Horrific Shorts: Zombie Edition

The ceiling fan spun lazily, casting long, slow-moving shadows on the walls. The blades creaked as they rotated, creating a rhythmic hum that filled the small, dimly lit room. Sunlight filtered through the shutters, painting lines across the cracked plaster.

On the dresser, a half-empty bottle of whiskey sat next to a faded photograph of a man in a suit—his stern face staring out as if judging the scene unfolding beneath it.

Johnny lay on the bed, shirtless, boots still on, hands behind his head. His dark hair clung to his forehead with sweat, the faint scent of whiskey and cigarettes lingering in the air. He watched Maria, her back turned to him, her slender figure framed by the golden light. She stood by the window, her hand resting on the sill as if she were ready to leave but couldn't find the strength to do it.

Neither of them spoke for what felt like an eternity.

"You gonna say something?" Johnny finally broke the silence, his voice low and rough, like gravel underfoot. He knew she was upset, but he couldn't figure out why. Maybe it was the money, or maybe it was something deeper, something neither of them could put into words.

Maria sighed, turning slowly to face him. Her eyes, dark and troubled, locked onto his. She crossed her arms over her chest, her dress slipping off one shoulder as she leaned against the wall. "What is there to say, Johnny?" Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, but heavy with emotion.

He sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. "You don't have to keep coming here if you don't want to," he said, avoiding her gaze. "I never asked you to."

She shook her head, a bitter smile playing on her lips. "That's the problem, Johnny. You never ask. You never say anything."

Johnny clenched his jaw, the weight of her words settling in. He didn't know how to explain it—the way he felt, the way he couldn't bring himself to ask for more. He had learned a long time ago not to rely on anyone, to keep things simple, detached. But with Maria, it was different. She wasn't like the others. She got under his skin, made him feel things he didn't want to feel.

And that scared him.

"I didn't think you wanted me to say anything," he finally muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "I figured you liked things the way they are."

Maria's eyes softened, but there was still sadness in them. She stepped forward, her bare feet padding softly on the worn floorboards as she closed the distance between them. She stood in front of him now, so close he could feel the warmth of her skin, smell the faint perfume she always wore—jasmine, sweet and intoxicating.

"I can't keep doing this, Johnny," she said quietly, her fingers brushing his cheek, lingering there for a moment before dropping to her side. "I need more than just this."

His heart pounded in his chest as he looked up at her, the words sticking in his throat. He wanted to reach out, to pull her close, to tell her everything he'd been too afraid to say. But the walls he'd built around himself were too strong, too tall.

"You know me, Maria," he said, his voice barely audible. "This is all I've got."

Maria swallowed hard, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She nodded, as if she had expected that answer all along. "I know," she whispered, her voice breaking. "But I hoped… I hoped maybe one day you'd give me more."

She turned toward the door, her silhouette bathed in the fading light from outside. Johnny stood up, reaching out as if to stop her, but his hand froze midair. He let it drop, knowing deep down that this was the end.

As Maria stepped out into the hallway, the door creaked shut behind her, leaving Johnny alone with the slow, steady hum of the ceiling fan. The shadows on the walls danced once more, and the room felt colder, emptier.

He sat back on the bed, his heart heavy with the weight of the unspoken words. The fan spun slowly, as it always did, marking the passing of time. And Johnny, too late to say what he truly felt, knew that some things were lost forever.