Night of the Living Abed 2/3
Title: Night of the Living Abed 2/3
Fandom: Community
Author: buffyaddict13
Pairing: Gen, ensemble, with cameo appearances by characters from other fandoms (Spencer Reid, River Tam, George Luz, Ray Person).
Rating: PG-13 for language
Length: ~17,000 total
Summary: Abed discovers the reason he's always been different. Plus: fish stick jenga, inappropriate Pierceness, zombiehood, and giant cookies!
Timing/Spoilers: This takes place a few months after Abed's Uncontrollable Christmas. Spoilers for all eps up to, and including, 2x11.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but an endless love for Community...and Dan Harmon's brain.
Author's Notes: I've written in the Supernatural, Criminal Minds, Band of Brothers, and Generation Kill fandoms, but this is my first Community fic. I hope you're not too disappointed. Thank you to entwinedangels and rain_1975 for the beta. You're both streets ahead!
Warnings: Off screen minor character death, weird (2nd person) pov, and eleventy billion pop culture references. This fic is a standalone story, but it also works as a kind of sequel to my multi-fandom fic Wonderland. You can read Wonderland here, if you so wish. P.S. I love Abed Nadir more than air.
Posted to: my fic journal. If people don't hate the crap out of this, I might post on a Community comm.
You talk to your nurse, and then the doctor. Or, more accurately, they talk. A psychologist shows up to ask you a bunch of questions. You weren't a big fan of therapy even before Professor Duncan's manipulative intervention, you're certainly not interested now. You don't say much. You're nervous around all these strangers. What if you finally get a hankering for brains? It's better if you just keep your mouth shut. You'd rather spend time in your own head anyway, it's where you've always been most comfortable. You pretend you're filming a movie. It's easy to ignore overly personal questions when you're piloting a space ship with Troy. You wish Miss Piggy and Link would pipe down though. Their constant bickering makes it hard to concentrate on Scorpius' latest machinations.
The psychologist waves a hand in front of your face. Within reach of your teeth. Huh. He's braver than he looks.
"Abed? Can you answer the question, please?"
You blink. The USS Boobalicious is gone. You're back in a brightly-light hospital room only slightly bigger than a cubicle. There are 24 tiles in the ceiling.
"What question?"
"Do you still think you're a zombie?"
"Before I answer, you should probably take a step back."
"Why is that?"
You pat your stomach. "You look pretty tasty."
* * *
The study group treats you like you're dying. Which is silly, since you already died. There's a lot of crying and nose blowing and hand wringing. And that's just from Troy. Annie keeps sniffling and wiping her eyes. Britta looks like she did after her cat died. You're going to be staying at the hospital for an evaluation. You've got 72 hours of macaroni art ahead of you, which is okay. Macaroni is your favorite, after all.
Pierce sits slumped in a chair in the corner of your room. "I can't believe Abed's going to the nut house," he muses. "I thought Chang would end up there long before Abed."
"Abed's not going to the nut house," Britta says angrily. "God, you are such a jackass."
"Chang still has plenty of time to be committed," Jeff points out.
"For you information, Britta, my first wife heard voices for a while."
Everyone stares at Peirce in stunned silence. Shirley speaks for the group. "She did?"
"Yeah. Turns out she accidentally locked the cleaning woman in the basement. It took her three days to figure out she wasn't going crazy."
You're not listening that closely because your right pinky finger just fell off at the base knuckle. It drops onto the floor with a soft plop. What surprises you isn't that you lost a finger, but that it didn't hurt. Maybe now you can finally prove you're a zombie once and for all.
"My finger just fell off," you announce, holding up the affected hand.
Everyone stops yelling at Pierce.
"Which one?" Pierce squints. "Holy crap, he's right! Oh--wait. Aw come on, five is the regular amount. What are you trying to pull?"
"You're not missing any fingers," Jeff says patiently.
"It didn't even hurt," you say with a shrug. "Just--nothing."
Annie casts a quick glance at Jeff, then pulls on a smile that's about a size too small. "That's because it's still there."
"Does anybody have a pencil? I'll prove I'm not alive."
"This I gotta see," Peirce says, and tosses you a mechanical pencil. Ooh, it's a nice one.
"Okay, watch." You raise the pencil a few inches above your open palm. All you have to do is stab the pencil through your hand. It'll look gross, but it's not like you'll feel anything. Three, two, on--
"Abed!" Jeff screams and snatches the pencil from your hand. He stares at you, shocked. "What the hell are you doing?" He whips the pencil back at Pierce. It bounces off the older man's forehead. "Way to go, idiot."
"How am I the idiot?" Pierce demands angrily. "I wasn't the one who was going to stab himself."
"Don't do that," Jeff tells you sternly. He's in lawyer mode now. "We don't need proof. Hurting yourself isn't proof. It's just--" he stops abruptly, his face flushing.
"Crazy?" you supply helpfully. "I just wanted to--"
"We know what you wanted to do," Britta says. "But don't. Just concentrate on getting through this 5150 with flying colors. I know you can do it." She smiles brightly, but the smile doesn't reach her eyes. It's funny how many smiles don't.
"We'll be waiting for you as soon as you get out," Annie adds.
"I'll be waiting with a boom box over my head," Troy says.
You nod, pleased. "Like in Say Anything."
Troy gives you a blank look. "It's supposed to rain on Monday. I lost my umbrella but my boom box is really big. You'd be surprised how dry you can stay under that thing."
Jeff looks on with a combination of affection and exasperation. "I think what these knuckleheads are trying to say is, we're here for you."
Annie kisses your cheek, Britta and Shirley hug you goodbye. Pierce waves and follows the girls out. Troy stops in the doorway and turns back.
"I love you."
You nod. "I know." And then, because you're supposed to say it back, you do. The cool thing is, you mean it. "I love you too." You give him two thumbs up.
"See you soon," Troy says, and then he's gone.
Now it's just you and Jeff.
"Abed," he asks, "can you tell me what this is really about?"
You turn to look at him. "Is this part two of our conversation?"
Jeff nods in agreement. "This is part two."
"It's not about anything but the truth. I'm the walking dead." You look down at your hospital bed. "Well, the sitting dead."
"Okay, but what about the fact the doctors have been taking your blood pressure? Your temperature? Listening to your heart?"
You shrug. "I can't explain that. I don't have a pulse. Maybe they're trying to cover this up."
"Abed, this isn't a conspiracy. You have an amazing imagination, but you can't let it control you. You need to control it."
You don't answer.
"Besides," Jeff continues. "I thought you had to die or get bit by another zombie or be subjected to some kind of plague to become the undead or whatever. What, did you accidentally eat contaminated radioactive waste or something?"
You give Jeff a reproachful look. "That's the lamest thing I've ever heard. No, I died when I was a baby."
Jeff looks surprised. "You...what?"
"I stopped breathing for three minutes. I was as dead as a doornail." You rap lightly on your head. "Still am. The doctors only think they brought me back." You shrug. "It's probably why they won't admit I'm dead now."
Jeff runs his hands through his hair. "Abed...that's--that's not how it works. I know you're hurting, I know it's been really hard these past few weeks, but--"
You look at Jeff curiously. "Why has it been hard?"
Now Jeff looks flummoxed, as if Annie's giving him her fluttery-eyes sad look. You check the room. Nope, she's not here.
"Well, uh, because of your dad," Jeff finally says.
Oh. "We weren't that close," you admit. "We were never going to be Ryan and Sandy from the O.C., which is fine. I don't think my dad could have pulled off the Peter Gallagher eyebrows."
Jeff stares at you. "Abed."
"I'm tired," you say. You're not, but you've discovered it's an acceptable way to end a conversation.
"You're just as alive as I am," Jeff says softly. "More so. You're the most alive person I know. Jeez Abed, the first day I met you I knew you were somebody special."
You lean back into the pillows and stare at the ceiling. You remember. He called you a shaman. Poor Jeff. You don't want to tell him just how wrong he was. You know the old adage: if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all.
"You've got to stop hiding behind some zombie-shaped wall," Jeff continues. "I admit reality is a giant bowl of suck most of the time, but whether you want to admit it or not, it's where you belong." Jeff leans back in his chair, sighs. "Maybe I'm just selfish. In fact, I think we've established that I am selfish. But I want you in the real world, Abed. In my world. Is that selfish? If it is, too bad. I don't care. Remember when I started Goldbluming over Rich? You told me college is where most mental illnesses start. I know you were talking about me, but right now your words feel a little too prophetic. Please, Abed. I'm begging you. Let this zombie thing go."
There's a little cardboard sign over a red slot in the wall. It says Dispose of all sharps here. The sign is taped to the white plaster. One strip of tape has peeled off the wall. You stare at the curling strip and let the silence speak for you.
It fills the air between you and Jeff. It grows heavier with each passing second.
Even heroic, Hawkeye Jeff can't bear that kind of weight for long.
* * *
You never flunked a test in high school. You got good grades, especially in math. Algebra has always been easy for you. Finding variables among numbers is always easier than understanding the myriad of variables among your peers. You even passed last year's Spanish final. But you flunk the 72-hour hold pretty spectacularly.
You flush the pills they want you take down the toilet. You don't need pills, you need duct tape so you don't lose any more parts. You refuse to eat anything but strawberry yogurt, and refer to yourself as żywy trup. You're not just being accurate, you're being helpful. You're expanding the staff's vocabulary, teaching them a new language. Sadly, the nurses don't seem the least bit thankful. Everyone treats you like an invalid rather than the terrifying monster you are. You make a half-hearted attempt to bite one of the nurses, but she's wearing a heavy sweatshirt under her scrub top. All you really manage to do is leave a Rorschach of drool on the fabric.
Worst of all, there's no macaroni art.
You're in the middle of drawing a picture of Fist Jumper for Troy when the doctor sits down beside you. You know before he even opens his mouth that you're not going back to Greendale. The look of pity on his face tells you all you need to know. You clasp your hands on your knees while he talks. You nod periodically without bothering to listen to what he's saying. When your left index finger falls onto the floor and rolls under your chair, you both pretend not to notice.
* * *
The next day you're in a facility with the dubious name of Silver Hills. It's located on the very outskirts of Denver. A male nurse and some guy who looks like the Terminator in peach scrubs escort you from the hospital van and whisk you right up to the second floor. This is your new home.
There's a big, sunny day room where the crazy people hang out and watch television. That's a plus. From the windows you can see the large grounds. There are walking paths, trees, and enough flower beds to cheer even the sorriest soul. The nurse drones on, but you're busy cataloging movies that take place in psychiatric facilities and/or mental hospitals. There are quite a few. It's Kind of a Funny Story, Girl Interrupted, The Jacket, Shutter Island, K-Pax, 12 Monkeys, I Never Promised You a Rose Garden, Patch Adams, and One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. You glance around hopefully for any quiet Native American types but there aren't any. Damn. That would have been a nice touch. If you want to go old school, there's always The Snake Pit. It's harder to come up with a realistic portrayal of mental illness on TV. McDreamy did a pretty good job back when he was on Once and Again. And The United States of Tara isn't bad, although Tara's sister could use a little of of the Mean Girl treatment. Not that you'd ever do that again. From now on, girls are going to have to find out about their dandruff, split ends, muffin tops, unflattering jeans, and uneven boob size all on their own.
Your room contains a bed, bathroom, desk, and an empty bookshelf. You wish you'd been allowed to bring your movie posters with you. All you have is the duffel bag Troy packed for you. It contains a toothbrush, toothpaste, comb, a few t-shirts, two cardigans, a pair of sweatpants that aren't even yours, and a few pairs of boxers. You're currently wearing flannel pajama bottoms, your Boondocks t-shirt and a striped hoodie. Despite the hoodie, you're still cold. It's not like the dead can count on body heat. You pull a cardigan over the hoodie and wander back out to the day room.
You sit on the couch and study your surroundings. There are 23 DVD cases on the stand by the television. There are 55 books on the bookshelf. Twenty-five fiction, thirty nonfiction.
There are a three rectangular tables along the inner wall. They remind you of the library study room. You feel a twinge of homesickness--schoolsickness really. Friendsickness.
You thought it would take longer to be written out of the study group. It's disappointing, but not unexpected. Dead people generally don't attend college. You drop your head back against the couch. It's too bad real life doesn't have sweeps episodes. That way you could still show up at Greendale every now and then and chase Dean Pelton around the quad. Or let Troy chain you up in Pierce's back yard so you can still play video games together like Simon Pegg and Nick Frost in Shaun of the Dead.
There's a girl sitting at one of the tables underlining passages in Pride and Prejudice . A laugh bubbles in your throat, doesn't quite make it out of your mouth. You could always get up and offer her the Abed guarantee, but you don't move. You'd rather just sit here. You're good at sitting. Just ask Annie.
"Hey, kid. You okay?" A man stands next to you wearing scrubs. He touches your arm in a friendly way. He has black hair that's a little long, it hangs over his forehead. "Lunch is in an hour," he says. He's shorter than you, but most people are. He looks tired, but his smile is bright and honest. His fingers are nicotine stained. He wears an identification card on a Homestar Runner lanyard. That earns him a point right there. The card and name tag over his pocket both read George Luz.
The girl speaks up from table. "If he was okay he wouldn't be here."
George makes a face. "Ha ha. You're hilarious."
"I know," she says. She turns and offers an unsmiling wink to George.
He winks back, just as serious.
At least this is an interesting place. Not as good as Annie and Shirley bad copping all over campus, but it could be worse.
"Abed, this is River," George says with a flourish of his hand. "River, this is Abed."
"Nice to meet you," you say. You're not sure if it's true, but even as a zombie you still have manners.
River turns her chair so she can see you. "I used to be extra crazy," she says, as if she's discussing the weather. "I was on the locked ward with George, but now I'm about 65% less crazy, so I get to be here. My brother Simon is a nurse too. He's bossy."
George nods in confirmation. "He is."
"Technically George still works on the locked ward. He's just covering for Tom because he's on vacation. I'm glad Tom's gone because he's boring and his breath smells like pickles."
You have now come to the conclusion it is very nice to meet River.
There's another patient at the far end of the room reading in a recliner. He's got shoulder-length brown hair.
River catches you looking. "That's Adam. He used to be a girl but now he's not."
"Shut up," Adam says, but there's no malice in the words.
"Your hair's stupid," River counters and turns back to you. "Why are you here?"
You tell her the truth. "Because I'm a zombie."
River considers your answer. "How do you know?"
"Because I died."
Now River looks skeptical. "I think you've been misdiagnosed. I'll ask Simon to give you a second opinion. He used to be a doctor."
"How about you concentrate on your book, doll," George says. "Give Abed a chance to settle in."
River regards George carefully, then lifts an eyebrow. "On one condition."
"Oh for Pete's sake." George makes a face, rolls his eyes, and pulls a cell phone from his pocket. He taps a few buttons and the image of a smiling, big-headed baby appears. "There, happy now?"
River studies the screen. A slow smile lights her face.
"She's beautiful," River says. "She looks just like you."
George laughs. "Christ, I hope not. The reason she's beautiful is 'cause she looks like her mom."
River leans forward and plants a quick kiss on George's stubbled cheek. He immediately turns tomato red.
He scratches his head, embarrassed. "What did Dr. Weston say about boundaries?"
"That they're stupid."
"No," George says patiently, "that's what you said."
River blows a raspberry. "You already sound like a nagging father. Good job."
Instead of getting angry, George doffs an imaginary hat and bows. "Why thank you."
That makes River laugh. It's a nice sound.
George turns to go, pauses. "River? Will you show Abed where to go for lunch?"
River tucks a strand of dark hair behind one ear. "Okay."
The nurse gives River a little salute and heads for the door. "See you guys later."
"Tell Ray to come say hi," River calls.
"I will."
You wonder who Ray is. You also wonder why--and how--Adam stopped being a girl.
* * *
You meet River's brother next. Simon Tam is older than you, younger than Jeff. He's walking with a middle-aged red-haired man who seems to be another patient, and a tall, thin dark-haired doctor with a faint Irish accent.
"Hey River," the doctor says. His name tag reads Paul Weston.
"Hi Paul."
"How are you feeling?"
River gives him a thumbs up. You approve.
"Glad to hear it. We still on for that Chess game later?"
"If you're not tired of losing."
Paul chuckles and exits the ward.
"Hi Abed," Simon says, and shakes your hand. He doesn't say anything about your missing fingers.
Simon leads your small group out into the main corridor. River takes the lead and hooks her arm through yours. "George said I was supposed to show you where the kitchen is, so you can just ignore my brother."
"There's no cafeteria?" you ask. So much for food fights.
"Not exactly. Each floor has its own kitchen. And some of the wards have their own kitchenette. When I was upstairs we had our meals right in the ward. But now we get to walk a few hundred feet. It's so exciting."
"Nice use of sarcasm," you say, impressed.
River smiles, pleased. "Thank you."
The kitchen is about the size of Greendale's library. There are several tables and chairs, a refrigerator, stove, microwave, dishwasher. A woman in green scrubs and a hairnet is in the process of moving several platters from a cart to the counter top.
"Everybody is responsible for getting their own food and cleaning up after themselves," Simon says, "just like if you lived on your own. That means you rinse your dishes and put them in the dishwasher when you're done."
Adam takes a plate, reaches for a plastic fork. "Except we still don't get real silverware. At least the food's not too bad."
You notice that Adam's fingernails are a pale pink. They're pretty. Pretty in pink. Which leads you into a recitation of Molly Ringwald's movies. You count them off quickly on your remaining fingers. "Pretty in Pink, Sixteen Candles, The Breakfast Club, Fresh Horses, and The Pick-up Artist.."
Adam scoops mashed potatoes onto his plate. "Those are movies, right?"
"Yes."
He stares at you for a long moment. His eyes look sad. Then he says, "Amanda likes The Breakfast Club." He carries his plate to the table.
"So do I," River says. "I saw it last year. I like it when they dance on the table." She looks at her brother with a hopeful expression.
"No," Simon says. "This table is not for dancing."
River carefully flicks a kernel of corn off her plate at her brother. It hits Simon's identification card and sticks. Simon doesn't notice.
You and River exchange a quick grin before you ask, "You have John Hughes movies here?"
River shrugs. "We have lots of movies."
Twenty-three doesn't seem like 'lots' in your opinion, but it's a start.
You pour yourself a glass of milk, but that's all. None of the food interests you. Besides, shouldn't they put you in some kind of Hannibal Lecter face muzzle instead of letting you walk around within biting distance of everyone?
You check the refrigerator for yogurt. There isn't any. You carry your milk to the table and sit next to River.
You start off with an apology. You've already lost your appetite, no sense in making the others lose theirs. "I just wanted to offer a blanket apology for the way I look. If you keep your eyes on your plate and off me, everything should be fine."
River spoons some corn into her mouth, chews. "What's wrong with the way you look?"
You almost give River one of Britta's eloquent duh-doys. Instead, you say: "Because I look disgusting."
She keeps chewing.
"You know, rotting skin, missing pieces. Zombie face."
"It's hardly noticeable," Simon says quickly. "Don't worry about it, Abed."
The red-haired man ignores you and just stares down at his plate. Good.
Adam smirks. "You, my friend, might be more fucked up than I am." His voice sounds higher, his eyes seem more focused than there were a few minutes ago.
Simon sighs. "Language, Amanda. Abed, this is Amanda."
"Charmed," Amanda drawls sweetly.
Oh. Adam has multiple personalities, then. Interesting.
River's forehead creases. "You don't look like a zombie, you just look like a person. A brown person. Is being a zombie the same as being brown?"
Simon chokes on his food, splutters at his sister. "River."
"They're not the same," you say.
River gives you an appraising look, as if you're hanging in a museum. "In that case...you're brown, but not a zombie." She pats your face, nearly making your spill your milk. "Brown is my favorite color. You look okay to me."
She points to her plate. "Do you want a chicken finger?"
"I'm not hungry," you say numbly. You stare at the chicken. Even though it's still on River's plate, you can feel it sitting in your stomach like a stone. "I was a fry cook at my school," you tell her. You're whispering, but you're not sure why.
River sips her own milk. When she lowers the glass, she's wearing a white mustache. "Was it hard?"
"No. It was the first time I understood what people wanted."
River wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "I never know what people want," she says dismissively. "I don't even know what I want half the time. The voices in my head all want different things, especially the Hands of Blue." She frowns, pokes idly at her chicken.
"But...the voices have been quiet lately," she admits softly. "I don't know if I should feel hopeful or not."
You don't know how to respond to River's admission. You're not Jeff with a clever, witty comeback. You're not Annie with a bright smile and kind words. And you're not Shirley, eager to tell River that God has some kind of plan for her. All you can do is be honest, brutally so, because that's who you are.
"Sometimes it's easier not to have hope," you tell her. Hope just gets in the way, lets you think things might change when they won't. Hope allows you to think you might go back to school, make films that matter, fall in the kind of love you see on the big screen. "Zombies don't have much use for hope."
River lifts her head to meet your gaze. "Maybe you could be the first."
* * *
This is what you learn through careful observation.
In this case, "careful observation" means while you listen to River on the way back to the ward. She tells you she first showed signs of schizophrenia when she was a sophomore at Harvard. The red-haired man, William Keane, is also schizophrenic. And he has PTSD and claims to have a missing daughter he's desperate to find. So far, no one knows if the girl even exists outside William's head. Adam has Dissociative Identity Disorder. He only has one alter (unlike Tara), and her name is Amanda. Amanda killed three people and tried to kill Adam's abusive father. Adam's doing better, but he'll probably never leave Silver Hills.
River asks about you.
"I understand when people look at me--when you look at me--they don't see the same thing I do. When I look in the mirror, I see what I really am."
"A walking corpse that eats brains?"
You give her a thumb's up to indicate just how correct she is.
"Maybe you should stop looking in the mirror," River suggests.
You laugh. If only it were that easy.
You're back in the day room browsing through the DVDs when a doctor walks in. This man sports the same white coat Dr. Weston wore, but that's where the similarities end.
This man is considerably younger; he doesn't look much older than you. Maybe he's not. He has a disturbing case of bed head, and beneath the coat he's dressed like he stepped out of the 1930s, complete with pin-striped vest and pocket watch. The most interesting things about him are the fact he's nearly as thin as you, and the dark shadows under his eyes. Maybe he's turning into a zombie too.
"Hi Abed," he says, holding up his hand in an awkward little wave. "I'm Doctor Spencer Reid."
You return the wave. "Hi."
"I just wanted to let you know you'll be meeting with me, not Dr. Weston. My cousin asked if I'd look in on you myself."
You tilt your head, surprised. "Your cousin?"
"Annie Edison."
"Annie Adderall." You don't mean to blurt Annie's old nickname, but the words are out before you can stop yourself.
If Dr. Reid is surprised or offended by the nickname, he doesn't show it.
You feel yourself blush. "I'm sorry. Sometimes I forget to turn my filter on," you admit. "Or to have one."
Dr. Reid smiles. It makes him look even younger. "Don't worry about it. Annie's not here and I won't tell." He slips his hands into his pockets, rocks back on his heels. "Can we talk for a few minutes?"
"Do I really have a choice or are you just being polite?"
"My mom raised me to have pretty good manners," he admits, flashing you a crooked grin.
"That's what I thought."
Dr. Reid leads you into a sort of conference room across from the reception desk. There's a white board on one wall and you half expect to see Señor Chang's scrawl: ¡Silencio! Except Chang isn't a teacher anymore. And you're not a student.
There's a round table on one side of the room, an overstuffed love seat, desk, and swivel chair on the other. He directs you to the love seat. You perch precariously on the edge.
Reid flips through his notes. "I understand you had a...sort of break with reality last Christmas. Do you want to tell me about that?"
You fold your arms, then immediately unfold them. You can see bone and muscle showing through a ragged hole in your right wrist. Gross. You're afraid if you're not careful, your hand will come off. And there are no robotic net arms in your future.
"Why does seeing the world in a different way equal a break from reality?" You're genuinely curious. Television uses a single camera or multi-camera setup. Why shouldn't you have the same option of viewing life in more than one way?
"That's how you see it? Looking at the world in a different way?"
"Yes."
"Was it a better way?"
You consider the question. "There was singing...so I'm going to say yes." You don't mention the part where your friends stood up for you. That's not something you're willing to share.
"What about now?"
"What about it?"
"Is the way you're seeing the world now better too?"
"This isn't the same thing as stop-motion, Doctor Reid. I know I'm not in a holiday episode of a TV show. I don't--I don't want to be dead." You work hard to keep your voice flat. "I just am."
"Call me Spencer," the doctor tells you. "How do you know you're dead?"
You are so tired of people asking you that. If they only bothered to see you instead of simply looking in your direction, they wouldn't have to ask. "Because I'm falling apart," you snap. You show Spencer your hands. "I've already lost two fingers. You can see the bones in my arm. Every day I look worse. I don't know how much longer I can last." You push yourself to your feet and start pacing. You're too cold to sit still. You have to keep moving. You shuffle back and forth while Spencer watches, no expression on his face.
"I don't even know what I'm doing here. It's not like you can talk me back to life. To tell you the truth, I thought I'd be in some lab by now, being studied by scientists."
"Why would scientists want to study you?"
"To figure out why I'm a zombie, how I got this way. To try and understand me."
Spencer steeples his hands under his chin. "Do you feel that most people don't understand you?"
You stop shuffling. That's enough. You're not going to let this man analyze you, poke at your subconscious, ask about your childhood or feelings.
You regard him coolly. "I'll eat your brain," you say. A warning.
"Are you threatening me?" Spencer asks gently.
You walk to the door, turn the knob. It takes a few tries. You never realized how useful a little finger was before. The door isn't locked, so when you finally get it open you walk out on Doctor Reid. You have nothing more to say.