Malevolent. The Walking Dead

[ 022 ] let them be ghosts

022: let them be ghosts

Joey felt poorly for the rest of the night—almost as if someone had poisoned her water and she was trying to nurse her stomach back to health. She wasn't sure if she had gotten her period, or, perhaps, she was just sick. Carl had told her about a virus that passed through their group when they were living at the prison. It killed people because they didn't have the proper antibiotics. Joey wondered if she would die from being sick, and not bitten, or killed. She thought it would be pathetic to die from being sick in a world like this. She wasn't sure why she was constantly thinking about death—however, Joey couldn't blame herself. Death was around every corner.

Joey got up from her makeshift bed on the ground, and realized it was the middle of the night. So she pushed her way out of the garage and made herself throw up in the bushes. It felt like she was cleansing herself of the awful things she thought of when she was out going on the run with Tara and the rest of them. Further, the awful things she thought about when she got home. She felt like she was being cleansed in some way. Joey realized she worked better on her own, but it didn't feel right to leave. She wanted to keep Finn and Bill safe—she also knew they wouldn't let her out to do her own run. She was sixteen years old and had an uncontrollable temper. Joey had survived on her own for long enough but thought she might die. Maybe she'd be able to catch Enid escaping. Maybe she could yell at her to resolve whatever overly jealous, disgusting, sour feeling was residing in her stomach—that's what she puked up.

"You okay?" Joey jumped and turned around, nearly falling down. It was Sasha. Joey furrowed her brows and wiped off the sweat that beaded her forehead. "I'm uh—I'm fine. What are you doing out here?"

"I could ask you the same. You look sick."

Joey scoffed, and wanted to throw up again from the taste in her mouth. "Yeah, well, I just released everything into these bushes. Hopefully Deanna doesn't kick me out," she laughed again, but Sasha's face didn't waver. "It's a joke."

Sasha didn't answer, and for a moment, Joey thought she was imagining this. Her head hurt so she leaned it against the side panels of the house and placed a hand on her stomach. Joey slid down the wall and sat in the grass. Her knees were up to her chest and she sighed out, heavily, and put her head in her hands. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Aren't we all okay?"

Sasha shook her head. Joey realized she had taken down pictures from the house and had her old gun slung over her shoulder. She realized then that Sasha was not okay, either. Nobody was okay, no matter how much they hid it. "Where are you off to?" Joey asked, staring down at the gun that was in Sasha's grasp. It was beginning to feel foreign to not have a gun in her own hands, and Joey closed her fist around nothing. She had the urge to drink alcohol. She wondered if there was any in the house. "I'm uh—I'm going out. To do some stuff."

"Shoot those pictures? Target practice?"

"Maybe."

"Can I come?"

Sasha released another heavy sigh and shook her head, again. Joey wanted to cry and throw up again, but on Sasha this time. "Why not?"

"Because you're a kid—and you need sleep," she tilted her head like she was concerned for her. Joey tried to mimic her expression, because she too was worried about Sasha—and herself. "Nobody is a 'kid' anymore. I've probably had to kill more people than you."

"I didn't realize it was a competition."

Joey continued to cradle her face in her hands as though she were nursing a face injury. For a moment she believed she was. "I think you should go back to sleep." Sasha suggested, releasing a grunt as she adjusted the gun over her shoulder. Joey, for once, did not want to argue. Actually, she wanted to go back to sleep. It was nearing morning and she would have to be up soon anyway. She also felt as though she was going to throw up even more. Joey wandered back inside and curled up in a fetal position on her makeshift bed. Her stomach was cramping and, for a moment, she thought she was dying. She forgot to check whether she was bleeding. Many times she believed that's all she was good for—breathing, killing, and bleeding.