Resurrection at Dawn
I drag myself through the fluorescent-lit corridors of the office, feeling less like a human and more like a corporate zombie. My colleagues and I shuffle from meeting to meeting, eyes glazed, souls disintegrating under the weight of quarterly projections and meaningless deliverables. We've become the undead of the corporate world—bodies moving through motions, consciousness barely present.
At home, two creatures await with a love that makes no sense. Barnaby, my elderly cat who tolerates no one else, winds around my legs with a rusty purr. Luna, my golden retriever with a heart too big for her own good, presses her warm flank against my thigh. They don't care that I'm hollowed out, that I've forgotten how to feel anything beyond exhaustion and the dull ache of existing.
My girlfriend Sarah stopped asking "How was your day?" months ago. She knows the answer: the same as yesterday, the same as tomorrow. We lie in bed together, two ships passing in the dark, touching sometimes but never truly reaching. I catch her looking at me with wounded eyes, and I know she sees the zombie I've become.
Barnaby jumps on the bed, purring loudly, demanding attention. Luna rests her head on the mattress, whining softly. Sarah reaches out to scratch the cat's ears, her fingers brushing mine. For a moment, something real passes between us— grief, recognition, the terrifying knowledge that we're both drowning.
"We used to be happy," she whispers into the dark.
"I know," I say. "I remember."
The cat nuzzles between us. The dog sighs, content despite everything. In their simple presence, something cracks open in my chest. I turn toward Sarah, really look at her for the first time in months. She's still beautiful. She's still waiting.
"I don't want to be a zombie anymore," I say.
She laughs, startled and genuine. "Then don't be."
Outside, the first light of dawn is breaking. The dead hours are ending. Maybe resurrection is possible, even for the corporate undead. Maybe it's as simple as turning toward the living.