✧ ཻུ۪۪. love is the most beautiful of dreams ,
and the worst of nightmares . . .
the walking dead | season 4 - 8
( carl grimes x fem!oc )
❁ ↷
12/20/20 & 6/17/22 - #1 in chanderriggs
5/26/22 & 1/28...
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THERE WAS A DAY ELLA could hardly remember, tucked away into the abyss of the younger years of her life that had been mashed into one, large blur. Memories were melted into memories, with the majority of any real recollection of the world they all left behind being slowly eliminated, as time went on.
Life before the dead had been an aspect of her first twelve, or so, years, that had felt like nothing more than a distant fever dream. The friends Ella once knew were a portion of her young, day to day life, that had felt unreal. Names of the few children in her sixth grade classroom were scarce in her limited memory, alongside the unobtainable scent of sharpened pencils, or the old middle school building, that she would find herself spending the days, carelessly, in. Little, pointless things often appeared, aimlessly in her mind, during the quiet hours of the evening — how, at one point in time, she was nothing more than a little girl, who obliviously took that past life for granted.
Things like the uncomfortable wool carpet of her elementary school, the touch of the cool, painted white bricks of her school hallway, or the pointless doodles scribbled on bathroom walls, they were all additions to her life that she would never imagine herself missing, before. Ella could hardly picture such a life, nowadays. The time of chatting with friends through hushed whispers during a teachers lecture, trying to learn how to use one of the schools brand new desktop computers, or even the only ever love letter she had received, anonymously, of course, in the third grade. A simple letter, that had caused such an outburst from her young self, as she once ran to her parents, with a nose crinkled in disgust.
They were all nothing more than the memories of a life she was told to forget.
Sometimes, if Ella wanted to try hard enough though, she could remember it. Somewhat.
How the soap her school carried would dry out her hands, causing for the lined paper she kept stored away in her flimsy, bright blue binder, to sting at her parched finger tips. The face of the girl who would talk with her every day, on the rusted swing set at recess, whose name remained on the tip of her tongue. Even down to something as insignificant as the pixels to the screen of a long forgotten video game, beside her father, who would share and sink the lore of Zelda's, Ocarina of Time, into her innocent mind. Only to laugh, when she would grow exasperated, at how her brain lacked the power to figure out the puzzle aspects to the game.
