This was originally published 30.3.2009 as another piece of "Fiction in 10 Tweets" on Twitter. It ties in with this earlier blog post.
Committed - ©2009 @Zombie_Frenzy @brttrx
Zachariah Zeppelin stood a few feet from the doorway. Blood red words were painted on the four walls around him, dominating the white.
"You need to go with the nice men," a soft voice said. Two police officers stood behind his mother in the hall. Square jaws. Serious eyes.
Zachariah retreated. He produced a blade with two wave-shaped points from behind his back. Fresh cuts lined his arms. His stare was hollow.
The two officers brushed by the woman as they moved toward the doorway. The young one dropped a hand to the pistol hanging at his hip.
"Sir, please put the knife down," the older officer said. Zachariah stumbled to the corner. He fell to his knees, a groan escaping his lips.
"He's not well," the woman said, her voice strained. "He sees things that aren't there. He's scared." Her hand gripped a bandaged arm.
The officers advanced with cautious steps. Zachariah covered his face and cried. He held the blade away from him like a severed head.
His voice, muffled and desperate, echoed the words scrawled on the surrounding walls. "They're coming. We'll turn. Our own selfish hell."
The young officer unsnapped his holster. The other shook his head and mouthed, "No." He moved closer to Zachariah. "Hey, kid, I hear you."
Zachariah uncovered an eye. "Come with us, we'll listen," the officer continued. Zachariah dropped the blade. "OK." It was all he wanted.