{CURRENTLY EDITING/SLIGHT REWRITE.}
Ainsley Ashter was a freak-show. A psychopath. An absolute and utter maniac.... Or so they thought.
She was imprisoned at the age of thirteen when she murdered her parents using nothing but the metal leg of her b...
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DAY EIGHTY SIX BROUGHT THEM LOW MORALE. Their last box of food lay on the counter, forgotten, because neither John nor Ainsley wanted to be the one to eat it. Fate is cruel. It's so, so cruel to allow them to come together, to soon die before they can ever flourish together. The cruelest thing in Ainsley's opinion is for Fate to make her think she had a chance. To make her think that she isn't cursed, that no harm would come to John Murphy because of her. Yet, here they are.
Here they are in a long, forgotten bunker, nearly out of food, and a hopeless despair filters the air at every corner. In a way it's the best damned thing that's ever happened to her. How sick is that? How could she tell John that? That even though they're both about to die a gruesome death, it's the happiest she's ever been?
Yeah, Ainsley, they sure don't call you psycho for nothing.
Ainsley sighs and glances at the television, which plays the same exact recording they've seen eighty six days in a row. It starts off the same. A guy named Chris apologizes before shooting himself in the chest, and two men enter in search of him. The scene changes. A woman named Becca meets an AI version of herself, who Chris had named Allie. Allie's core command was to ‘make life better’ by fixing a root problem. The root problem is apparently too many people, according to artificial intelligence; the bitch in red nuked the entire world based on that diagnosis.
She can't take it anymore. Her anger builds and builds until she's throwing the television remote at the TV, shattering it instantly on impact. She glances over at John. He'd been silently staring at the screen, a dull look in his once bright blue eyes. Ainsley frowns, before moving to place a gentle kiss on his forehead, despite the bubbling anger in her chest, despite her outburst. It's inevitable. Their death.
“I wouldn't change coming here with you, John,” Ainsley admits in a quiet murmur. “I guess it's not the survivors' move we hoped for, but I still wouldn't change it.” She lets out a watery chuckle, tears threatening to ruin her entire speech.
She'd been planning it for days, actually.
“You should,” John says. “If you'd had the chance. You should have told me to go to hell, punched me, hell, pushed me away and made me come by myself.” He chuckles humorlessly, glancing over at her with tired eyes. “We're almost out of food, Ainsley. Be realistic. I led you to your death.”
“To hell with that, John,” Ainsley breathes; a single tear falling down her cheek. “At least I'm with you.”
She'll never have this again. In a few days they'll be dead, and she'd only allowed herself to get close to him for eighty six fucking days.
