six
⋇⋆✦⋆⋇
↳ incarnadine ↲

WHEN I WAS YOUNGER, I learned many things from my mother. She taught me simple things, like how to cook fluffy eggs on the stove, and sew the small holes worn into my jeans.

Though, most of all, she taught me to never take shit from anyone. This was what one would call an accidental lesson, nonetheless, as she never intended me to pick this up. It was something I slowly learned as I watched her make the same repetitive mistakes with her husband.

Hiding bruises with color corrector—blending a heavy concealer overtop. It would always be the same story when I asked about her newest purple splotch: Dad made a mistake but it wouldn't happen again. He made those promises to her every time. . . but he did very little to keep them.

I never understood why she stayed, even after the bruises faded; because a new set of colors would appear on her limbs only a few days later, like a used paint pallet.

She was scared of being alone, just like any reasonable person. The difference between her and the average human was that she would rather take physical torture, over being on her own. As time passed, I convinced myself of one certainty. I would never be like her.

As much as a girl wished to be her mom, most were nothing like them, as they had chosen the path to be least like their mother. At many points throughout my life, I found myself doing just this. I was currently taking it to the extreme, doing the opposite of what I knew her patterns to be.

I was fighting, against a man.

He was too powerful. Not a fair match for me at all, but I still fought to push him away. My internal dialogue was screaming from rooftops to be more tough, telling me to hold on longer as the man threw me back against the wall.

I peeled my winded body from it, forcing myself at him before he could fully come in on me. I threw my fist into his nose when he was close enough, the action causing him to step back and protect his face. As he briefly lost his footing, I hurried to the ground for my knife. Once taking hold of it, I was stopped as his hands wrapped around my untied hair. His fingers tangled in my strands, pulling forcefully to raise me up.

I was then pushed against the bathroom counter, his free hand crushing my fingers so that I'd drop the knife. Immediately unable to withstand the pressure, the blade came out of my palm and clattered onto the floor. His frontside pressed against me as he leaned me over the sink with his fingers still in my hair. He used this as leverage, pulling back my head so that he could wrap his hand around my throat while I was forced to watch in the mirror.

His hand dug into my source of oxygen, fingers pushing hard into the space just below my jaw to cut off any possible flow. I attempted at taking a struggled breath inward, but only a small gasping noise emitted from me.

This was the worst possible way to go. No air. If I were just drowning, there would simply be no oxygen to breathe. Here, however, air was in every crevice of the room. There was an abundance of it beyond my body, yet it was untouchable. It enveloped me, but I could not take it as my own.

With one of my hands attempting to pry him off me, my other frantically searched for any possible defense. My vision was beginning to soften at the edges, a heavy warmth spreading through my limbs. As I choked on my own gasps, I anticipated the moment darkness would take over. I knew the less I fought, the shorter my suffering would be.

Though, I didn't want to surrender. Waving my flag of defeat and succumbing to death would not be how I went out. The end would be on my own terms.

My fingers grazed at the items on the counter before landing on something cold and metal. Using the mirror to see what my hand touched, my eyes blinked rapidly to reveal a pair of trimming scissors now within my grip. The pointed ends were devastatingly sharp.

Just as he began bringing forth a fatal force into the strangle, I used the last of my strength to bring the scissors up. He was far too distracted with the intention of murder, to notice the gleaming reflection of the make-shift weapon rising closer to the vital area of his own throat.

Gasp. Convulse. Gasp. These sounds and actions came from my own body. It was giving out on me. In the reflection, I could see the light dissipating from my eyes. Immediately frightened by the image of myself in the mirror, I used whatever fight left in me to send the object deep into his neck. Blood spurted from him, and I knew I'd hit his carotid.

Air.

I could finally breathe, as his body dropped.

Air.

My legs crumpled in on me like a newborn fawn attempting to walk for the first time.

Air.

My hands and knees stopped my harsh fall to the bathroom floor. The man beside me was dead. My lungs burned as if I were breathing in the gray-black smoke from a freshly snuffed out fire, and no amount of coughing or heaving would help.

I clawed at my raw throat as the doorknob began rattling. Lowering my head to the ground after crawling to the door, my cheek was cooled against the tile as I looked through the crack at the bottom.

Cowboy boots stood on the other side.

I slowly came to a teetering stand, twisting the lock so that Rick could come in. As I struggled to close it again, he surveyed the area around me. Incarnadine was pooling from underneath the man, staining the floor so bloody that I doubted it could ever be scrubbed clean. Although not mine, it found home between the lines in my palms, and soaked into the fabric of my pants.

The image in front of him must have resembled a horror film. Such gore and death. I could almost picture the camera whirring in on the thick substance against the white flooring. A rip-off of The Shining's elevator scene.

My struggled breathing caused him to tear his eyes away, and look to me. He didn't appear horrified like I thought he might. He only searched with those eyes he shared in color with his son, scanning over me to assure himself the blood didn't originate from me.

After deciding the questions could wait, he stepped over the body to get the small window. This one actually opened. I had started thinking there were dead ends at every possibility of escape.

My teeth clenched together at the ache and burn rooting deep in my chest. Each shuttered exhale I struggled to accomplish allowed the pain to settle further. I feared that my pipes would burst if I swallowed the spit in my mouth.

"Can you climb out?" He asked, turning to look me over again.

I thought he'd left earlier. I assumed all of them assembled together when I was asleep, and conspired to move on without me. Seeing him here solidified that he really was offering forgiveness. He wasn't going to leave me behind, either.

I gave him a quick nod, and he moved closer to help hoist me up. I placed a foot in his clasped hands, my breathing labored as I brought myself through the opening and onto the roof. Rick followed this action, coming up beside me as we neared the edge.

"I'll hop down, then catch you." He explained, leaning over the rooftop to gauge the distance he'd need to fall.

I eyed the wooden porch below, still fighting for an adequate amount of air while taking in the far drop. Right now, we were high enough up that the overgrown branches of a great oak extended out at us, its leaves brushing against our bodies.

"Can you run after we make it off?"

"Yeah," I stated, "I can run."

He gave me a nod, lifting himself off of the edge. "Good."

He then swung himself over the ledge, hanging onto the drainage pipes before landing onto the ground beneath me. After making sure the commotion of his landing didn't draw any unwanted attention, he motioned for me to follow his steps as he positioned his arms to catch me.

I brought myself to the edge, dangling my feet over the roof like I had done with Carl, days ago. His father now nodded at me to push off, and I did so without protest. Before the discomfort in my stomach even arose, he was already catching my fall and lowering me down. He quickly led us down the porch steps, and we lowly sprinted through the greenery, taking cover behind the plants as we went on.

My legs began to shake as we continued to the front. Black dots consumed the very edges of my vision— like a border of a sharpie nearing the end of its ink. A violent ringing in my ears began, my tongue swollen and heavy in my mouth. 

Once we nearing the front of the house, we stopped below its raised entrance. Rick crouched down, and I took this pause to slouch against the brick.

"Carl and Michonne went on a run." He whispered. "They aren't back yet."

"Let's—" I began to speak, but paused when my voice sounded out. It was so incredibly hoarse and struggled. "Let's go the direction—"

Rick nodded, understanding what I was trying to speak out. I stopped here, not wanting to exert my vocal cords any further. There was a terrible pressure in my head that made me feel like my nose and ears would bleed out.

Before Rick could respond, the front door creaked open against its uncoiled springs. Someone walked out, their steps creaking against the wooden boards.

For a while, It laid silent, until a ball began bouncing again.

I looked to Rick, who was searching for any sign of Michonne or Carl. With none, he backed away, gripping his looted automatic gun with both hands. He was ready to fire it at any moment, if need be.

The ball continued to bounce, almost mimicking a countdown. Each time it recoiled on the ground, it bounced up with an echo. It reminded me of an analog clock.

Tick.

Tick.

Clicking away as time faded, minutes confusing themselves with blurry hours. How long had we been sitting here? I felt as if I'd been zoned out for days. A paleness glistened on my skin, along with a series of quiet, shortened breaths I couldn't control. My brain and lungs were still depleted of vital oxygen.

A series of cotton filled words came from Rick, pulling me back to a halfway point between reality, and dissociation.

"What?" I asked in a croaky whisper.

"I said, hang in there." He repeated extremely quiet before lifting his head to examine where the man was.

As I nodded at his command, he quickly pulled himself back down, pressing us both further into the wall. I understood why as the rocking chair the man had been sitting in began creaking in his absence, his steps now approaching the edge of the porch we were hunkering down against.

Just as I thought he had figured us out, he only spit the seed of something from his mouth. The chewed thing landed only inches away from us, rolling to a stop in the grass. He then sat himself on the railing and sipped at whatever can of fruit it was.

Figures from the road ahead began approaching. I tapped Rick to alert him of this, silently hoping these dead ones wouldn't stumble into the yard and expose our hiding place. As he glanced at them, his face contorted into something that didn't seem like worry for us, but instead, for the bodies ahead.

I looked again. I now understood his expression. Those weren't what he called 'walkers'. Those two bodies weren't dead at all—that was Michonne, and Carl. They were returning with pillowcases stuffed with supplies. They were no less than thirty seconds from entering the home.

"We go on three." He said under his breath, making sure the gun was locked, loaded, and ready to fire at this strange man.

I shifted onto my knees, preparing to run once he fired on the man. We had a singular opportunity to get to Michonne and his son before they would face the wrath of the men inside, unbeknownst to it all.

"One. . .two—" He started.

A shout abruptly traveled through the house, followed by the sound of a walker growling. The man got up from his seat, mumbling a quiet curse as he chucked his can into the yard and headed back inside. The spilled can of peaches sprawled onto the grass, juices dripping from the container.

The second the door closed, my legs involuntarily brought me across the lawn, following Rick's lead closely. We ducked down as we sprinted on, the reverberation of gunshots coming from inside the forgotten 'abode'.

My steps, I now noticed, were the smallest bit lighter without my weapon of choice bound to my hip. The sharp knife had brought me through so much hardship, and now, it laid completely useless on the bathroom floor. Left behind as nothing but a mournful memory.

I panted as we finally caught the boy and the woman, Rick shouting a quiet, 'Go!' to the two. They whirred around in an instant, not daring to stop and look back at the abandoned place we had called home over the past few days.

Shots were still firing from inside the four walls as we went on.

▬ ▬ ▬

Railroads seemed to go on forever.

That was all I found myself thinking, when looking to the path ahead, forged by rusted metal and splintering wood. My heavy, slow steps crackled against the loose cobblestone between the rail boards, the sound becoming hypnotic as it repeated.

My body ached for rest, but there was no time to do so. The adrenaline had long since faded from my veins, and it left gnawing misery in its absence. Michonne and Rick had taken off not too far ahead, Carl and I staying a few paces back to allow the two to talk about our next move. The boy wasn't side by side with me by any means; we walked far from one another, occupying either side of the track. A train could fit between and not so much as graze us.

"I would hate to see the other guy." Carl spoke out coldly when I pushed my hair from my shoulders, letting it carelessly fall behind my back.

This was the first thing he'd said to me since I'd fallen asleep reading comics with him. The words seemed like a joke—but the way he said it was frighteningly serious. I had felt his gaze assessing me beforehand, but only now was he seeing the extent of what I'd been through. The unmistakable handprint etched into my skin with tones of purple and deep red.

"You would? I thought you'd thank him." I struggled out, the words small and uneven.

I only spoke what we were both thinking. I assumed the only reason he had been looking to me so much, was so that he could keep a watchful eye on me. He wasn't curious about the blood on me, or the sad little noises my throat made each breath I took. He was only looking out for the people he loved. Protecting them from the possibility of me. I assumed the dead man's red stains on my clothing only furthered his mistrust toward me.

The boy looked to me, appalled at the statement. "Why would you even suggest—"

"Carl," Rick turned from up ahead, looking Carl in the face. "Leave her alone. She shouldn't be putting strain on her voice."

Rick turned back. Carl only eyed him in response before angling his head to glance my way once more. He thankfully didn't try to talk to me again. He was too busy tempestuously indulging in an expired can of crazy cheese, as his rights to argue with me had been stripped by his father.

When he finally threw the empty can to the side, the sun had just begun setting across the horizon, colors of saturated blood orange and pink spreading along the skyline. With nothing in sight but a line of abandoned train cars near the fork in the tracks, I wondered if we would have to stay the night occupying one.

I missed the yellow beach room. It might have been ugly, but at least it had a bed. I'd taken that luxury for granted.

I thought the others might have been thinking the same thing about camping overnight in the box cars as they neared awfully close. However, when approaching, I realized it wasn't the train car that brought them nearer. It was the catchphrase spray painted across the metal.

Sanctuary for all. Community for all. Those who arrive survive.

A small piece of cardboard was hung below it, revealing a map. Many trails were drawn across it, all connecting to the center, where a black star laid in the heart of Georgia.

An area titled "Terminus" was labeled at this point.

The map showed a colored marker of our current location, and a similar one of the ultimate destination. My eyes trailed over the lines, understanding this to be way too many miles ahead, realistically. It all lead to a place I doubted even stood anymore.

Nothing was permanent. Not this place, or the next. Not even a fortress built to withstand all odds. That too, would end in flames eventually. If it wasn't the dead destroying civilization—it would be our own people against one another.

This plague was our extinction event. Walking into Terminus seemed like a good way to kickstart the end of everything.

I continued to walk onward, but was stopped at the words, 'Let's go'.

I let out a small laugh, quickly regretting it a sharp cough stabbed through my chest. "It's not going to be there still."

"You don't know that." Rick replied, unraveling the dirty bandages tied to his hands.

That much I could agree with. I didn't know for certain—but this man seemed to want to believe in it so badly, he would risk our lives for it. That was where him and I differed.

That being said, I couldn't control his decision, or any of the others. The only life I could ensure was my own, and in this moment, I knew what had to be done in self-preservation.

"Then we split here."

I couldn't allow myself to travel this path, literally and figuratively. The only hope that existed these days, was false hope. There was never going to be a fix-all for any of this, and it didn't seem right that this place was offering one. For all good in this new world, it never came free. There would always be a catch. A cost.

"You'd die on your own." Carl said, stepping forward.

His hat shaded his face from the burning sun, but the blue eyes of his still gleamed through the shadows present.

"I can't, in good conscience, let you off on your own." Rick looked to me, then my bruising. "You're too vulnerable out here, alone."

"You're going a long way for something you don't even know still exists." My voice came out in a hushed way. I couldn't project it any louder.

"No," Michonne started as recognition dawned on her face. "A few weeks back, on the medical run, we heard the same thing broadcasting on the radio."

Rick furrowed his brows. "Why didn't you tell me about this?"

"It was going in and out of connection, we thought it was old." She explained.

"How do you know it wasn't?" Carl now asked, kicking at the dirt below his feet. He seemed to be just as apprehensive as I was.

She turned to the train section again. "This paint is fairly new. No chips, or wearing."

"It's risky," Rick interjected. "But it could be worth it."

I only agreed with half of his statement. It was risky.

"They seem able enough to help us." Rick said, digging in his bag. "Think food, medicine — a roof over our heads."

He reached to the very bottom of the pack, bringing out something I hadn't expected to see so soon. My beretta pistol. He carefully handed it over, making sure it was loaded before letting go.

"We're going. All of us. Every road leads to Terminus, no matter which one you take. We might as well take it together." He stated.

I knew it was an order rather than a suggestion. And a good little soldier, as Carl had titled me, did not back down from dictation. This piece of me didn't know how to object to his words. I tried, I even opened my mouth to fight it, but nothing came out. Not even a hiss of air.

"Fine," I whispered as I looked to the tracks ahead. "You sure as hell better not make me regret this."

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·
3,615 words.

the sh!t is officially ab to go downnnn!
anyways, thanks for being here !!

cannon comic panels from chapter 6:

sincerely yours,
nika.