Author's note: If you're going to read a zombie book, go read one with some substance. Geez.
Some of my friends find it amusing how much I love and hate this book. My stomach's been churning since I got to the last quarter. I personally just find my reaction to Feed confusing, but I just have to say how much I adore Shaun's character. Georgia, I think I related to too much to Georgia. It made me kind of get irritated by her sometimes, because I could see things like my tunnel vision and my stubborn stupidity and my aloofness. But Shaun reminds me of people I'm close to, people who scare the hell out of me on a routine basis and whom I love very much. I'm glad they'll never see this, since they don't read FF; they'd never let me live that moment of sap down.
Anyways, this is awfully depressing and random. I'll try to write something pre-Georgia passing one of these days. It'll be a piece of happier times. Sound good?
And yes. I asked FF to add this category, so I've been all smiley that I've made a pathetic little imprint on this site. Shut up, I don't have a lot going for me this summer. XD
And then there was one.
It hit him, suddenly, like the bullet that tore through George's spine. It sent shivers down his back and arms, made Shaun catch his breath. It was suddenly painful to inhale; he was gasping, clutching at the covers with clammy hands.
When he closed his eyes, he saw drying blood. When he opened them, that blood was splattered across Geor – his monitors, over everything. He swallowed once, twice to get the bile to go back down. He willed himself, please don't throw up. Once was okay, even expected. Twice wasn't. That was what Georgia always said.
He threw back the covers and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. He had always been a light sleeper; the littlest noise was enough to make him sit up feeling wide awake. But in the months since George's passing, sleep had become nearly impossible. Not that he had slept very much before, but it was a different experience when there was someone in the next room to entertain you. Now, sleep was a blessing and a curse. In his dreams, he could stand next to Georgia again. In his nightmares, he had to kill her again.
The cold wood floor felt good against his bare feet as he swung them over the edge of his bed. It was calming, sort of – reminding him he was awake and in his room at night, rather than in the van with George's .40 in his lap. Anything to pull himself away from the nightmare, to remind himself he had only shot her once – she hadn't screamed, she hadn't writhed in pain, she hadn't looked at him with large, sorrowful, frightened eyes. She barely had time to amplify. She was dead before he couldn't recognize her anymore.
His stomach didn't hold out; he vomited into the sink once he reached the bathroom. He coughed and wiped his mouth on a paper towel before flushing out the sink. Once a day. He allowed himself to lose control once a day, in the privacy of his own place. It hurt too much to do it any less. Three months since she died. Three months since that bastard had killed her. He still didn't know how to survive in a world without Georgia. And everyone knew it; he had seen shrinks and doctors, received more than enough phone calls from his friends and family every day. They were afraid that he had snapped, that he would do something stupid.
He laughed dryly the first time Rick had said that to him. His laugh hadn't sounded like his own; he didn't recognize his laughter anymore. "Too late," he had replied. Rick hadn't been very amused, but it hadn't really been a joke either.
He walked around to the kitchen and grabbed a Coke from the fridge, popping the top with a satisfying fizz that reminded him of George. Of course, everything seemed to do that: when you were never more than a few yards away from one another, you shared a lot – tears and laughter, fear and anger, toys and meals and meaningless insults.
It was hard to find something that he didn't connect to George. Even here, in a new place – his place – where she had never been, there was something. There were black out curtains, but they weren't always closed. There were no soft bulbs – at least, not until Shaun put them in out of habit. There was never the roar of a motorcycle engine when he was forced to go into the field. Sometimes it was enough to make him not think about her, just for a few minutes. The longest he had lasted was a day, and that was because he had taken one of her big pain killers.
He took a slow sip, savoring the cold bubbling stinging his throat as he swallowed. He'd never taken his caffeine cold. He didn't remember starting, taking the one thing that had once made him and George different and made it his own. He didn't remember doing a lot of the things he did to stay connected, to feel like his sister was in his life. He closed his eyes, watching the blood dry on the van's ceiling. He didn't know how to do this.
He didn't know how to live in a world without Georgia.