Survival From Walking Dead

ch : 7

Marsia Valerius

I stood there, the sun casting a warm glow on my face, while my driver occupied the seat behind the wheel. The car hummed with anticipation, much like my friends Rackel and Zoya, who were chattering away beside me. We were about to embark on a tour-a break from our usual study routines-and the excitement was palpable.

Zoya, always the spirited one, exclaimed, "Finally, something other than textbooks! I'm so thrilled for this tour!" Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and I couldn't help but share her feelings.

"I'm too," I replied, nodding vigorously. "But here's the catch-I have no idea what to pack in terms of clothes."

Rackel my friend , chimed in, "You're absolutely right, bitch. It's like clothes vanish into thin air when we need them the most."

Zoya leaned closer, her expression conspiratorial. "Listen, it's not that we lack clothes. It's just that we lack the *right* clothes for right moments." She raised an eyebrow, waiting for our comprehension.

I exchanged glances with Rackel. "Did you get that?" I asked, grinning.

Rackel scratched her head. "Uh, no?"

"Yes!" I declared, playing along. "It's not about having clothes; it's about having the *exact* clothes for the occasion." I gestured dramatically. "Like, where are my 'Spontaneous Road Trip' jeans? Or my 'Impromptu Picnic' sundress?"

Zoya nodded, her eyes wide. "Exactly! And don't even get me started on the elusive 'Unexpected Adventure' hoodie."

Rackel squinted at us. "Wait, are these real categories?"

Zoya flicked Rackel's head playfully. "Of course not! But they should be. Imagine a clothing store with sections labeled 'Last-Minute Beach Getaway' or 'Random Midnight Stroll.'"

We burst into laughter, the absurdity of it all hitting us. The car's interior echoed with our mirth, and even the driver shot us a curious glance.

"But seriously," I said, wiping tears from my eyes, "we need a fashion emergency kit. Emergency sunglasses, emergency scarves, and-"

"-emergency mismatched socks!" Zoya finished, her laughter contagious.

Rackel leaned back, shaking her head. "Ladies, we're onto something here. Let's patent the concept and become millionaires."

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Hazel pov

As I stepped out of the school gates, my backpack slung over my shoulder, I couldn't help but glance at my friend Ahvi. She had that look-the one that said, "My life is a soap opera, and I'm the star."

"So," I said, raising an eyebrow, "your father didn't say anything?"

Ahvi sighed, her eyes narrowing. "That's the problem, Hazel. He never says anything to that woman."

Ah, yes. Ahvi's father's second wife. The one who treated Ahvi like a malfunctioning robot. But here's the kicker: Ahvi's father never uttered a word of reproach to the wicked stepmother. Not one. Nada. Zilch.

"You know," I said, leaning in, "your father's a piece of shit."

Ahvi's eyes widened. "Hazel! Language!"

I waved her off. "Seriously, Ahvi. How the hell did he become a father? He just spat you out into the world and left you to fend for yourself. The man needs therapy. Or maybe a swift punch to the face."