Table Tragedy

Dad was right. Glass top tables are of no use to writers.

His wisdom saves me for a few more moments as I hide under the ebony writing table he made for me. I remember we did the finishing together. He smoothed the edges and taught me how to polish the dark wood. I was seventeen.
“The table will attract you to itself. Ebony when polished feels like a beautiful maiden’s mane. Imagine the amount of poetry that flows from it.” he said.

The writing table has no drawers, only a big cabinet.

It is the first thing that came into my mind as a hiding place. The end was near everyone knew it when the first disappearance happened. Yet they were in denial.

Ultimately they have come for us.

Mother says it is my imagination. I used to hide in dark corners when I was a child. Dad knew it wasn’t. Why else would he create a hollow cabinet big enough to hide a man in this table? Like me he knew they were coming.

I have been ready for years. I stored provisions in the cabinet for a time like this. Apocalypse is not for me. I am prepared.

They are somewhere near. I can smell the stench of burnt flesh. That is how they smell. I am trying to look through the keyhole. Even a glimpse of the burnt, pus ridden skin is repulsive. I can hear mother screaming.

I can’t close my ears. I can barely move. Her scream is deafening.

I don’t know how long I have to stay inside this cabinet. Ebony wood smells different. I hope it camouflages my body odour. I don’t know if Zombies can smell.

It is silent now.

So quiet that I can hear the sound of the nib scribbling on paper.

The stench is getting stronger. They can hear it too!

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