Clementine x Male reader : We Are Monsters

Chapter 42

Unable to find any kind of mental peace, you left the bed and grabbed the Maverick. You made sure it was loaded, and checked your pockets for ammo. You had around fifteen shells on you, more than enough. You don't plan on shooting anyways, but at least you can feel a little safe. You could have taken your bat, but the stock of the shotgun and your boots will do nicely if you come across any biter that doesn't pose any real threat. You climbed down the stairs, stopped midway, then stayed quiet and listened to any noises - snobs or whatever - that could be leaving the room the girl locked herself in. You didn't hear shit, so you shrugged it off and jumped down the last four stairs with a heavy thud as you felt the shock in your knees and chest.

You made your way through the living room, the kitchen, walked past the door leading to the basement the body of the guy is, then finally passed inside the corridor and opened the front door. A fresh gust of wind reached your nostrils, filled your leather jacket and made the hems clack in the wind. Thanks to the hoodie you weren't cold, but the hair on your forearms didn't feel that way and raised itself as a couple shivers ran up your arms. You got a hold on yourself, thought that being cold is just an information, and climbed down the little deck in front of the porch. 

There's something you wanna do. You noticed that there's a tree next to the driveway, with a bird house hung to a branch you can reach simply by raising your arm. You don't give two shits about the bird house which is slowly swinging in the air, but you do give a shit about the rope that holds it all. Until you find better, you can make some kind of sling for the shotgun. While you were walking on the road earlier, you always had to adjust it between your back and the strap of your backpack as it wasn't holding steady, and you're always forced to choose between taking your bat or your shotgun in case of a fight without any real possibility to switch between those.

You arrived under the tree, and admired for a few seconds the red leaves swinging in the wind in that brushing music, with the pale sky serving as a canvas. You quickly snapped out of it, unsheathed your Bowie knife and started to cut the rope while making sure to leave it as long as possible. Since you had to cut pretty high, you were forced to get on your toes while holding the rope with one hand and cutting with the other. Your T-shirt and hoodie left your jeans, and you grumbled when you felt the cold kiss of the wind on your stomach. You started to cut faster and all of a sudden, all the tension of the rope disappeared and the bird house landed on the grass with a crack. The right wall and half the roof were cracked open, but you didn't care and kicked it away while grabbing the rope.

Five minutes later, back in the living room of the house, you were sitting on a couch while trying to figure out the best length for the sling. When you were satisfied with your measures, you grabbed the Bowie knife and cut it like you wanted - you made sure to leave some margin in case you screw up -, then tied one end around the barrel, pretty close to the iron sight, and the other around the base of the stock so it doesn't bother you if you need to shoot quickly. At first, the sling was too slack for your likings, so you made extra knots at each end of the rope to tense it up until if felt good enough. To be more honest, you wouldn't be able to do any better and even if the rope was a little rough and uncomfortable on your shoulders, it was making its job and you didn't have to bother anymore about the Maverick falling down your back every five steps. You'll regularly have to make sure the knots hold up though, but that won't be a problem until you find some duct tape or such to strengthen it all.

Getting bored, you laid back in the couch with the shotgun across your lap. You sighed while having a nice visual on every little imperfection in the painting of the ceiling, and started tapping the fore end of the Maverick with your left hand while fiddling with the loading port with the right one. Why do you even bother to fight this world anymore ? You're going to die one day no matter how hard you try, and nobody will regret you. Everything is just so fucking sad and hollow... you're not even scared of dying, and if somebody held a gun at your temple you'd probably beg for him to pull the trigger, but... At the same time... if you really wanted to die, you'd have already found a way to make your wish come true. What is it then ? Why do you bother ? Why do you get up every morning to literally take a beating each hour ? Why ? Humans are a resilient species, sure, but there are limits to what any individual can withstand before collapsing. Do you think that this kind of a punishment, a purgatory ? That living in an endless wait for your death without being sure about anything every moment is the kind of torture you deserve ?