WASTELAND, BABY!

three ; A EASEL OF AGGRESSION

"If I didn't think, I'd be much happier."

PRIMROSE THINKS IN pictures. An easel in her head, large and blank, with a paint brush in her hand, and strokes lines of orange and yellow, she thinks of drawings instead of words. A splash of red there, a pile of green here, a stagger of brown below. It's how she's always thought of things.

     When she took her first pregnancy test, her brain muddled in color. There was nothing vibrant. There was no color to be excited for. Her head was grey and bleak. Primrose was only twenty-years-old and going to school. She, by all means, was not ready to become a mother.

      Then, the check-up came. The chair was cold and made of beige leather. The white paper crinkled underneath her and she ripped it on the left side. She listened to the ultrasound tech, pulling up her purple shirt so the lady could squeeze the cool gel on her small, protruding stomach. The wand glided across her skin and Primrose held her breath.

     Boom, boom, boom.

     She heard that first.

     Boom, boom, boom.

     The tech is smiling at her so hard, Primrose was worried that her face would break.

     Boom, boom, boom.

     Primrose had come into that appointment with a single question in mind: what are my options? But, the heartbeat. The first thing she could sense made it real. Her brain flooded with color. Her heart filled with joy. That day, Primrose left the doctor's office in tears and with some prenatal vitamins, a slew of black and white pictures of a raspberry-sized being, and pictures full of color in her head. 

     Now, it's been a few hours since Sam has left. She can't help but think of him in chewed-up pieces, blood and brain matter mixed together on the dirty, deserted roads of Atlanta. She thinks of the walkers devouring everyone else that had gone on the rescue for Merle, dead and eaten. She sees blood-red in every corner of her brain.