“Already Dead” Ch. 3

Dinner was not something they did often in their house, even when her mother was still alive. They would meet every once in a while, but mostly their individual schedules were all over the place, making coordinating meals very difficult.

As much as she hated to admit it, the time since the outbreak had started had been the longest they had even spent together in a single sitting. But now her mom was rotting outside, and it depressed her when she came downstairs and found that the view to the backyard had very little impact on her appetite.

As she scoured the fridge and cabinet for ingredients, her father sat in front of the TV, only half watching as the newscaster droned on and on about information they already had heard over and over. She looked at him, replaying the same conversation over in her head, a point counter point that was more like a reflex then actually talking to one another.

“Anything new,” she would ask.

“Nothing yet. Bastards up at Washington got their thumbs up their asses.”

“Language,” her mother would respond. In the last few days it had become her response.

He waved her away. “There is no reason to be nice about it. They will find a cure, overcharge it, and live off the profits. Just you see. They don't care about us.”

“Then why do they send people door to door?”
“Have to look like you are doing something. I doubt the medicine even works.”

The conversation would die soon after that, leaving an awkward silence in-between.

Without school and work to talk about, the normal framing devices were simply gone. She tried other subjects, but it wouldn't last long.

“What did you like to do as a kid,” she had asked, trying to change things up.

“Go to the bar and drink,” he responded with a laugh.

It was true. She knew that. Her grandmother had been a waitress at the bar, and he was working there almost as early as he could remember.

His first drink was from a stranger, a nice enough guy who was friendly back when being friendly around a kid wasn't seen as weird or suspicious. The man had seen him eyeing his drink with curiosity, and when his mom wasn't looking the man had quickly offered the glass to him which he promptly took a huge gulp of.

He almost spit it up right then and there, and the man had laughed at him, even laughing after his mother had come up behind him and knocked him on the head.

Getting used to drinking came easy after that. There were even days when he thought he liked the taste of it. He wasn't drinking today though, and hadn't for the last few days. Drinking was something he would do with his wife and a few select friends. But all those people were dead already, leaving the only person in the world that mattered to him sitting up stairs most of the day to avoid exposure.

He wanted to scream at that thought. To rush into the back yard, tear off the tarp and call his wife a bitch for leaving him alone. He wanted to break her body apart just to release the deep, offensive feeling of impotence rising up inside him. But he didn't have the energy, and he didn't hate her enough to do it.

Looking at it now, his life seemed pretty stupid and uneventful, and though this was a time for sharing special moments, he realized he didn't have much to share.

His daughter, god bless her, had left his lessons behind long ago, and was better for it.

So when she offered to the keep the normal banter to a minimum and simply let him rest he didn't try to disagree. It was her way of giving him a little bit of dignity. He was going to die soon, and there was no time to make his life more meaningful. There were no last minute items on a bucket list for him to complete. He had never considered stuff like that.

His life in all of its totality was tied up in his work, his marriage, his role as a father, and drinking. None of those things were possible now save one.

And he wasn't going to give her a reason to feel revulsion at the sight of her father desperately seeking affirmation for his life.