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she was devastated by their deaths. I didn’t know why since they never spoke to one another.
    My grandparents gladly took the place of our deceased creators, shipping us off to Alabama to live with them. They were kind, as grandparents should be. My grandfather smoked a pipe and read the newspaper. He drank his coffee black. My grandmother was matronly and an avid Bible reader. She read me and my sister stories. Made us oatmeal cookies on Saturdays.
    The rest of my childhood was arguably idyllic—almost sickeningly so—which brings up one vital question: how could it have produced me? I am a fellow of great intelligence and philosophical bent. However, I do have an affinity for violence and destruction. Humanity is a trait I lack, but was one my grandparents had in abundance.
    Why couldn’t my kindhearted grandparents rub off on me? Whether it was because of my parents’ death or being the sole communicator with my disturbed sister, I don’t know.
    My first kill was only months after moving to Alabama. It was my eighth birthday, and the grandparents were throwing me a party. I had no friends, but they managed to invite kids from church and school. In the pool, after everyone left, the two remaining kids wrestled me out of my lifejacket. The pool was too deep for me and I couldn’t swim well, but neither could they.
    I grabbed one of them, the smaller one, and took him down with me. I used him to push myself out of the water for a breath before going under again. We kept it up for only a short time before he stopped moving and someone pulled me out of the water.
    From the outside, it looked like we were both drowning. An accident. One of the moms pulled me out while another dad went in for the dead boy, no one blaming either of us. It happened so fast. No one was looking.
    Only I knew it wasn’t an accident.
    Maybe that was what changed me forever. It seemed like a traumatic enough event to fuck me up permanently, but I’m not quite sure.
    It must have been the realization that the world was a horrible place filled with horrible people who would never amount to anything. It was filled to the brim with people who were apathetic and money driven, with no real goal but to get more money. To live more indolently or to have a bigger TV. Yes, that must have been it. When I saw the majority was flawed, I wrote off trying to be like them. The kids taking my lifejacket was a metaphor for how I saw the whole planet.
    The undead situation shook everything up. No one cared anymore about bad people, goals, or indulgences. We were all on equal ground, and that made things interesting.
    In fact, I dare say it made living worthwhile.
     
    * * *
     
    Spring wasn’t planning on giving way to summer. It was probably mid-June by now and it was still cold. Through steel-toed boots and thick wool socks, I felt thoroughly chilled. I was wedged into the corner of my bed, which was pressed to a wall, curled up against the sounds of rain outside. Since Gabe arrived, it rained constantly, the liquid varying in severity, but relentless nonetheless. Such weather wasn’t uncommon, but I couldn’t stop myself from making foolish correlations between her and it.
    When I had nothing to do, I thought. Recollections of a childhood, consciously repressed, rushed back to me for no apparent reason. Sometimes I thought the memories were significant, but most of them were mundane. Me riding a bike to school, or one of Grandma’s old church friend’s scolding me.
    Drip, drip, drop. Drip, drip, drop.
    From somewhere in the house came the maddening metronome of dripping water. It drove me insane. I would’ve gotten up to find the source, but what if I couldn’t find its location? I’d grow even more insane, endlessly searching. In the end, it was easier not to bother.
    Isolation made me nostalgic and dizzy, most often with a feeling of stagnation. When I felt like that, thinking about my past was the only entertainment, even if said entertainment was