SO I WILL NOT ASK YOU
WHY YOU WERE CREEPING
IN SOME SAD WAY, I ALREADY KNOW
Growing up, I read so many books that I no longer felt as if the world I lived in was real; nobody I had ever met felt as real as those I read about in my books. That was un...
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Micheal Pelletier The Neighborhood
Micheal knew his plan.
After he left Carl's room last night, he sat on the front porch for hours. He didn't want to go back to his tent, he couldn't face Richard; not after knowing he truly blamed him for Sophia. So he came up with a plan, he thought about it all night long; weighing out the pros and cons, going over every possible risk or scenario. Morning came and he had finally made his decision to take it into his own hands and look for Sophia himself.
He was going to find her and bring her home.
Micheal walked down the road; his headphones on and his pocket knife in his hands. He's been walking for about an hour now; he wonders if anyone's even noticed he was gone. The end of the street curved west, leading into town; Micheal stood behind the railing, looking out at the neighborhood across the large.
The boy sucked in a deep breath of air, the music blasting over his headphones. He placed his hand on the railing, hopping over and continuing his venture towards the neighborhood. Everything in his body screamed at him to turn back and walk away, but he pushed past it and kept going.
He needed to grow up— he needed to do something, anything.
He needed his sister back.
All the houses looked somewhat the same; huge homes with white paneling and lots of windows, big green yards and white picket fences. It was odd, the whole neighborhood seemed almost untouched; the only off putting thing were the abandoned cars on the streets.
Micheal pulled out his headphones; scanning the area from the end of the road, eyes peeled for any movement.
Nothing— no walkers, no people, nothing.
It was unsettlingly quiet.
Micheal slowly made his way to the closest house on his left, crouching in front of its white picket fence. The front door was wide open, giving him a clear view of the inside hallway.
Nothing.
He slowly crept forward, his knife in his hand. Micheal should've been scared, he knew that, but for some reason he couldn't find it in him. Once you start becoming afraid of the things you could do, you stop being scared of the things that hurt you— Micheal wasn't afraid to die, not anymore.
The boy poked his head inside, looking around for any walkers.
The home was seemingly untouched, pictures were still up on the walls, the furniture was still intact. It wasn't even dirty, only dusty. Micheal breathed slowly, moving further into the home, his back pressed against the wall. He moved towards the kitchen door, peering in.
