Misinformed

I can't believe I'm doing this. I can't believe this is happening. I can't believe my sitting....right here, right now is even possible. Can I even call it sitting? Perhaps mere existing. Yes. Existing. In this shell; part body, part corpse.

The movies were wrong. The books and television shows too. How could they know? The Walking Dead. Night of the Living Dead. 28 Days later. Even the scrubby second-hand paperback copies of Goosebumps that the acne-clad pre-teen version of myself could previously scrounge enough pocket change together to afford were a fallacy. 

There's no burning coursing its way through my.....existence. No madness such as that of Old Yeller before they shot the poor bastard. The process isn't quick. How could it be? It takes a drop of blood one minute to circulate through the entire human body. I remember that from my intro to human anatomy class at UCLA. PHYSCI XL 13 to be exact. I remember lots of things. 

Things like the location of all of the pen cups in the diner. One remained within the generic oak-colored hostess podium. A flake of glaze coating pierced my shaking hand as I spastically felt inside the guts of the fallen pillar. 

My apron had been savagely ripped from my body along with a chunk of flesh below the lowest rib on my left side. I'm not sure how I hadn't bled out. After awaking in a pool of my own blood, I'm not entirely sure that I hadn't. 

I found a crumpled signed receipt in my right pants pocket from my morning shift. 

Shitty tipper. 

I flipped it over to the previously unsoiled back. Holding it in place as I left a bloody left thumbprint, I began to write my story.