The Woman at The End of The World. (Daryl Dixon)

twentysix.

"So, Vanessa, where are you from?" The lady with pretty auburn hair, Deanna, sits across from me, recording our conversation. My eyes flick to the video camera behind her, my face sours. I never liked being on camera.

Aaron's boyfriend, Eric, had driven the truck back to the community. He had explained that this quaint little town is called Alexandria. Shortly after arriving, Deanna had called Kelly and Charlee in separately for some intake interview of sorts. She had allowed Aaron to take me to be seen by the doctor before my own interview. The doctor, I think his name was Pete, cleaned up my wound, stitched me up and sent me one my way with antibiotics. He also mentioned about recommending a cane for long extended periods on my feet until I'm fully healed. Thankfully there wasn't any muscle damage.

I'm sitting in front of her, still in Kelly's shorts, and a black camisole. My short brown hair falls loosely around my face. The cane resting on my lap. They had stripped me of my weapons upon entering the giant gates. I'm sure I look worse for wear. I still haven't cleaned up from the fight with the governor or since I was sick. That feels like a lifetime ago. My tongue plays with a lip piercing; I'd love to be anywhere but here, in front of a damned camera and nosy woman.

"Ohio." I cock my head, looking at the room around me. It's like this whole area has been untouched by the apocalypse.

She smiles, "I was a senator there myself. What part?"

"Youngstown area." I shrug. "I'm not a fan of politics, sorry. It's not something I ever paid attention to. I don't know anything about you." I grew up in a rough and tumble area of Ohio. By the look on her face, she's aware. Gun fire and death was a daily occurrence. My mom barely scraped by; though she didn't let Victoria and I know how badly she really struggled. Imagine being "goth" Or different in such a rundown city. A ghetto or, rather, hood most would call it. It's safe to say, school and growing up sucked. I smirk at her reaction.

"Aaron said you were coming from Georgia."

I nod. "I was leaving Mississippi. I got stuck in Atlanta for my connecting flight." I'm quickly growing tired of retelling the same story over and over. I roll my eyes, "I got thrown in the middle of the shit storm."

"Were you with another group apart from your friends?"

I wince. "Yeah. I don't think they are alive, though. We got separated during an attack." I fidget with my fingers, not wanting to go down memory lane.

"What kind of attack?" she pushes the sore subject. Annoyance runs through my body.

I widen my eyes at her, glaring. "Some unhinged motherfucker kidnapped me and two others. He liked me so much that he raped me. So, I shot him in the dick when we thought it was a smart idea to attack us months later." I observe her, unflinching. "I had a hand in his death."

She blows some air out of her mouth, realizing I'm not willing to talk about them further. She moves on. "What did you do before all of this?" She motions to the world around us.

"I was a cosmetologist." I purse my lips. Thankful that she let it go. "I focused on colors and cuts." I specify a bit more.

She watches me, eyeing me up and down. "How would you feel if we renovated an empty house, turning it into your own salon? We can make it like one of those home salons."

I face the woman, studying her. "Ok." I agree. "But I have full control over it. And I want to do my own runs for it. No babysitters."