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When I look back with the benefit of hindsight, it was that first encounter that emptied me out. I may not be dragging my carcass through the streets, and I may not eat those whom I butcher but believe me I'm as dead as they are.

It's not as if I really even knew her that well. We both got the same train in to work, day in and day out. If I'm honest, I can't even remember speaking to her at all before that last week. If only I'd spoke to her sooner, maybe showed then some of the courage that my little troupe finds so admirable now, then maybe I'd have something to live for other than my simple instinct for survival. As it is, the ache of remembering her last words is worse than any zombie bite.

Perhaps I should clarify myself a little. My name is Andrew Watts and I think I'm 28 years old. I would be more specific, but to be honest I've had more pressing worries than the passage of time. Being so scared of becoming a midnight snack that you can't sleep more than 2 hours at a time…well, it rather takes the edge of any birthday celebrations, don't you think?

In my former life, I was a trainee accountant, that most dashing of profession, and I was 22 when I first saw her. I had just started my job at the firm and my astounding lack of any mechanical expertise precluded the use of a car to get me to work. (Now that I come to think of it, the look of terror on my driving instructors face almost matches anything managed by those I've seen lost since. Almost) I also lived over 20 miles away from the city, hence the train to work.

I didn't see her until my second week of travel and I am sorry to be so cliched but my heart simply stopped the moment I saw her. She was jostled onto the train in the midst of a gaggle of braying businessmen, and had I not fell in love with her beforehand then the way she rounded on them would surely have done it.

"Do you know, in all my 20 years on this earth the only person that has touched my arse without prior permission has been my mum." At this point she raised the hand that she had presumably found planted there. I confess my initial thoughts of "Lucky bastard" purely to save you the trouble of thinking them yourself.

"And you know, if you were my mum, she wouldn't be nearly as distressed at this;" And there was a blur of movement at about waist height, a strangled gasping noise and a rapid collapse on the part of the possessor of the wandering hand. I watched in awe as she heaved him to his feet and hissed a further threat at him through clenched teeth before dropping him and stalking away. Towards my seat. Towards me.

I suppose she must have thought I was non-threatening, and frankly who could blame her? Possession of a copy of The Guardian, spectacles, and a briefcase hardly marks one out as an aggressor. She took a seat next to me. It was than that I noticed that she was shaking, so I asked if she was okay. I single, curt "Fine" was all I received in reply, and so I returned to my paper and contented myself with sly glances for the rest of the journey. Come to think of it, I contented myself with that for the next 8 months.

She was beautiful, it was that simple. I remember her as being about 5 and a half feet tall with blonde hair and fair skin, a real English rose as my old mum would say. (Actually, my mum would say "Uuuurrrrrhhhhhh" and then try and take a bite of me but that's beside the point). She had grey blue eyes, or at least I think she did; to my shame I never plucked up the courage to look into her eyes until the end, and who knows if her eyes had always been that colour?

If I had to pick a fault with her (no easy task in my hormonal state, I assure you) it was her choice of morning paper. Having completed an Economics degree at a prestigious University, I fancied myself something of an intellectual, hence The Guardian every morning. She, on the other hand, used to read quite the most appalling shite on our morning journey. Every morning I would despair as she chuckled along to The Sun, The Inquirer, and more women's magazines with lurid headlines about how to get better orgasms that I still blush to think of it.

And so I continued to live my life for the next half a year. I went to and from work and drank in her image every day. Whenever she wasn't there I would spend the day distracted and listless, a pit of gnawing despair eating away at my gut as I worried whether I would see her again. When she returned after those (thankfully always) absences my spirit did not so much soar as backflip across the room gibbering with glee all the while.

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