The Truth Of The Matter

He Gives Off Friendly Neighbor Vibes

A/N: yes, as you will see in the prologue below, Doc Anderson only has one arm. There is a reason for this. I wrote her like this simply because that's the truth of the real Doc Anderson's life. I did not invent this person; if you read the description, you will know that I base these stories on as much truth as I can, and Doc actually did lose an arm due to diabetes. No, it's not a plot point. No, you shouldn't take it as such. I won't even mention it that much, because I, as a person with a whole, healthy body, am not qualified to write a story about a disabled person in a way that digs into how she deals with it and how this affects her life and, similarly, her afterlife. It doesn't affect the story at all, so please, take it as a simple fact of this story rather than a singular plot point to focus on. 

TLDR; yes, Doc Anderson is disabled, yes, the actual Doc was disabled in the same way, no, I won't mention it that much because being disabled should not be used as a cheap plot.

Anyways, with that out of the way, enjoy the chapter!

"No . . . no, no, no, NO!"

Doc Anderson tears away from him and kicks out with all her strength, landing a sharp blow onto his rib cage. She can hear him cry out, but there is no time for satisfaction; she grapples with the door and rips it open, stumbling through, swaying so badly her shoulder hits the tin walls.

As she trips and drags herself through the house, coughing and wheezing, tears streaking her grey, drained face, she reflects that it's rather a shame that her house is not bigger. Perhaps she would have a window that she could crawl through, or a basement where the smoke would not reach her.

This is not the case, however.

Her house is a small one, just a shack, really, made of tin and cardboard and anything else she and her husband could find. The shingles are long gone-- they had made them out of bark originally, but food was hard to find, and their animals are hungry enough to eat anything. Apparently, 'anything' includes bark.

She collides with a piece of flat board and cries out, her hand flying to her face. She can smell blood, and it quickly begins to pour out of her nose, staining her hand and her lips a shocking shade of red.

A maniac laugh echoes through the room, and she flinches back, her head twitching up and around to see if he is anywhere near. The cackle bounces off of the tin ceiling and sinks into her ears, clawing at her skin. Ripping her hand off of her nose, she presses her bloody fingers against her ear, streaking her hair with scarlet, and lets out a high-pitched wail.

"Quiet down!" he yells, and a crash accompanies his words. Doc can hear the moment his fist meets the tin walls, rattling them until they almost fall down around him.

"Go away!" she screams in reply, trying to weave her way through the narrow space, trying to get to the door. It seems so close . . . she can see daylight through the narrow slit underneath the door . . . but he's smart. He's put lumber between her and the door. He's moved the couches, he's moved the tables, and he knows she can't move them back.

For the first time, she realises that she had no way of escaping.

She tries not to cry and yet utterly fails, tears escaping her eyes, sobs escaping her lips. She whimpers, trying to climb over the couch, but the tangle of rough, unpolished lumber slices through her skin with hot splinters, raking bloody rivers through her arm and neck.

"Stay right there," he hisses. He sounds frighteningly close.

Doc Anderson is going to die.

She lets out a despairing wail, trying to force her way through the blockade, dragging her hands down the wall of wood. Splinters slice into her skin, digging long, bloody wounds through her palm, her fingernails ripping at the edges.