I opened the bag and sorted though its contents: a yellow silk dress, high-heeled shoes, sheer hose, a beaded evening bag and a cab driver’s white glove. I gave an involuntary shiver. I dropped the clothes and moved on. There were medical supplies in a tub near the door—bottles and tubes, a box of sterile gauze, rubber gloves. I didn’t stop to examine them. Something far more important was pulling at me, moving my bare feet over the floor.
A mirror hung on one wall. I approached it as one might approach a window, trying to look out onto a landscape, objective reality: physical, solid. The mirror was darkness framed in gloom, and the door to the room did not admit enough light to brighten it. I crossed to the window. I pushed back the drapes. I turned back to the mirror. A weak wash of moonlight invaded the chamber, animating the face there. I looked at a stranger, myself, for a brand new first time.
My eyes were dark, but they had a surreal brilliance, like a couple of coals suddenly ignited. Under each eye floated a blue thumbprint of shadow. These two bruise-like marks never vanished. They were the result of my near extermination. They are also the mark of a zombie.
—DEAD LOVE/Chapter 13.2/Live Dead Girl