"Never deprive someone of hope; it might be all they have."
***
Two Years Later
Skylar.
I've been alone for a very long time—or at least what feels like a long time. I'm starting to believe that I am the only survivor in this godforsaken world because I haven't interacted with another living human being since the last time I saw Carl. At this point, he is likely dead.
I can't remember exactly when, but I found my dad roaming the city. He was dead, by the looks. He had been for a while, and the only thing in his pocket was an empty flask. As soon as he saw me, he'd stumbled towards me, arms reaching out and grasping for me, soft growls escaping his undead lips. I had easily stabbed him, feeling no remorse whatsoever. My father was dead, but the memory still lingered like a scar.
"Sweetheart, would you get me a beer?" Dad yelled from the living room.
"I-I think you should stop drinking for tonight," I had said to him, nervous to hear the answer. He could be an angry man, especially when it came to his alcohol problem.
"What did you say?" He asked harshly as he began moving towards me with heavy feet.
"N-nothing, dad. Never mind," I stuttered, backing out of the kitchen, afraid of what he might have done to me if I'd challenged him any more than I already had.
"You do not tell me what to do! Understand?" He screamed, grabbing my shoulders and shoving me against the wall.
I whimpered; my lips quivered as tears pooled in my fearful eyes.
"I'm sorry, dad. I'll go to my room," I spoke, barely above a whisper.
"I don't think you are, though," he muttered.
I knew something was going to happen, but I didn't know what. And that, somehow, was scarier than his usual, predictable behaviour.
Then, I felt a searing pain on the skin of my stomach, and it only lasted a few seconds and grew every time he moved his hand. Letting out a pained scream, my father let go of my shoulders, and I dropped to my knees.
"Now, go to your room," he spat before grabbing a beer and returning to the living room.
He felt no remorse for putting me through that pain. I still didn't know what had caused the burning sensation, but I had an idea.
He burned me with his lighter. He held the large flame up to my abdomen. He enjoyed hurting me, and he wanted me to feel the pain that my mother had once felt.
I took one last look at the massive scar diagonally from my belly button and dropped my shirt. Thank God, the bastard who left it on my skin is dead.
After I hid in that tiny closet in my house all those years ago, I finally wiped the tears from my eyes and emerged from them. I don't know where that sudden courage came from, but I'm happy I found it. I stayed in my house for days, afterwards, maybe even weeks. I remember that I didn't leave until my food ran out. My only weapon was a kitchen knife.
I taught myself most of what I know. I use a knife for close range, and for long range, I use a gun. It took me a long time to learn how to use it, but I finally figured it out. Reading also helped me as I had read about guns, knives, and survival.
I'm around fourteen now, and I've been living in an old log cabin. I've lost track of time, but it isn't that important to me anymore. Time doesn't matter when you're all you've got.
My schedule consists of going out once a week to raid whatever building or vehicle I can find; I eat and drink minimally, so I can preserve what I have, and I don't sleep very much. Sleeping means turning my back on the world outside this little haven, which could be deadly.
Where I live has been on lockdown. Nothing comes in or out without my say-so. I'm off on a run now since I don't have many supplies left, so I went into the closest town and scavenged. That's how it always goes.
I first stopped at an old target. Luckily, I banged on the door, and only one walker came up to greet me. I quickly shoved my knife through its decayed skull, causing blood to splatter on my already dirtied face and clothes. No sense in being clean, I have no one to impress, and I no longer see the point in looking nice after all of this.
I then proceeded to walk into the store cautiously. I discovered that most of the store had been picked over as I looked around. I tried to find anything useful, only ending up with stale crackers, a couple of cans of beans and peaches, and some water, among other miscellaneous things.
Then, something caught my eye. A reflection spread across my face, temporarily flashing into my eyes. I walked towards the mirror, which the sun reflected off, and studied it. Picking it up, I used my hand to wipe the dirt from it, and I was met with the image of a girl.
Due to the dried blood and dirt, the girl had long blonde matted hair, primarily brown. Her face wasn't its usual porcelain white but tan due to all the time spent under the hot Georgia sun. Her skin was caked with dirt and blood. The only thing able to wash away the grime was the sweat; under her eyes were streaks left by tears.
I often cried, even though I'd never admitted it. I cried about the Grimes family, how I'm alone now and how this world went to shit. I was so lonely and missed my friend Carl. Thinking of him made me tear up, but I always try hard to fight it.
This time it was no use. With tears slipping from my eyes, I slid to the floor and held my face in my hands. My body racked with sobs, just letting it all out.
Wiping my eyes and sighing heavily, I pulled myself up and dropped the mirror to the ground, letting it shatter into a million jagged pieces. I left the store and found my way home, munching on a can of peaches.
I often think to myself, why am I still here? What do I have left to live for? Everyone I've ever loved is either a walking corpse or crazy. What am I fighting for? I like to think that I'm fighting for my mother. She was so strong, and she was so brave.
In the morning, I woke up and went to my bag to get what was left of my food. Once I ate, I went downstairs and heard something in the next room. Did I forget to lock the door? Oh God, I hope I remembered to lock the damn door.
I slowly slid out my gun and loaded it, and the sound got closer. I then felt the barrel of a gun on my back.
I slowly turned around, careful not to get shot, and saw those beautiful blue eyes I had missed so much.
"Carl..."
He was now taller, his shoulders were broader, and his dark hair was almost to his shoulders, but I knew it was him.
I always remembered those impossible to miss blue eyes.
He dropped his gun, and I ran into his arms.
"I'm so sorry," he kept repeating, whispering it into my hair as he held my body against his.
I just hugged him tighter, happy to have him back.