𝙈𝙚𝙣𝙖𝙘𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙈𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙨 || ᵈᵃʳʸˡ ᵈⁱˣᵒⁿ

i

|[part one]|
-҉

LIFE... Life had always been a complex tapestry woven with threads of pain, sorrow, contemplation, love, anxiety, and the inevitability of death. Reflecting on the recent chapters of your existence, memories surfaced of countless nights spent in the solitude of your bed, engulfed in a tumult of emotions, oscillating between feeling everything intensely and numbly nothing at all. Of late, the scale had tipped decidedly towards 'everything,' with a profound sense of isolation gnawing relentlessly at your heart—a feeling that had become all too familiar, yet more intense than ever before.

In the years leading up to this moment, solitude had been a constant companion, even before the world plunged into chaos with the return of lost souls, hell-bent on haunting the living. Your recollections of the world as it once was had grown dim; perhaps you hadn't cherished those moments enough, moments you'd now sacrifice your last provisions to witness just once more. The vibrant allure of New York City under the cover of night, its lights a beacon of human achievement and hope, now felt like a distant dream, replaced by the stark reality of navigating through forests or streets strewn with the remnants of civilization and its undead inhabitants.

Amidst a sea of regrets and missteps, the decision to leave your settlement was not one you questioned. The settlement, for all its promise of safety and community, had become a prison of endless disputes and a battleground for dominance where no one ever truly emerged victorious. Fueled by a deep-seated loathing and an insatiable desire for something beyond the petty squabbles, you ventured out into the unknown with little more than your resolve, a pair of firearms, a collection of knives, and a modest supply of food.

The solitude you faced now was not born from the absence of company or conversation; it was the deafening silence that enveloped you—a silence you had once longed for in a moment of desperation, praying into the void for respite from the incessant noise of humanity struggling against itself. Yet, this wish fulfilled brought no peace, only a deepening chasm of loneliness that made the existence of the living dead seem almost enviable in their singular, uncomplicated purpose.

As hunger gnawed at you once more, a stark reminder of your dwindling supplies, you were faced with the undeniable necessity of venturing out in search of sustenance. Your tenure in the settlement, where roles were arbitrarily assigned without regard to skill or preference, had ill-prepared you for the reality of survival beyond its confines. Despite your lack of experience as a scout and a past life sustained by the simplest of convenience foods, the urgency of your situation left no room for hesitation.

With resolve steeling your heart, you acknowledged the journey ahead—a quest not just for physical nourishment, but for a reconnection with the essence of living, beyond mere survival. The path was uncertain, fraught with unseen dangers and the shadows of a world lost to calamity, yet it was a path you chose with the hope of discovering not just the means to endure, but to thrive amidst the ruins of a world reborn from its ashes.

In hindsight, the role of a scout would have suited you perfectly. Not only were you an exceptional marksman, but you had also navigated the ghoul-infested streets with a level of ease and familiarity long before you ever considered joining the settlement. In preparation for your departure, you discreetly gathered intelligence from various scouts, gleaning insights on the safest routes and resource-rich areas. Your decision to head west, avoiding the dangers that lay to the east, was informed by these clandestine consultations. Departing under the cover of night with your backpack loaded, you violated the settlement's strict departure protocol, which dictated leaving empty-handed, a rule you found both cruel and impractical.

Your immediate goal was clear: to locate a few abandoned houses or, with luck, a town ripe for scavenging. With a makeshift weapon-cum-walking stick in hand, you opted for the road's edge, where the terrain was more forgiving, allowing for longer, less fatiguing travel. This strategy seemed wise until the sudden roar of a motorcycle engine sent your heart racing, and a hasty retreat turned into a clumsy fall. The ground met your body with an unceremonious thud, leaving you lying there, momentarily defeated, gazing up at the sky through the canopy. After a string of muttered curses and a brief struggle, you were back on your feet, weapon in hand, though the motorcyclist seemed to have passed by unaware of your presence.