November 25

Blasé Day

 

Ho-hum, another radioactive mutant.  Yes, I see your teeth are sharp, with gristles of red meat stuck between them.  Let me guess:  It’s fresh.  It’s human.

Seen it all before.

I guess I was excited the first hundred times I heard that animal growl, saw those razor-sharp nails cleaving the air between us.  And wow, when a shotgun goes off like this —

the jolt all the way up my arm, the ear-splitting report, was pretty impressive once upon a time.  No longer.

What about the way a mutant head explodes from the blast? …oh, look at me yawning now, so bored —

but that leaves my mouth open, while blood splashes warm on my face and chunks of rotten mutant flesh sling into my mouth, and I think I might have swallowed one of your teeth.

I’ll stay blasé about it, just another bad day after the apocalypse, when bad has become blah.

It doesn’t matter if I recognize a scrap of bloody cloth gripped in the gnarled fist of your fallen body, a blue-and-white striped pattern identical to the dress my daughter wore last week when she disappeared —

even if that means, you’ve eaten her, spat her own gristle back at me as you died…or you are her, contaminated by poisoned food, water, or air, returning to her own father but lacking a voice, only desperate growls, and so I shot you in ignorant self-defense.

And, oh, I start to feel the next tedious development, that tooth I swallowed tearing the back of my throat, exposing me to infection, ho-hum, I’ll be the next to join the ranks of mutants.

Wake me when the post-apocalypse is over, would you?