[ WP ] You are a zombie in the middle of an apocolypse who lost all their memories and humanity . each time you feed and infect , you slowly gain back a bit of both .

It started with the scent of sandalwood. It seeped into my mind, a fragment from my previous existence, mixing in with the stench of iron and entrails i feasted upon. The return of a memory, and not the last. 
 
 Months later I was cracking the skull of a young mother when i realized that two things had returned to me: the humanity of others and the concept of time. Had it really been a month? Where did such a belief come from? 
 
 Something whimpered in the corner of the room. The room? Yes, a child's bedroom. A little boy's bedroom, complete with a cowering little boy staring transfixed at his mother's corpse. I considered him, in all his fear and anguish. I lunged with as much strength as this body gave me, ending his life with a single bite through the windpipe. I believe this was my first encounter with mercy. 
 
 
 That is how i reaquanted myself with humanity. I encountered it in every piece of torn flesh and grinding bone. It's a paradox I find worthy of my time. I remind myself that this is a mercy to the living. I crave flesh because I crave old memories, and I crave to form new ones. But this takes time, and time is an unforgiving companion. I wait for memories with every bite. 
 
 A green dress, a starched lab coat. The clip of heels on linoleum. The fading sound of party music down the hall. She came back to me like this. I did n't realize I was following the memory of her until I stood outside her house. A small roadside home outside the city, a simple brick house with a shuttered windows and no signs of life. And yet it beckoned to me, more tantalizing than marrow and spinal fluid. 
 
 I walked in, disregarding the simple furniture and the blood soaked carpets. They were nothing new. I gravitated toward the pictures on the mantle, and the memory of sandalwood. No, not the memory, the scent itself. And there I found her. A dark-haired woman in a green dress, staring out of the frame. In life, she had traded in the dress and the dancing for a labcoat and a chance at holding lives under her scalpel. She never would have guessed, seeing me now, that dying would be such fruitful research. I took the picture into my hand and made myself stand in front of the full length mirror by the closet. I had to know. I looked at myself, a ghastly creature with the same dark hair. The woman in the picture had never really left home. I was a decaying body housing a lively mind, and surely the more I fed, the more whole I would become. The brain is, after all, still flesh. 
 
 I do not miss the woman I was. She is trapped inside her sandalwood frame whereas I am coming into my own. I am the product of old memories with new context. I am the scientist and the test subject. I have outgrown the living.
