Miqo'te Appreciator

And yet I enjoy imagining what the lives of the zombified people I intrude on were like before July 9th, 1993.

A self-help book on divorce sits on a kitchen counter next to a carton of wine, unopened. Within the house is only one zombie, a woman with some wealth, judging by her jewelry and the large house surrounded by a farm with good acreage. The home was made for two. A large double bed dominates the master suite upstairs, two end tables with two matching lamps bracketing it. Two dressers are pushed against the wall beneath a large window perfectly situated to allow in the warming morning light. This home was made for two that expected a third. Next to the master suite is a smaller room, decorated well, but too neat to have been lived in yet. It's a nursery. Clothes and toys still tucked away in a large wardrobe that held within it the promise of years and a life to come. It's a nursery for no child. Its walls not decorated with crude and loving crayon drawings, but almost stark bare and eerily empty. From the nursery's window, I can see the driveway and garage, big enough for a family-oriented sedan to fit comfortably. And yet, no car sits there. Where an expecting couple would surely have owned a vehicle three miles from town.

I can't stop thinking about the zombified woman who wanted more out of life, and I can't stop wondering where her estranged spouse may have ended up. Were they the crashed sedan down the road? Or are they implied to be alive, human, still?

I'll never know, and that kind of haunts me.