❝ 𝘪 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘪 '𝘭𝘭 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘺 𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘮𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙮 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙚 ❞
frannie is willing to do anything to get back to her family, but can she put her trust in strangers to do it?
[slow updates]
[book 2/4]
[glenn rhee x fem!oc]
[through...
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"Fuck." I mutter under my breath, slamming another empty cabinet closed.
I limp over to the next one, every little movement of my leg sending bursts of pain through my side. I search through the last cabinet in the kitchen, the feeling of warn blood soaking my jeans acting as the clock. I need to find something, and soon.
I lean against the dust-covered counter, shaky breaths rattling my chest. The hot pain has since subsided, but it still feels as if there's a burn wound deep inside my hipbone. The wound in my arm feels like nothing compared to the bullet still lodged in my side.
Eyes scanning the room, they finally lay upon something useful: a storage closet. I push myself off the table and towards the closet, and inside it is boxes upon boxes. I could care less about the stored blankets and towels, what I do care about is the fishing line on the shelf.
I grab it and one of the towels and turn back to my limited supplies. A half-empty bottle of vodka, a mini plier, duck tape, a box of colorfully-printed bandaids, and now a fishing line and an old hand towel.
"Could be worse." I breathe out, dragging the alcohol towards me. "Could be a lot worse."
I unbutton my jeans and pull them down enough to see the wound. It has seen better days. My skin is coated with dried and fresh blood alike, and the bullet hole is so deep that I can see inside it. I swallow thickly at the sight.
I unscrew the cap of the liquor, and hold it over my hip. My hand shakes as I lean the bottle down slowly, and mentally prepare for the pain I'm about to feel. But nothing can prepare me for it.
As soon as the vodka make contact with my injury, I let out a loud yelp of pain. I slam the bottle on the table, putting my free hand over my mouth to quiet myself down. After the prison, walkers have been everywhere.
With tears gathering in my eyes, I pour more of the alcohol onto the pliers. I can't get my hands to stop trembling as I pick them up, knowing what I have to do with them.
"It's okay." I whisper to myself, taking in deep breaths in and out. "It's okay. You're okay."
I don't give myself time to think as I plunge the pliers into my bullet wound. I clench my jaw as those tears run down my face. I move the tool around until it makes contact with the bullet, and I take it out with one final pull.
I throw the bloodied pliers onto the counter, the bullet rolling across the counter and leaving a trail behind it. Red has splattered on top of the surface and is running down my leg. I look to the fishing line.
