to certain places again and again, but don’t know why. I suspect it’s because I may have known them when I was among the living. There is one house in particular that I keep returning to. I know the house, yet I don’t because I can’t remember it. Night after night, as I prowl in search of warm flesh (brains) to appease my agonizing hunger, I find myself inexplicably drawn to this one same house.
There is a young man inside the house, and for some reason he intrigues me. I linger outside his bedroom window and watch him as he sleeps. Sometimes he weeps as he sleeps. He smells delicious but I have yet to make him my victim. For some reason I simply prefer to watch him with what visual faculties I have left, drinking in the sight of him as I would drink the blood from his throbbing heart after ripping it from his muscular chest.
On the table beside his bed, there is a photo in a frame. The image in the photo is one of an attractive young woman with long dark hair. Long dark hair, very much like the few strands that still cling to what's left of my decomposing scalp. He weeps for the woman in the photo, of that I am certain. On some instinctive level I know that I am, or was, the woman in the photo and that the handsome young man weeps for me. Night after night as I shuffle through the streets, seeking my next kill, I inevitably end up at that same house. Each night, I pause outside the window and watch this intriguing young man who weeps for me in his sleep. He doesn't know I'm there. Perhaps I'll confront him one night, if I can ever remember any shards of my life, of our life together. Perhaps that night will be tonight. But first I must feed because I am undead, and I crave.
I shuffle up to the window and see that he is there as usual, fast asleep. It's a hot summer night and he sleeps with the window open, clad only in his underwear. He is beautiful and he smells oh, so good! I can’t help myself – I let out a low guttural moan as the insatiable craving consumes me. I must have him. I was his once, and he and I were one. We shall be one again. He wakes and sees me standing there. He rubs his eyes in horror and disbelief. I can smell his fear, and it is an olfactory orgasm to my zombie senses. I crave…oh, how I crave!
He stands, and takes a tentative step toward the window.
“Amelia?” he whispers in a shaky voice. “Is that you?”
I nod silently. It is me! I am Amelia! Of course! How could I have forgotten my own name? In a flash it comes back to me. I was Amelia and he was Roger, and we were about to be married, when…
The fleeting memory vanishes as quickly as it came. Something has happened that prevented our marriage – what was it again? Something life-changing. Oh, yes, that’s right! Now I remember! It was that whole me-becoming-a-zombie thing. Certainly puts a kink in one’s marriage plans, to say the least.
As Roger steps closer to the window, a loud wail rattles forth from my rotted throat and I reach for him, yearning for him. The craving is unbearable. He recoils, but not quickly enough. My bony claw closes around his wrist, pulling him to me.
My love, lost but somehow not forgotten.
We shall be together again, my darling. We shall be one.
I pull Roger into my putrid embrace, subduing his struggles with a quick bite to his temple. My teeth sink into the softer part of his skull, penetrating the bone and allowing me quick access to what I know lies beneath. I peel away his skull like a hard-boiled egg, revealing the treasure inside. I want this man so much; the desire is almost too much to bear. The adrenaline is making his heart race, causing the mouth-watering grey matter to pulsate in time with his heartbeat.
I guess I was wrong. It really is all about the brains after all. Zombie crack. I bury my face in my lover’s skull and savor his sweetness. The first hit, sweetest of all. I once loved this man and I love him still, for he satisfies me.
I am undead, and I crave. I crave zombie cuisine.
It's a good thing.
Copyright © 2012 Mandy White
Being a zombie isn’t so bad, aside from the never-ending, insatiable hunger that subsides only momentarily each time I feed. It is this all-consuming lust for flesh that drives me. I am undead, and I crave. Feeding this craving is my reason for being; my one and only purpose.
Just to clarify things – movies have misrepresented zombies somewhat. Hollywood’s exaggerated portrayal of my kind has most likely given people with the wrong idea about us, especially when it comes to our dietary requirements. I’m referring, of course, to the myth that zombies dine solely on brains. Don’t get me wrong; we do love our brains – what zombie wouldn’t? After all, brains are delicious and probably nutritious as well. And ohhh, so delicious. I said that already, sorry. My own brain certainly isn’t what it used to be.
But brains, yes. Oh, how I love the way they slip and slide between my rotting teeth as I tear them from my victim’s skull and then let them slither down my throat into the abyss that was once a functioning digestive system. It’s a feeling unlike any other in this hollow existence that allows me to feel only hunger. The hot salty taste of that fatty grey matter is a tiny bit of Heaven in this Hell that has become my non-life. And the scent…ahhh! Nothing beats the heady aroma of fresh brains bulging forth from a newly cracked open skull, awaiting the first bite.
Brains are a zombie’s crack, and it’s true what they say – the first hit is always the best. That first bite is the ringer, especially if the victim’s heart is still beating.
I digress once again. It's not all about the brains. As I was saying before, brains are not the only food a zombie desires. Every part of a living thing has its own unique appeal. The lean sinewy muscle tissue, torn from struggling limbs is also quite satisfying, although I personally prefer the internal organs. The guts are a bountiful buffet of different scents, flavors and textures, guaranteed to drive any zombie wild with hungerlust. The juicy sausage links of the small intestine are perfectly complemented by a steaming slab of freshly torn out liver or a still-beating heart. The gall bladder is a particularly unique and tasty delicacy once one becomes accustomed to the texture. The stomach is the piñata of the human body. It’s a bit like opening a Christmas present from a secret Santa because you never know what half-digested delights it might hold, unless of course your victim has already puked at the sight of you and ruined the surprise.
The other great debate when it comes to zombie cuisine is, human or animal – which do we prefer to eat, or does it make a difference? Well, as a human zombie, I can honestly say that cannibalism of my own former species is definitely the way to go. An animal will do in a pinch, but only if nothing else is available. For some reason, animals fail to satisfy my hunger for very long, if at all. Though, when you’re talking about a relentless, insatiable craving, is it ever truly satisfied? No. It is not. It is never satisfied. I am undead, and I crave. That is my endless existence.
Some might wonder how I became a zombie. To tell the truth, I can’t actually remember anymore. Did I ever remember? I honestly don’t know. I suppose that maybe I was bitten by another of my kind at some point, but the precise moment that the transformation took place has faded from my memory, like every moment of my previous life. My memories have been replaced only by memories of hunger.
I know that I was a living, breathing person once; we all were. I was a woman as far as I know, and judging from the blurred image I see when I catch my reflection in a window, I may have been called beautiful once, long ago. The mirror is no longer my friend; the reflection I see with the one eyeball that isn’t dangling from its socket is not a pretty one. Not a hottie, even by zombie standards. I don’t rely much on sight anymore; it's the scent of my prey that draws me. I am a creature of instinct, fueled by hunger and guided by my all-consuming lust for flesh.
I sometimes get flashes of an old life, but can’t grasp the memories. I think the feeling is called déjà vu. It’s as if certain things are familiar but I’m not quite sure what those things are. The details are forever elusive, hovering about me like mists; untouchable, fluid, never taking a definite shape. I am drawn to certain places again and again, but don’t know why. I suspect it’s because I may have known them when I was among the living. There is one house in particular that I keep returning to. I know the house, yet I don’t because I can’t remember it. Night after night, as I prowl in search of warm flesh (brains) to appease my agonizing hunger, I find myself inexplicably drawn to this one same house.
There is a young man inside the house, and for some reason he intrigues me. I linger outside his bedroom window and watch him as he sleeps. Sometimes he weeps as he sleeps. He smells delicious but I have yet to make him my victim. For some reason I simply prefer to watch him with what visual faculties I have left, drinking in the sight of him as I would drink the blood from his throbbing heart after ripping it from his muscular chest.
On the table beside his bed, there is a photo in a frame. The image in the photo is one of an attractive young woman with long dark hair. Long dark hair, very much like the few strands that still cling to what's left of my decomposing scalp. He weeps for the woman in the photo, of that I am certain. On some instinctive level I know that I am, or was, the woman in the photo and that the handsome young man weeps for me. Night after night as I shuffle through the streets, seeking my next kill, I inevitably end up at that same house. Each night, I pause outside the window and watch this intriguing young man who weeps for me in his sleep. He doesn't know I'm there. Perhaps I'll confront him one night, if I can ever remember any shards of my life, of our life together. Perhaps that night will be tonight. But first I must feed because I am undead, and I crave.
I shuffle up to the window and see that he is there as usual, fast asleep. It's a hot summer night and he sleeps with the window open, clad only in his underwear. He is beautiful and he smells oh, so good! I can’t help myself – I let out a low guttural moan as the insatiable craving consumes me. I must have him. I was his once, and he and I were one. We shall be one again. He wakes and sees me standing there. He rubs his eyes in horror and disbelief. I can smell his fear, and it is an olfactory orgasm to my zombie senses. I crave…oh, how I crave!
He stands, and takes a tentative step toward the window.
“Amelia?” he whispers in a shaky voice. “Is that you?”
I nod silently. It is me! I am Amelia! Of course! How could I have forgotten my own name? In a flash it comes back to me. I was Amelia and he was Roger, and we were about to be married, when…
The fleeting memory vanishes as quickly as it came. Something has happened that prevented our marriage – what was it again? Something life-changing. Oh, yes, that’s right! Now I remember! It was that whole me-becoming-a-zombie thing. Certainly puts a kink in one’s marriage plans, to say the least.
As Roger steps closer to the window, a loud wail rattles forth from my rotted throat and I reach for him, yearning for him. The craving is unbearable. He recoils, but not quickly enough. My bony claw closes around his wrist, pulling him to me.
My love, lost but somehow not forgotten.
We shall be together again, my darling. We shall be one.
I pull Roger into my putrid embrace, subduing his struggles with a quick bite to his temple. My teeth sink into the softer part of his skull, penetrating the bone and allowing me quick access to what I know lies beneath. I peel away his skull like a hard-boiled egg, revealing the treasure inside. I want this man so much; the desire is almost too much to bear. The adrenaline is making his heart race, causing the mouth-watering grey matter to pulsate in time with his heartbeat.
I guess I was wrong. It really is all about the brains after all. Zombie crack. I bury my face in my lover’s skull and savor his sweetness. The first hit, sweetest of all. I once loved this man and I love him still, for he satisfies me.
I am undead, and I crave. I crave zombie cuisine.
It's a good thing.
Copyright © 2012 Mandy White