You don't control me, Dixon

➊ 3: Why, nice to properly meet you, sir...

♤

My mamas buried, she has a nice last place in a shallow grave. Her eyes closed to the new world.

But five weeks have passed since and I honestly don't think Rick is going to wake up.

In that time I gathered all the medicine I could with the keys off of my mama and placed it in my bag, the pack nearly full.

Stripped the local houses including my own after leading the little girl in pink to a gas station and Finns of their food, water, and medicine.

Cleaned the two rooms that I've been occupying.

Two so I can respect the comatose man. I've cleaned the blood out of the second one so I can sleep in there.

To be honest sleeping next to a bed of a man that isn't responsive is weird and moved out as soon as I could.

For the nights I sprayed the perfume my mama frequented after I snagged it on a trip I made back to the house.

The one thing I found interesting about the recent weeks is my adaption I made after only four years.

From almost no contact to a constant connection to people and back is suddenly is jarring. This 'Rick' isn't helping either because I tried to talk to him to get my communication hours in but... God. It's sad.

I sigh and kick the bucket at my feet, the sad trickle of water that is being pushed into the bucket was slow and agonizing to watch.

Since when I came back I've tried to fill as many buckets I can with water for the time I could before the power went out.

Little did I fucking know, even when the power went out we still had water but I guess whatever that was pushing that is almost out due to this weak piss stream.

I can only hope Rick is going to wake up soon so he can help me with all of this 'surviving' shit.

Not like he's helped me so far. I tricked those things into a room and chained them. I've sneaked around with guts hanging off me like Cinco de Mayo bead necklaces just to get his damned IV bags so he can stay hydrated while he stays in his fucking coma.

But I shouldn't get mad at him, it's not his fault he's in this hospital, its whoever shot him. This useless bastard named Rick. Mama would help him if she was here.

The man has a name, Luce. I smile at what she'd lecture me every time I come in as an intern. Every person has a name so before you say their disorder, you say their name.

Rick who is in a coma, isn't helping me.

"That vase- that's something special. 'Fess up. You steal it from your grandma Jeans house?" He laughs slightly.

I shoot around the doorway and stare, how could I not see this coming? Where were the signs of waking? Fuck it, too late.

I rush past his bed and click the lock, he's going to freak, but I have spent so much time on this bastard so I refuse to let him kill himself.

"I hope you left her that spoon collection" He laughs more but it quickly turns into coughs.

I sigh and place my 'I'm a nice person' face on and place a softly hand on his back, pushing back my muscles tension as my hair bristles on my arms as he grabs it in support.