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Ella at The End OF The World – Episode Ten

Read more of Ella at The End Of The World

We just had dinner. Some mac and cheese monstrosity. Martin kept trying to start conversations, casual shit but I just couldn’t do it.

We haven’t discussed my little wilderness adventure, or the massacre at my mum’s. I feel like we should, to clear the air, but I have no idea what to say.

I spent most of my evening scrolling through different social medias, switching between them during outages. They go in and out, so you just sort of scroll until you can’t, because they’re down, and then you switch to the next for a bit. It’s good to see what else is going on, in other places, and see what else is out there.

Some people are still trying to post normal, every day content. The influencers are losing it, which is kind of funny to watch. They’re still obsessively posting curated, perfect content, despite the world slowly being overrun by the undead, and every time they do, nobody cares, because, well, we’re all preoccupied with the horrors of real life, so these people who thrive off of attention, sponsorships and validation, are currently hungrier than the zombies, and resorting to desperate lengths to try and get the spotlight back on them. I saw one, just now, who did a look book, in an infected area. She’d torn up all her clothes, to keep it topical, and had one of the infected, chained beside her, you know, for the aEsThEtIc. She also had a bite mark on her arm, so I imagine getting the infected tied up didn’t go as smoothly as she would have liked, and this may be the last video we see from her. It has got over a million views though, so I’m sure she thinks it was worth it. 

I keep thinking that things will go back to normal, soon, but then something happens to remind me that it won’t. Tonight, scrolling through social media made me think it might, but a noise outside the tent reminded me that it wouldn’t. Martin was quick, as always, with his trusty crossbow. I closed my eyes, my hands over my ears, wishing that the sound of him exiting the tent wasn’t still seeping through. They make this sound, sometimes. I think it’s them trying to breathe, it’s really raspy, and laboured, like they have something stuck in their throat, that they’re trying to cough up, but it’s constant, a weird hissing, hateful rasp, and then, when Martin finds his mark, it stops. It stops, and I know, that life will never be the same, and that this isn’t a dream, and that my husband has just shot someone, something, through the head, so that it can’t tear us to pieces. 

I hate this. I wish this was just a bad dream I could wake up from. I wish I could wake up, in a bed, rather than a tent, have breakfast with Martin, and just have a normal day. No death. No shitty freeze dried food. No resentment between us.

I hate that I hate him. I hate that I love him.

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