(a/n: made a little edit of my babies 🫶🏻 i miss u vincent </3)

THREE WEEKS AGO.

The house lay in the middle of nowhere, white paint crippling, windows smashed into bits, and door left open, clearly abandoned. Around it, the streets ruffled against the wind, the only sound available against the loneliness of the world, what had been left of it.

Not a few ways away, a man walking amongst the forest, a hostler strapped around his waist, a gun in its designated place, tightly holding the hand of a little girl as she quietly looked at the surroundings around her, eyes wide with childish wonderment, stepping closer to the man beside her.

His eyes widened when he saw the house, a feeling of relief washing over his chest that relaxed the tension in his face. He was utterly and completely exhausted, constantly moving, having to care of his little Birdie, giving her his portions of food, which left him starving for days.

But it was worth it. Anything for her was worth it.

"Birdie," he nudged her lightly, catching her attention. She turned to look at him with her big, brown eyes that made his heart melt in unbelievable ways. "Stay behind me, okay?"

She nodded silently, her eyebrows raising in slight worry, but she shifted closer to him anyway, like she could be any more closer to him than she was at the moment.

He turned around, gun raised, footsteps quiet against the forest ground. The breeze bristled around them, eliciting goosebumps to travel up their skin. It wasn't that cold, but the anticipation the two of them held as they approached the house, the feeling that a walker might have already occupied the place, or someone human, was looming over them.

The possibility of shelter was faltering. They had been looking for one for ages, despite the fact that they already had a car. But he wanted a real home, one where they could feel normal for a while, one where Birdie wouldn't have to constantly twist and turn in her seat whenever she was uncomfortable.

One where she didn't sprawl marker all over her arm when she was bored.

Honestly, you'd think that after years of raising her, she'd be obedient and would listen to what her father said, but instead, she came out just like him. Messy, ignorant, and angry.

She was a vicious girl—always letting her feelings out through biting words that she would later regret, but wouldn't have the courage nor the confidence to apologise for. No, Birdie was the kind of girl that wallowed in guilt rather than admit that she was ever wrong.

Like him.

Sometimes, Vincent disliked how similar they were. It was like seeing through a mirror, a carbon copy of himself. It wasn't that it wasn't endearing that his own kid was just like him, it was just that self-hatred he'd dug deep into his heart was brought up every single time she did something that was so him. He had no idea why, but it left him feeling so awfully guilty.

To himself or her, he didn't really know that either.

A father, a man, a husband, and yet, he felt like he didn't have any of the answers at all.

His footsteps knocked against the light wooden porch steps, the faint knocking of Birdie's own boots echoing behind him. The grip he had on his gun tightened, and he slowly made his way through the threshold of the house.

The floor creaked beneath him, and into the deafening silence. The place was ruined; couches split open, the cotton strewn around messily. Vincent wasn't sure if there were animals or people here—either way, they had acted like dogs.

There was a TV with a broken screen, black glass thrown around haphazardly all over the ground, and there was a crushed wooden table, one leg missing.

Safe to say, the place had been mauled, completely stripped clean of anything useful.

Vincent's chest deflated slightly as he brought up a hand to wipe at his creased forehead, sighing heavily. A hopelessness gnawed at his chest, digging into his brain and clinging back all the negative thoughts he'd tried to stray away from.

You'll kill her. She won't survive. You can't save her. You're useless. She'll die without you.

Vincent exhaled through his nose, smoke almost flowing out of his nostrils. He felt a small hand knock against his thigh, and he was immediately brought back to the little girl beside him that gazed up at him with a hopeful gaze.

It crushed his heart. She didn't even talk anymore, too traumatized after what they'd both witnessed. He was barely holding himself together, and she was too little to even process it—it was probably just sitting in her mind.

Just a thought, nothing more.

Quietly, he placed his hand on her back and guided her in. He wasn't exactly sure what he was going to do, but for now, he wanted to check on the basics. "Hey, Bird. Can you check if there's any useful stuff for me in the bedrooms?"

A smile lightened her face up as she nodded, taking her messenger back off his shoulder, turning around, and running up the wooden stairs, toward the bedrooms.

Her footsteps cascaded, boots slamming against wood. Her excitement was bubbling over in her chest. She loved to rummage through people's stuff and pretend that it wasn't stealing.

Because it wasn't. Dead people technically didn't have stuff. So.

She swerved into the first bedroom she saw. It had blue wallpaper, mint green and light blue curtains, and a blue comforter. Definitely a boy's bedroom. This room looked like a much more neater version than the mess downstairs.

Everything looked neat and tidy. Untouched. She turned towards the rows of shelves that had multiple figurines perched up on them, characters that she had never seen before, not that she was really a movie or show fanatic. She preferred reality, getting messy than watching people get messy.

Why watch people play in dirt and have fun in the forest when you can do it all yourself?

She stopped momentarily when she saw a figure of the Fantastic Mr. Fox. Okay, so she wasn't a movie fanatic, but that movie had to be her favorite, even if she had no idea what it talked about at all.

Fantastic Mr. Fox was also Sandy's favorite movie. Maybe that was why Birdie liked it, too. She used to say that she didn't, but every time that Sandy would watch it, she would be perched right beside her, occasionally grumbling to pretend she didn't like it, when she did. Sandy fell for it every single time.

Albeit hesitantly, Birdie reached over and picked it up, shoving it into her messenger bag, a warm feeling spreading through her chest at the reminder of her sister.

Then, a hollow feeling hit her when she realised that she would never see her again. She would never see Sandy's smile, Sandy's eyes that lightened up, hear Sandy's laugh, hear Sandy talk, look at Sandy, see Sandy. She would never be able to do any of that, never be able to touch her hand, hug her, play with her hair.

Because Sandy was gone. Just like Violet.

Sweet, little Violet. So innocent and little to be taken from this world. This cruel, ugly world that wrapped its hands around her neck and ripped her away from the safe arms of her older sister.

Sweet Violet with those big, blue eyes, and that sweet, innocent smile, and that cute little nose Birdie loved to boop. Sweet, little Violet that loved My Little Pony figures and cats and cute, fluffy jackets. Sweet, little Violet that spoke with nothing but positivity and came with a A+ every single day after school.

Her sisters were gone, stripped down to the harsh world's creations, eaten and gnawed on, shred to pieces, skin nonexistent, eyes glazed over, and jaws snapping harshly, somewhere in the world.

They weren't brave enough to kill them. Not brave enough to punch a knife through their skulls. Not brave enough to even look at them.

Vincent and Birdie had just ran. Ran, ran, ran, away from their nightmares, away from the horrors, away from what their family had become.

Ruthless, human-hungry monsters, walking aimlessly, dragging their feet with lack of purpose.

Corpses on heels, corpses with open, snapping mouths, with rotten teeth aligned like uniform, eyes droopy, glazed over, unreal, insects buzzed around them constantly, chasing their everlasting stench.

They were the walking dead, now.

Her family was dead.

The thought hit Birdie like a ton of bricks, a punch to the face, a knife to the gut. It cut through her like blade against paper, thin and fragile, easy and pretty.

Her grip on the shelf tightened, eyes squeezing shut as she bit her lip to stop her from crying. Vincent didn't like to see her cry, even if he never said anything about it, Birdie knew he didn't like it. She could see his face scrunch up as he'd wrap an arm around her and pull her to his chest, rock her slowly while he hummed.

There was a cold feeling—something dark and bitter that began digging itself in her chest, biting against her flesh. She brought her hand to her stomach, feeling to make sure that the wound wasn't real. That the pain wasn't real.

But Birdie couldn't feel a wound. Her skin was still attached to her completely, nothing stabbed, nothing broken. So why did she feel so empty? So cold?

"Birdie?" Vincent's footsteps sounded behind her, causing her to straighten up and swallow harshly, bringing her hands to her face and wiping to rid them of her tears. His voice came closer. "Bird?"

Birdie didn't want him to see her cry. She hated it when people saw her so vulnerable, so she tried not to look as strained as possible as she gulped harshly again and turned around.

When he rounded the corner, his face split into worry.

That fast?

"Hey, baby, what's wrong?" His voice, soft as ever, spoke, immediately causing the tears she'd kept at bay to spill over. All her feelings right on display. Vincent knelt before her, wrapped his arm around her, and hugged her to his chest. Like he always did. "It's a'right. It's okay, I'm here."

Birdie sniffed, breathing coming out in shaky exhales as she pressed herself against his shoulder and chest, her own chest trembling with her cries.

The sight made Vincent's heart swell, squeeze, clench in ways unimaginable. She was hurting, and he couldn't do anything about it. Nothing, because he was hurting, too. Inside, somewhere he couldn't feel, but he was still hurting.

He felt it in the way that crawled up his chest, sliced his organs, burnt him from the inside out, and in the way it rotted his heart.

He had lost the love of his life, his soulmate, his woman, his wife, his lifeline. And he'd lost his two girls that he'd provided for, loved, cared for, their whole lives.

Watched them as they got shredded, eaten, ripped apart. Watched as they faded away. Watched as he pulled the trigger.

"It's okay, honey. It's okay, Bird. I'm here," his trembling voice comforted, pressing a chaste kiss to her temple, running a hand through her hair, ignoring the guilty feeling that spread through his chest.

"Gone."

He froze. Had he imagined that? Had she spoken? Words? After a month?

"Hm?"

"They're gone, dad," her cracked voice said, so broken, so sad.

Vincent tried not to let the overly-happy feeling cloud his chest, it clashed against all the negative feelings that it spread a wave of nausea over him. "I know, baby. I know. I'm so sorry."

Birdie sniffed, closing her eyes, and pressing her head against his shoulder again. She needed to be held, comforted, hoped for.

She needed the last thing able to hold her without withering away.

𓅃

She woke up to the sound of loud banging.

Blinking away the sleep, Birdie hastily sat up, her arms outstretching behind her to pull her up, face scrunching in discomfort as she looked around the living room. Her view was brought next to her, seeing her dad who slept peacefully, mouth slightly open with soft snoring noises filtering through.

Bang!

Her head swivelled towards the noise. She looked back at her dad, then at herself, then her dad, then at herself. They were both here. It wasn't her dad banging on the wood, and it wasn't her.

Then, a soft whisper. Murmurs. A softer bang.

Voices.

Fear drilled into her, wiping her face clean of colour, and Birdie jumped up to wake Vincent—struggling out of her own sleeping bag as she slid over to his, her hands pushing against his arms and shoulder, desperately trying to wake him up.

Vincent groaned slightly, eyebrows scrunching up in discomfort. Birdie silently glared at him and nudged him again, harsher, fingers curling into his jacket.

Finally, his eyes split open, lips pursing in annoyance. He glared at the first person who was set in his view, who was always Birdie, but relaxed when he saw her panicked expression.

Birdie leaned back on her knees, bringing her hands up to sign. People. Here. Banging.

His body moved before he could process it, and Birdie watched as her father hurriedly sat up, his expression turning a thousand times more alarmed, and his head swerving from side to side, as if he was trying to catch said People.

Softly, Birdie reached out and placed her hands on either side of his face to stop him from moving, pressing a finger to her lips. Quiet. They stayed there for a little bit, listening intently through the silence that traveled throughout the empty house.

Then,

Bang.

It was soft. But it was there.

People. Here.

Danger. Danger. Danger.

Vincent immediately sat up, grabbing his backpack and throwing Birdie's messenger bag towards her, before grabbing his gun from under his pillow.

Birdie reached inside her messenger bag to grab her butterfly knife, her hand clicking into place with her father's own.

This was a usual routine for them. They'd find an abandoned house, maybe have it for half a day or two, then someone would come and take it away from them.

Everything was taken away from them nowadays.

Vincent dragged Birdie across the living room, glancing at the backdoor that he'd bordered up with wood the minute he'd calmed Birdie down and found the shed in the backyard full of the right materials.

He'd found out that people were sometimes stupid and didn't search both sides of the house. So he had developed a new system—bordering up one door in case someone found it, so they could get the upper hand and escape, before the person could even enter at all.

Their sleeping bags would still be there, but they themselves wouldn't.

They'd slept on the hard Earth ground before, so it was no trouble. Plus, Birdie had already claimed his chest as her favorite pillow.

It was as if the world had shaped them the way it wanted them to be. Shaped them so that this world would fit them just right.

His footsteps were quiet, slow and fast at the same time, delicate against the wooden floor to ensure that he wouldn't creak it. The stupid people back there might hear and jump into action, and Vincent would rather kill them than leave Birdie alone.

Not in this world. Never in this world.

Inching toward the front door, his hand softly set on the doorknob and, with as much delicacy as he could muster up, he turned it, the latch clicking slightly, and the door opened with a soft, soft creek.

The banging was still loud behind them, and despite the obnoxiousness of the noise, it still brought a sense of comfort that the stupid people were too preoccupied to realise that there were other humans here.

The moonlit sky greeted them with its twinkling stars, the moon providing them with the light it stole from the sun as they trudged down the porch steps, heading to the woods nearest to the house.

Birdie looked around the dark forest, slight fear gripping her, yet she found the sight to be quite familiar. After all, they had been chased down like this many, many times before.

The woods were becoming to feel more like home than the countless houses they visited had.

Grumpily, she reached up to scratch her eyes that were still full of sleep. Her feet dragged against the damp dirt, slightly lagging behind Vincent while his grip on her other hand tightened.

He looked down at her, expression softening when he caught her tired expression. She looked worn, exhausted, even. With a huff, he wrapped his hands around her armpits and hauled her up into his arms, settling her face on his shoulder for her to rest.

The sudden weight of his backpack mixing with her, along with the harrowing thoughts bumping around his head, was uncomfortable, but when he felt his daughter relax in his grip, it all felt worth it.

The sacrifice. The less portions of food. The less sleepiness nights. All of it was worth it, just to see her smile, to see her eyes light up, to hear her voice, to see her alive.

To see it all was worth it.

So—no, Vincent didn't care about the extra weight, the guilty feelings, the palpable tension, the constant moving, the utter exhaustion. If he had his little Birdie, his hoped shaped into a seven-year-old vicious girl, then it was all fucking worth it.

Just like Dory said. Just keep swimming.

𓅃

The morning sun was like hot, boiling water against skin. The blinding light thrashed against Birdie's eyes as she woke up with a squint, her body lying against something hard and broad.

Her dad's shoulder.

She sat upright, her head leaning down to see Vincent's craned head, his neck placed awkwardly as he snored his sleep away. He looked peaceful, for once, as Birdie noticed.

And she also noticed that they were not in the car.

She frowned, looking around with furrowed eyebrows in confusion. Usually, when Birdie would sleep after escaping Stupid People, Vincent would take them back their car. But today, however, seemed to be different, because they were slumped against a tree, instead of somewhat comfy leather seats.

Birdie looked down at her dad once again, assessing his features. She opted to wake him up or leave him be—but since she was feeling generous today, and he looked like he needed it, she decided to let him sleep.

Quietly and slowly, she untangled herself from his arms, and looked around, possibly catching for anything to do.

Her face lit up when she caught her messenger bag by Vincent's feet on the dirt floor. She slowly picked it up and quietly unzipped it, biting her lip and glancing at him to make sure he wouldn't wake up.

She stuck her hand inside, pulling out the Fantastic Mr. Fox figurine. She sat back, holding it in her hand. She wasn't sure what to do, now, she was never a figurine type of a kid, more like a wildlife type of kid.

Wait a minute.

She was literally surrounded by trees.

So, with that, Birdie spent the next twenty to thirty minutes exporting the woods—peeling back branches, playing stick figures with them, and looking under fallen barks to catch glimpses of the small ant islands and worms huddled under them.

She tried climbing a tree, but fell down due to a thin branch, and the fear that stuck her might have permanently made her not want to climb a tree ever again.

Why would she need to, anyway?

When the thirty minute mark hit, Vincent finally began to stir. His eyebrows pinched together as he was greeted by the harsh sun's light, squinting his eyes through the brightness.

The first thing he noticed was the weight missing from his chest. Panic set in, next.

"Bird?" He sat up, head whipping from side to side frantically, eyes wide with fear as he searched the forest for any kind of sign of his daughter. "Birdie?"

A soft, small hum pulled his attention, causing his head to swerve to the side to see Birdie kneeled down, holding a bark up with one hand as she peered under it. His shoulders relaxed, his back settling back onto the tree trunk behind him, smiling when she glanced at with her big brown eyes full of child innocence and glee.

He sat there, in the quiet, for a moment, just watching Birdie as she outstretched her hand to grab a worm, looking at it with a big smile and wide eyes, as if it was a whole other alienated creature, letting out a giggle as she set it back down.

Vincent loved seeing her like this. In these rare moments of normalcy where she got to be a kid. A normal kid with normal interests. Where she could be where she belonged—in the woods, surrounded by wildlife and animals, both things she adored.

With a wince, Vincent sat up, his back contorting with pain at the movement, the harsh wood sticking to his shirt and through his skin when he tried to get up—the feeling like an apple getting its skin peeled off.

It was time to get back to the car.

Reaching for his backpack and Birdie's messenger bag, Vincent let out a whistle and clicked his fingers, catching Birdie's attention, who turned around and got up, attaching her hand with his and settling her messenger bag on her shoulder.

The walk was silent, Vincent exhausted with sleep, and Birdie looking down at her figurine, thoughts of her sister whirring in her head. Nothing harmless—all happy memories.

The wind rustled around them, the leaves crunched every once in a while, both of them spotting a fox or a bunny once, smiling at each other gleefully before the animals would spot them and run away.

Normalcy. Comfort. Family. The only thing holding them from falling apart was each other. The thought of sleeping next to each other and waking up, and finding each other there. The thought of needing to laugh or talk, and the other would be there to do both.

In this cruel, cruel, ugly world, there was only father and daughter.

Vincent and Birdie Jackson, and the many, many adventures before them.

Until—

Three days later, Vincent Jackson went missing.

•

AUTHOR'S NOTE.
hey hey heeey! this might've been unnecessary, but i really wanted to show the relationship between birdie and her father bc it is very important within the dynamic of both her and daryl, so i hoped you enjoyed this 🫶🏻

don't forget to vote and comment! keeps the motivation going!