THE KIDS AREN'T ALRIGHT carl grimes

ⁱ. ᴏɴᴇ

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇ.
[〝 ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ʟᴀsᴛs ғᴏʀᴇᴠᴇʀ〞]
—

WHEN THE INEVITABLE struck, an endless circle of death and destruction created by human kind's hand, we were unprepared. It was stupid, really. My uncle spent so much time practicing with that metal piece of shit he called 'protection', and yet, he was the first of us to die. Bunched up in a stuffy house, no sense of purpose. I'd become dulled to the simple emotions one was typically weakened by. Perhaps that was why I was still alive. Guess that's what happens when you spend most of your developmental years fighting for your life.

I made my way through the woods, covered in blood and dirt and who knows what else, making sure to steer clear of any noise that wasn't the light crunch of fallen leaves under my feet. I'd gone too long without the simple necessities of life. My aunt had been carrying the supplies, before she made a mistake that nearly cost me my life, instead paying with her own.

The tranquility of the forest would have calmed me before the apocalypse, but now it was a steady reminder of how close death and I had become. There were no birds, no incessant chattering from my aunt. Even my once loud breathing and clumsy steps had dwindled into silence.

The silence left me with not only caution, but the slow feeling of insanity creeping up my spine and into my soul. The closer I teetered over the edge, the more comfort I felt.

Nothing lasts forever, though, and the silence was soon destroyed by the crumpling of leaves. My head whipped to the right, catching the smallest glimpse of movement. A figure disappeared behind a large tree. My fingers wrapped around a small knife, hidden in my pocket. I pulled it from it's hiding place, readying myself to throw it. Creeping up behind the diseased monster, I chunked the knife at its head.

It met it's target with a crunch. The thing swayed for a moment before crashing into the forest floor. I quickly rummage through its pocket, finding only a small hunting knife. Sighing, I placed it into my waist band, concealing it with my shirt. It might come in hand next time I caught real game.

I decided it'd be a fairly decent idea to change areas before it's friends made an appearance. Or before I starved to death. It must have been days since my aunt's death, days since I last ate. I couldn't survive much longer on the energy I was pushing now. I needed to replenish myself, lest I come upon a more pressing situation.

As dusk threatened to arise, I came upon an isolated cabin. Naturally, my weariness surfaced at the sight of the shelter, but as night crept upon me, and no other signs of civilization in sight, I decided to take my chance. Gripping a set of throwing knives in my fist, I prepared to protect myself.

Kicking the door open, I was met with a vicious cloud of dust that insnared my sinuses and forced a cough from me. Tapping my knife against the door frame, I heard nothing. No groans or shuffles, only the tapping of metal against wood. 

I took a tentative step inside. The wood creaked under my weight. Fortunately, that meant I would be able to hear any movements made. Weary of the old wood, I took a few steps to the middle of the room. The cabin was mostly bare, only a few drawers pushed along the side and ratty couch covered in unknown stains. It seemed if anything had been here before, it'd already been found.

I started towards the drawers, hoping to find anything consumable. Pulling on the rusted handles, the drawer shook, but refused to open. I pulled a bit harder and finally, the rusted locks broke and the drawer flew out.

Looking inside, I found only a small, black pistol. Inspecting it, I pulled the magazine out; it had only ten rounds. "Really?" I complained to myself. All that work for a few shots, which would likely be wasted by my shitting shooting. Uncle John didn't bother teaching anyone else how to handle a gun, claiming he could protect us on his own. Lot of good that did. Tucking it into the waistband of my jeans, I decided to save it for worst-case scenarios.

Checking the drawer below, I found a thin sheet. I collapsed onto the couch, ignoring the stains. They couldn't be worse than what covered my shirt. I used my arm as a makeshift pillow. The sheet provided little warmth, so I pulled my jacket closer to my body. I turned onto my back, starring at the ceiling.

When had I become so numb to emotions? I couldn't even remember the last time I felt anything other than anger. The only recollection of sadness I have was the day I found my mother. I had merely been a child, then. Full of innocence and hope. Now, I was a murderer. I'd sacrificed so many for my own life, yet, even now, I couldn't force myself to care. I could die right now without a single worrisome thought on my twisted mind. The only reason I was still alive was because I was too prideful to die at the hands of anyone other than my own, and I'd yet to find a reason to end everything.

I turned over once more, trying to find comfort in the scratchy couch. I laid in silence for a few moments, before rolling off the couch and resting on the floor. Though it was cold and much harder, it provided much more normal comfort than the couch. As I stared at the ceiling, I found myself falling into the deep abyss of unconsciousness.