Journal of the Survivors

Chapter Sixteen--Trace

Chapter Sixteen—Trace

“No! I had it last night! It’s your turn!”

Kyra Leigh is the incarnation of stubbornness. She clings to whatever she is fighting for or against, even if it’s a lost cause. Like today while battling she used whatever she could to fight instead of just sitting back and letting me do it all. In a way, it was incredibly courageous, but it was also incredibly stupid. I had a handle on the situation and could easily have taken out the undead on my own. Her stepping in only made it more difficult for me to kill. I could have sliced off her head without even realizing who she was. Still, I admire her zeal and her bravery. Even when we were first attacked, she defended me throughout the fight. She didn’t know what I was doing, but she stuck with me instead of running and saving herself. Despite the fact that she loathes my very existence, she’s still loyal, and for that she has my respect.

I try to reason with the unreasonable. “Listen Kyra Leigh, I—”

“You are getting the sleeping bag! End of story,” she interjects. She crosses her arms as if to say It’s final. It’s definitely not.

“Kyra Leigh if you’d just hear me out—”

“I mean, I’ve already taken so much from you, to deny you the comforts of your own sleeping bag would be wrong of me. I did take it yesterday, but that was under different circumstances, so I think—”

I slam a hand over her mouth when it becomes clear that she won’t stop ranting otherwise. It seems like that’s the only way to make her stop talking seeing as even her zombie hunting team have done it sometimes. I can’t recall how many times I’ve had to pull the move on her. Once this girl starts talking, it’s practically impossible to stop her any other way. Each and every one of her team members had a story to tell about her continuous rambles. Apparently, she is not very fond of being silenced this way. She narrows her eyes at me, silently telling me off. “Sorry, but you wouldn’t shut up,” I explain.

She does a 180° turn; her scowl dissolves into laughter behind my hand, a strange choking noise. I move my now slightly moist hand away and wipe it off on my pant leg, trying not to convey disgust on my face.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she gasps around giggles, “It’s just, the way you say ‘shut up’ it’s just amazing.”

I feel my eyebrows rise. “Well, thanks I guess.” 

“‘Shut up!’” she “mimics” me.

“I sound nothing like that!” I defend.

She continues snickering. “Yes you do, you’re all posh and British when you say it.”

“I’m not—” I sigh, ending the beginning of my argument. She finds this way too amusing, there’s no way I’ll convince her on this and taking the sleeping bag. I choose my battles wisely. “Never mind. What I was trying to say is that I don’t really have need of the sleeping bag.”

“Why not?” she asks, her laughter finally ceasing.

I rack my brains, quickly trying to come up with a logical explanation, one that isn’t a complete lie. “I have insomnia, I don’t really sleep much. The blanket is in the bag in case I get stuck out here in the winter.”

“Really? You don’t sleep a lot? Well then, you have no idea what you are missing out on,” she laughs again.

I smile at the happy sound. She doesn’t usually laugh and joke a lot. She looks less intimidating when she’s smiling. No, that’s not right. She looks less sad. Through my life, I became an expert on spotting sadness. Even the best actors couldn’t hide their despair from me. Misery is one of the only things I understand now, it’s the foundation of my existence, the only reason I am still here. “Yea, I guess not.”