I’ve lived with zombies my entire life. I was born from them. I’ve been raised by two...loving parents. But they’re still zombies. 

I’m human.

I love my parents and cherish my friends.

But I hate humans.

They can’t understand us. They try to kill my friends and save me, but call me a madman when I refuse. 

I admit. Zombies are dangerous. But my parents? My friends? They’ve done more for me than humans.

Why am I human, though? It’s not some trope where it turns out I’m a zombie. There’s very clear indications, and mirrors still exist. I’m human. My flesh isn’t green and rotting. It’s a nice tan color, like I was sitting in the sun for too long. My hair isn’t falling out, it’s short and black, but very much there. I cut it around summertime every year. 

My friends and parents are also clearly zombies. There’s no mistaking it.

I’m a human that was born and raised by zombies, from zombies.

My whole life I’ve always asked my mother who I am.

She always said that I was her son, her precious Zeff.

I’ve asked my father occasionally, but he isn’t very smart. Not because he’s a zombie, but because he’s just dumb. My mother seems to find it amusing, though.

They usually don’t need to do much. They’re dead. They don’t need food, they don’t need water.

But I do.

My father risks his death pretending to be a human just to buy me food. But our tap still works, so water isn't a problem.

Oh, I haven’t mentioned our house. We live in a nice 2-story suburban house. It’s clean and tidy. My mother makes sure it’s spotless. For some reason zombies are obsessed with cleanliness.

My mother said that she wasn’t always a zombie, though. She became one for my father. He seems to have always been a zombie, but I’m not sure if I believe that. Every other zombie I’ve met, excluding ones born between other zombies, was once human. Zombies haven’t really been around long enough for a zombie my fathers age to have been born as one. Then again, I am a human somehow. So you never know. 

I once thought that my father was maybe the first zombie ever. If I believe what he says then he is, but I don’t. I don’t have much faith in the validity of his claims.

Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

What’s strange is the interactions between humans and zombies in my world.

By all accounts, I should be dead. I shouldn’t be alive.

Yet I am.

Zombies don’t seem aggressive towards me for the most part.

But neither do humans. They’ve tried on multiple occasions to kidnap me, so I kinda consider them annoying.

I have a comfy bed here. They sleep in dirty ass sleeping bags.

Which do you think I’d choose?

The answer is the comfy bed.

Zombies don’t smell, they don’t fall apart, and they do look mostly human. One of the only main defining traits of a zombie is their aggression towards humans.

I know I talked about the hair falling out, or the rotting skin, but I’ve met some zombies who are almost human. Some that even have blood flowing through their body like me. At first I actually thought they were human.

My mother told me that they’re a special type of zombie. Instead of being deformed or dead, they have a body part that is completely white. It could be the hair, the nails, the skin, anything. But their eyes will always be white.

My mother is probably the smartest person I’ve ever met, and even she has no idea why.

They seem to be able to reason with humans like me to a certain extent, but it’s pretty much still an attack on sight kinda thing. 

It might be because humans can’t tell the difference between the shades of white and gray that separate how intelligent they are.

I’ve heard legends from my friends about there being a zombie whose hair is pure white. Apparently she’s a genius in almost every way, and the only zombie to have ever peacefully communicated with humans.

Speaking of, for some reason my mother wants me to hide the fact that I’m human from as many people as possible. I usually have to wear fake nails or clip a strand of white hair on.

My neighbors know, but they’re worried about the rest of the world finding out.

Zombies seem to not recognize me as completely human, even with just their thoughts or a picture of me. So I disagree with my mom. My father does too, so I’m actually a little bit more unsure of my opinion than I thought. That’s why I do it at all.

But that’s me.

This story isn’t about my life from before.

This is the story of what happened to me from the day I turned 17 and onward.

The story of how I met the girl with snow white hair on that fateful winters day.

This is how I met your mother. 

If you are reading this by any chance, then you're probably 17 now, and I’m already gone.

Happy birthday, Alice.

I just want you to know that we love you.

And I wrote every reason why I love both you and your mother very very much.

I’m not the best at writing, and I may remember some things wrong, but your mother will correct anything that sounds off, I hope.

I know, it’s a lame birthday present.

But I’ve left you a gift in here. 

Once you figure it out for yourself, it’s magical.

Or your mother has already taught you about it.

In which case, this might just be a scrap of paper to most kids.

But I’m sorry I had to leave, Alice.

I truly, truly am.

Hopefully you’ll understand.

But I won’t ask you to forgive me.

Because I won’t forgive myself.