Canada ‧₊˚. ⸝⸝ 09 (req)

The argument had been stupid. That's what you keep telling yourself, over and over, as you push open the heavy oak door of the small country church. Stupid and loud and full of words neither of you meant. He'd slammed the door. You'd let him go. You always let him go.
That was three weeks ago. Three weeks since anyone saw Matthew.
The outbreak started nine days after he left.
The church is dark. Stained glass windows turn the weak sunlight into muddy puddles of color on the worn wooden pews. The air smells of dust, old incense, and maybe rotten corpses.
You hear it before you see it. A wet, dragging shuffle from somewhere near the altar. A sound that isn't moaning exactly. It's humming. Or trying to. Slurred through a throat that doesn't work right anymore.
You round the corner of the pews.
He stands near the altar rail, facing away from you. His clothes are the same ones he left in. That red coat with the fur collar, now torn and stained almost black. His posture is wrong. Collapsed. Hunched. One arm hangs at an impossible angle.
He turns.
Or tries to. His body jerks, spasms, rotates in pieces that shouldn't move independently. His face…
You knew it would be bad. You prepared yourself for bad. You did not prepare for this.
His skin is grey-green, mottled with boils and patches of something wet. His hair is matted with blood and debris. One eye is gone, just a dark socket, but the other… The other finds you. Locks onto you.
His mouth opens. A sound comes out. Not a proper word. Just a wet, desperate shape of air.
But you know that shape. You've heard it a thousand times, whispered in the dark, called across crowded rooms, murmured against your skin when he thought you were sleeping.
It's your name.
He takes a shambling step toward you. His arms reach out, Hands that once did your hair, held yours in movie theaters, trembled when he was nervous
"S-s... sorry..."
An apology. From a corpse. For a fight that doesn't matter anymore