I'm a lonely boy

It was just supposed to be a quick lurch down to the thrift store, and then straight back to the apartment.

R had it all plotted out. A quick check to see if any new records or knick-knacks had come in that might catch his eye, a cursory hoodie check, maybe even a quick loiter in an alley to see if there were any wayward rats or raccoons he could make a breakfast of. Then when everything was all good, he'd shuffle back to lay on his floor in silence as he worked up the nerve to text someone... something.

Communicating via emojis was effective, but that didn't mean squat when he was worried about being the annoying dead emoji guy.

There has to be an easier way to reach out to people and really connect.

Still, it didn't matter how many times he grabbed that thought and wrung it like an overused rag. Some things didn't come easy. Like a Zombie trying to work up the nerve to actively engage his maybe-sort-of friends who probably had better things to do than spend an afternoon with the dead guy with the stutter and fish belly handshakes.

So instead, the thrift store. Then maybe later, with some decent music on, he'd work up the nerve to try talking to someone.

Instead, he made it all of three blocks away from his destination before something... weird happened.

His hands had done stuff on their own before. Corpse hands had to be monitored or they got their own ideas. That's how oddball items sometimes ended up in unsuspecting pockets. But they'd never just grabbed the nearest Living hand before. At least not without the intention of eating it.

Struck dumb, R tried to let go. Despite his growing panic and protest, his fingers refused to uncurl.

What the hell, he thought, eyes blown wide in mounting horror. He shook the hand in the misguided hope that momentum might fix it. Nothing. "Oh... sh-shit."