CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: CATASTROPHIC
❝This is the song I only sing when you're sleeping. These are the words I say when you can't hear me. This is the way I look when you can't see me. And you will never know.❞
❝She didn't do those things because she felt sorry for herself or because she wanted attention. No. She only did them to feel the satisfaction of watching something crumble in front of her blurred vision. Something she did. Something she could actually control. ❞
➳
THE SUN HUNG LOW IN THE SKY, hiding beneath wisps of clouds as it expands it's light lazily across the neighboring trees. Strangely enough, the air was a hot-humid temperature, thick and claustrophobic in the outside air. It almost seemed as if nature was rebelling, for the trees winked light browns and dark reds with every breeze that fluttered by, the obvious signs of Autumn taking its toll.
Milah hadn't realized how much time she had taken inside the small, broken down building. When she had first entered, the sun dangled boringly in the mid-afternoon sky. Now, as she peered through the hazy light of dusk to gaze at the shadowing sign tilted unceremoniously above the broken glass front door, she could feel the familiar aching pain of guilt rooting itself throughout her stomach. It was silly and stupid of her to feel guilty, that she was sure of. For it wasn't her fault that the past three pharmacies she had looted lacked the amount of medication she desired. But no matter what, through the guilt and pain, she needed to figure out a way to make things better before they got any worse.
The girl had broken down inside of this crumbling building. That's what had taken up most of her time. When the medication didn't just suddenly appear in front of her and make everything okay again, she collapsed. She screamed. She cried. She threw everything in arm's reach against the barren walls, adding on to the vast amount of glass and junk that littered the vinyl flooring. She didn't do those things because she felt sorry for herself or because she wanted attention. No. She only did them to feel the satisfaction of watching something crumble in front of her blurred vision. Something she did. Something she could actually control. Because she had no other alternative but to stop lying to herself. After all of this time, she had to give up. For this was her last chance, and she blew it.
Painfully, Milah took one last glance at the crumbling sign, watching as fragments of dust and debris fall away to the push of the gentle breeze. Throughout it all, she had yet to feel the loss of hope in her chest. For she still had her dad to go back to. And with him, she had to be strong. She had to pretend. She had to plaster a smile on her covered up face and pretend that everything was okay. Because everything needed to be okay. And without hope, nothing would ever get better. She had to trust that, for what other choice did she have?
With one shaky footstep forward, Milah began her long journey back towards her temporary settlement, the empty bag on her back taunting her with each and every bump and crack along the road. With her left hand clenched and her right hand resting lazily upon the sheath of her newfound knife, most onlookers would believe that she was just a scared, small, defenseless little girl who didn't know what to do with such a weapon attached to her waist. But as you must already know, that wasn't nearly close to the truth. Sure, she barely had gotten any practice with the sharp blade clinging desperately onto her midsection, but that didn't mean that she wasn't dangerous with it.
But there were no onlookers. There never was. But was that necessarily a bad thing? Unless you counted the Risen, nothing ever bothered her. Even now, on the dusty road that she walked, there was barely even a trickle of these rotting corpses; meager enough to not place anxiety into the young girl's mind.
To you, it may seem idiotic and naive of the girl to not pay any attention to the dangerous, sick monsters. But it made perfect sense to her. For what was there to watch for? If they were to attack her, nobody would care, including herself. So what was the point in worrying?
As Milah walked on this cracked, asphalt road, she couldn't help but think about how far her father was getting on his slow journey towards his inevitable death. That was the whole reason she was out here, after all.
He was dying and she couldn't do anything to stop it.
At first, when they both had realized that something wasn't right with her father's health, it was just a simple cough. Barely even a runny nose. Nothing to worry about; so they stayed at peace with themselves and continued on with their journey to Atlanta. But the quiet didn't last long. As the days continued and time progressed, the more it gradually became worse. Fainting spells, high fevers, gravelly lungs, blood hungry coughs, everything and anything seemed to rain down on the adult that Milah cared deeply for. Yet she stayed perfectly healthy. And she hated herself for it.
But that didn't stop her from trying. She turned her hate into a fuel for her thoughts, waiting until her father lost himself in a restless sleep before she ventured out to look for supplies. She would search for pharmacies, rifle through abandoned drawers, even go as far as to travel to the nearest house and destroy memory filled rooms in the process of her search. But today was different. She had no doubt that by the time she got back to the site, he would be wide awake and coughing, using the little amount of energy that he had left to scold her for wandering so far in search of his medication.
What exactly could "fix" her father? She could barely think of the possible titles of sickness's that her father could have, much less know the right amount of medication that he needed. Could it have been bad meat? Could he have gotten scratched by a rogue walker? Or could it just be karma circling around and coming back to bite them for all the lives they had taken? Even though she wasn't one to believe in such things, at this point, Milah would blame the sickness on anything if it meant that she could somehow find a miraculous cure for it.
But instead, she walked. She walked with her head lost in these saddening thoughts and her heart trapped in a steel cage. For she wouldn't allow herself to lose the battle of emotions once again. She wouldn't let herself break like her mother did. She would never allow herself to break as bad as that.
Never.
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(A/N: I'm not even halfway through this chapter and I really need to finish it tonight but I've had a fever for the past three days and I've currently made the wrong decision to take some drowsy medication that makes my head and nose feel a whole bunch better but now I wanna die because i can't make this chapter right afneuohfioewajf)
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The moon was barely grazing the edges of a nearby meadow by the time Milah reached the wide open pasture leading into the abandoned neighborhood. At this point, her knife had a thin coat of undead blood on it and her feet ached from the nonstop walking she did to get here, but the same amount of guilt still held strong inside of her stomach.
Marching along with the cricket's lullaby, the young girl weaved her way through the maze of daisies and wildflowers, her eyes scanning every-which-way, trying to grasp a sense of security in this still wonderland. It almost felt like a dream as she walked; the calm before the storm. With the soothing breeze caressing her cheek softly, and the light fragrance of dew on the blades of grass, she could almost feel every single one of her muscles relaxing in this moonlit paradise. Any normal person would stop and let themselves get lost in the unfamiliar taste of relaxation in this stress-inducing world. But instead, this stiff, exhausted, young girl continued to stomp through the beauty of it all as her imprisoned heart weighed her down with each chirp of a cricket.
Gradually, the somewhat familiar shape of the moonlit home she and her father had been claiming as theirs for a while now began to peak up from behind a low-hanging hill, the black shingles now shining a fluorescent silver in the daring moonlight. The more she came closer, the more her heart begged her to stop and turn around. It wanted her to run away like a coward. Just because she didn't want to face the ashen pale mask of her father. She didn't want to see his own blood running down his hands and his sweat lined forehead. She didn't want to have to lie to him again. Especially now, when there was no other choice but to lie because there was no other way to get him to feel better. Not anymore.
So, fighting her heart, Milah dragged her heavy feet to the front door and let her numb fingers pry open the chipped entryway, the sound of its hinges protesting barely registering in her ears as she fumbled with the straps of her bag. Lowering the pack, she places its bottom on the corner of the sturdy dining table, only having to rifle through it for a few moments before gently pulling out a sliver of red cloth, the fabric string-bare and ratty as she held it up to the moon's light. It was all she had for now, but she would have to make it work to keep herself safe.
Slowly, she takes the corners of the cloth and slips it behind her ears, tying it together in a simple knot against the back of her head. The sickness her father had was bound to be contagious. She was only doing what was necessary to be able to keep him going. She had no other choice...
Pushing herself away from the stray backpack, Milah's trembling feet walk towards the dark wooden door, the guilt in her stomach worse than ever as she eyes the brass doorknob. Before she can even manage to take three steps, the girl is forced to stop midwalk as the familiar sound of her father's aching coughs resonates throughout her tired ears. Of course. She had called it earlier. He was awake, either waiting for her to come home or delaying the inevitable coughing fit that was bound to happen at some point tonight. All she had to do was walk through that door and greet him like nothing was wrong.
"M-Milah," her heart froze in her chest as the sound of her father's voice reaches her ears between his rattling coughs, "M-Milah, just come in already." The man paused to cough once more, and even though she couldn't see him, Milah could already imagine the slick layer of blood dripping through his hands, "I know you're out there. And I know- I know why you left too. Just come in here so we can have a chat."
Biting her lip beneath the old cloth, Milah does as she's told, hesitantly cracking open the splintered wood door with her careful, calloused hands. At first, she looked at everything in the room but her father. But the more his eyes burned into the side of her face, the more she couldn't resist turning her head to look at him directly in those bloodshot dark eyes of his.
She couldn't stop the involuntary gasp that caught in her throat as the air from her lungs slipped between her chapped lips, her hand slipping from the brass doorknob as the entryway opened fully, allowing her small body to walk even farther into the room. It almost seemed as if time had caught up with the older man. All throughout the young girl's life, she always thought her father looked young for his age. But now, every single year that he had on him seemed to be mapped out in the cracks and crevices of his face. Wherever there wasn't sweat, there was blood. On his hands, on the once pure white bed sheets, layered on the low hanging mattress, it looked as if something had already died instead of someone on their way towards death.
Slowly, her father extends a stained red hand, his index and middle finger beckoning her over to to the empty spot beside his bed. Silent to the picture in front of her, Milah does as she's told, slipping between the empty cans and medicine bottles lining the wooden floors. Slipping her hand into his, the girl allows a light smile to play on her lips, squeezing his fingers between her own as she kneels beside the low bed-frame.
"Hi there, stranger." She whispers, her voice muffled through the loose cloth dangling from her ears. "Have you eaten yet?"
Shaking his head, her father sighs, tearing his gaze away from hers to look at the ceiling instead. "Milah, that doesn't matter anymore. Don't be stupid."
The smile slipped from her lips quickly, the little light that flared in her chest fading quickly as she let her father's ragged breathing fill the everlasting silence. It was hard to portray someone who had hope in front of a person who had so little. But it was even harder to lie to someone who was smart enough to avoid such false statements. There was no way to convince her father that he had a chance of living. He wouldn't believe her anyway.
"Milah." The way he said her name, the amount of defeat and exhaustion he had layered in his voice, it was like water to the flame of hope she had been trying to carefully keep alive in her chest for the long while she had been living. "I need you to understand that-"
Snatching her hand out of his loose grip, the girl abruptly stands up from her kneeling position, pushing away from the bed-ridden father to scan the room amongst the layers of cans and bottles.
"I might as well be useful," she interrupts, walking over to a small pile of cans in the corner of the room and rifling through the labels, "have a certain something in mind for dinner?"
"No, Milah, please you really need to liste-"
"There are peaches.....beans....sausages....spaghetti-o's-"
"Milah! Listen to me!"
"And then what!?" She cried, throwing down the small can of peaches she had in her hand to glare at her father, "And then what, dad? You're going to tell me that you're dying. I'm going to tell you that you're wrong. You're going to be so fucking stubborn to the point where you waste all of the energy you have and I'm going to hate myself for it. Is that what you really want?"
Nothing answered Milah except for the faded sound of crickets chirping, their once melodic tune now a shrill cry to the girl's ears as they echo through the glass pane window. Anger turned her cheeks and ears red as she tore her eyes away from her father and back to the cans of food, pushing the jar of peaches to the back of the pile as her eyes dull, never actually reading the faded colored labels printed on the tins as she shuffles them.
"I want you to leave."
Blinking sharply, she glared at her father with hooded vision, watching as he adjusted his upper body so that he could look at her kneeling figure with better eyes.
"From this point on, you're going to listen to me fully. No interruptions and no acceptions to what I have to say," Grabbing the corner of the bed sheet, the man coughs repeatedly into the fabric, interrupting his speech with deep watery splutters of blood onto the once pale sheets.
At the sound of his coughs, the girl immediately pushes herself off of the floor and away from the pile, only to be stopped by her father's outstretched hand as his coughing slowly began to cease.
"Now.." he graveled, slowly pulling the bedsheet away from his mouth, "as I was saying. I want you to leave. And you have no other choice because it's basic common sense.
I'm dying, Little Duck. I'm dying and you and I both know that there is nothing we can do about it. The medication you've found isn't working on me, and I know you can't find anything better. So what's the point in waiting for the inevitable? I know you don't want to admit it but sooner or later you're going to have to learn to live and survive on your own..."
"Dad, no, that's not true. We have options! We can continue looking, maybe even try and move to a different house just so you can get a taste of fresh air-"
"Please....Just stop," Gradually, the man sunk back into the flat pillows, allowing his eyes to look at the glass window beside his head instead of the young girl- a little girl in his eyes- crumbling to her knees in front of him. "For once in your life, can you actually listen to directions and leave me be?"
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It was on the girl's second day and third hour of being alone when she heard the gunshots, ominous and rapid as they echoed through the bone-chilling silence of noon. At first, she only believed it to be a figment of her imagination, for everything she did was surrounded by the impossible thought of finding help for the sick man across the road from the house she had hidden herself in, and what better way for her brain to play around with her emotions than to trick her into believing that there were others close by. But when she heard the sound again, she knew something was wrong and it wasn't just her corrupted brain toying with her. With knife in hand and light feet retracing old footprints, the girl tried her best to move quickly in case the shots actually meant something, for they were too muffled and faded to be able to tell how far off or close they were.
Through the small slivers of window that weren't boarded up, she couldn't see anything off or different about the house she left. It was just the same as it has been, so there was no reason to worry. But still, anxiety continued to bubble throughout her stomach, rising as bile inside her throat as she pushes herself through the front door and out into the open roadway. Without another gunshot ringing through the air, the open sky was thick and menacing as Milah braced herself against the harsh wind and small drizzle of rain splattering onto the fabric of her clothes. The sight of the usual house, standing tall and looming dark shadows onto the browning grass, pinched at her skin and begged for her to walk faster, but she couldn't be the one to overreact. She was just at this house last night, watching as her father slept with uneven breaths and the same amount of cans piled in the corner of the room. He was perfectly fine then, so he should be perfectly fine now.
It took three beatings against her shoulder to get the front door open, her hair, now wet, sticking to her face and neck, gradually making its way down her body and dripping rainwater onto the linoleum flooring.
Leveling her knife parallel to the floor in front of her chest, Milah begins to walk deeper into the house, waiting for the sound of footsteps or voices or any sort of sign regarding human communication. But instead, her ears only met the sound of light rain pattering against the edges of the settling house and the floorboards creaking beneath her pressured feet. She couldn't even hear the sound of her father's usual gravely breathing.
"Dad?" The young girl called, her voice bouncing against each and every wall in the lower level, "You okay in there?"
Without waiting for a response, she rushed over to the white doorway, shut tightly for outsiders such as herself.