Marigold

She loved marigolds. Lora’s smile lightened as bright as those shy flowers when she passed through a flower shop, hair fluttering in the wind with a colour of petals and eyes sparkling on an August sunrise. She could start laughing from the tiny thing, and even smaller ones made her annoyed. But it never stayed for long and soon enough Mary continued bathing in the sunshine radiation of her friend. 

The school was a place of loneliness for both of them. The days of unbotherness in a doll-playing partner, turned into caution in preference of seats after one unlucky summer. Oh unlucky Mary Ochoa, none of those seats were next to her. Was it her outfashioned hairstyle or her mom’s position of literature teacher? Or maybe  glasses? Could it be her quiet nature? Maybe the reasons for children’s contempt attracted her mom’s colleagues' love. Or perhaps they just adored young people pleaser? It would explain why they didn’t like Lora Hase. 

Spending sparedness together instead of going on dates with the books, physics equations and isolation was not as bad. Any alternative to shouting silence would be preferred, even if Lora was flighty. But Mary was fine with all of those little disputes enjoying her little revenges. Like pulling pigtails after an especially bad joke about maths abilities. And it’s not like it went easy for the blonde one either.

Mary signs and dodges falling boxes of oranges. Most are rotten and will never be touched again by humans. No promises about other creatures that once settled in Soho. Tickling brown hair behind the ear, Ochao tries to guess the corner in which it disappeared. 

Or like when both of them had to run for time during PE lessons. Her grimaces after finishing sooner than her only friend for just a few seconds were quite annoying as well. It was not the first time they had to listen to a teacher's lecture about behavior and poking eyes. Or hitting in the eyes. Or many other things that unexpectedly could be done with such a delicate spot on the body of growing ladies.  Mary tries to remember, and maybe it was not the first time at all. After everything the university did part them and memories started to fade. 

The grill tears off the skin and Mary has nothing left to do but to pray to all the knowing gods that no blood has fallen. She can’t handle Hase and just imagining new guests in a small, dirty, decaying alleyway brings new waves of tiredness. 

After the first year apart Lora still smiled, smelled marigolds and played offended every time Mary mentioned how unlucky those flowers are. If they can guide the dead to the light, why can’t they guide the alive? Such logic was beyond Ochoa’s understanding and giving up sounded as the most gaining move. After everything, as long as Lora radiates with joy, laughs and wins another race down the street, giving her friend a chance to mutter many intricate phrases, life could continue. Such a long journey from supermarket to small flat at hot summer down could not have been made without the true power of friendship.Falling behind for a few seconds should be an illegal defeat anyways!

Sadly, next summer was an unlucky one.

Sadly, Mary desperately needed those few seconds.

That life felt so far, so alienated from the reality of today’s world. When she asked for flowers she meant not in such a quantity. Not on the remnants of the mess that once was human. 

Lunge. 

Blow. 

Despite all of the prayers the blood dropped anyway marking the path of the chestnut mat of hair. Misses Ochoa received many chrysanthemums from her parents so it would make sense for them to be her favorite. Mary tries to revive her hope in praying and hopes they were not. Maybe her mom liked tulips or roses instead? Maybe that head flying away from the shattered body after an exceptionally well done strike was not hers at all. The drops of strange fluid dribble on chrysanthemums blossoming on top of not-her-mother’s pate. 

Hunter’s shirt soaks in weird liquid, “that is definitely not a blood” she has to remind herself, and once  again clean mechanism resembling a sword is back in a secured sheath on the back. Enough time lost. 

Beak, Bridle Lain, Marshall, Great Pulteney, Lexington, D’Arblay. Long ago cozy, now uncouth streets pass through Lora's eyes. A few seconds after, the shabby boots of the follower clatter on the same pavement. Ochoa wants to believe that she has more brains to plan her tactic than those creatures needing to eat pink bulks of muscles. She counts ambushing Lora and cutting through her chest as a proof of this theorem. Even though such sciency things were mostly in Hase’s interest, things changed. For example, Lora never grinded with such pain before.

The zombie weaves away from still not quick enough attacks, throwing itself closer to the cranium of an old friend just to jink back. The waltz continues long enough for Mary to start losing breath, but because of the slash through the chest, or tiredness, or lack of food during the past few days of tag, the creature starts to slow down. After another unsuccessful hit to the head, Hase doesn't move back fast enough, opening itself for attack. 

Mary tries to think it was not Lora. That this smile brightens other people’s lives somewhere in the bunkers. That her inventions help the community to survive another zombie attack. That she still goes on running in the mornings. That she recollects their dates with books  and physics equations in her memory, shuttered in a dark bedroom lost in endless corridors of underground.

Sadly, zombies don’t really think nor remember.

Sadly, on top of the finally reposed head it is the marigold that blooms.