Timarie's Guest

“Eat now.”

At no time before had Timarie had such a poor guest. This man did not do anything unless told, and he did nothing correctly. Surely he would have fallen to pieces if she had not taken him in. She wiped stew from his chin. A lump of potato dribbled down his dirty shirt.

Timarie shook her head, hoping her disapproval would be evident. He did not even know to look at her. He did not know to share his name with her. She, of course, had no desire to know it, but it was proper courtesy to share your name with your rescuer.

She hadn’t had much to offer him, but she knew he would not need much. In fact, during those first few days since she had explained to him his new existence he did nothing. He did not eat, sleep, or change his clothes. She had to do every little task for him. He should be grateful that she finally had the darkness and the stones of the basement properly explain to him how to go on.

He would get used to it though. She certainly had, and she was now very good at keeping herself up. It was simple, really. Once you realized what you had become, all you had to do was continue on as you had. Feed yourself, allow your body to sleep, give it air and do not openly shun the light. Once you mastered the upkeep, no one would be the wiser. None would come for you with the torches, with maces, with shining holy powers. You would be safe. More importantly, you would never truly die.

She did not remember the first time she heard the stones speak back in that tomb. She did not know when the darkness first held her, calmed her, instructed her on her new purpose. She had become like the rotten guards who kept quiet watch over her master’s tomb, but she was special. She was like them, but still kept her spark, the spark that allowed her to continue someday among the still living. Feed your mouth, tend your clothes, breathe the air, rest your flesh: these commandments kept her from being dashed and destroyed when her rescuers came. The rotten guards had been smashed by the swordsmen, but she was spared. She had taken care of her body; the zombies had not.

They had given her coin. She bought shelter, clothes and food for her body. Once settled, Timarie agreed with the darkness that it was time to ensure that no one else had to wait so long to be removed from the tombs. No one should have to wait to know they were not truly dead, merely napping between conditions.

The first guest in her new home continued to scrape his spoon against the empty bowl and run the spoon between his black lips. Timarie chided him again, commanding him to change out of his stew-covered clothes. She would be gentle to him though; he was so new to this state he could not seem to remember any of the countless little chores one needed to complete in order to blend in again. Blinking, breathing, speaking: reawakening these habits would have to come later. Now it was time for bed.

The woman kissed the zombie goodnight and blew out the single candle. Darkness came.

How did Timarie get so twisted?
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