true blue , the walking dead

02

MARIS LAWSON

             The liquor burned its way down my throat, a welcome sensation in the midst of this desolate wasteland. It was a lucky find, a fleeting reprieve from the shitstorm that was now my life.

As the warmth spread through my body, I couldn't help but smirk at the irony. Turns out my old man's reliance on booze during tough times wasn't so crazy after all. Who would've thought it'd take the goddamn apocalypse for me to see his point?

I couldn't help but chuckle bitterly as I thought about how much Toby would have chewed me out for giving in to the temptation. We had made a pact, sworn to never touch the stuff. But that was before the undead started roaming the streets and civilization went out.

Fuck it, I thought, taking another swig. It's not like Toby's here to judge me anyway. And who knows, maybe he's out there somewhere, throwing back a bottle of Jack and cursing my name for breaking our promise. At least that would mean he was still alive, which was more than I could say for most people these days.

I lifted the bottle in a mock toast, silently apologizing for breaking our vow. But hell, if there was ever a time when a little liquid courage was justified, it was now.

I took another swig, the taste bittersweet as the memory of my father's final moments resurfaced. He had been drunk when our camp was overrun, his senses dulled by the very poison I now clutched in my hand. Unable to fight off the walkers, he had fallen, consumed by the very nightmare he had strived to protect us from.

And like a goddamn coward, I had fled. I'd left him behind, his desperate cries echoing in my ears as I abandoned him to his fate. But who was I kidding? He would've done the same. His sorry ass would have been halfway to the horizon before even considering the safety of his children.

I scoffed, the taste of the liquor mingling with the bitterness of my guilt. I guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Here I was, drowning my sorrows in alcohol just like he had, wallowing in self-pity while the world crumbled around me.

At least I was keeping the family tradition alive, right? If I was going to die in this hellhole, might as well do it with a drink in hand, just like him.

He hadn't always been a shit father. If I tried hard enough, maybe I would remember a good memory we had. The time he'd taken Toby and me to the amusement park for our ninth birthday had seemed promising—a rare moment of happiness in our tumultuous childhood.

But even that memory was tarnished by his anger, his temper flaring, and forcing us to leave before we'd had our fill of rides and cotton candy. Back home, Toby had tried to salvage the day, constructing a castle of pillows to shield us from our father's drunken stupor downstairs.

Our birthday gift had been a brief reprieve from our father's alcoholism, only for it to rear its ugly head once again. It was like a twisted metaphor for our lives—a promise of joy that always ended in disappointment.

Toby had always been the one to pick up the pieces, to try and make things better when our father failed us.

Now, he was gone too, just like everyone else.

The camp was a place of strict rules and unforgiving expectations. In order to earn the right to stay, everyone had to pull their weight, to contribute something of value to the community. But our father had checked out long ago, lost in his own personal hell, leaving Toby to step up and take his place.

I pleaded with Toby to stay, to not put himself in harm's way, but he was steadfast in his resolve. He understood that someone had to make the runs, to risk their life for the good of the group. So he went, time and time again, while I stayed behind, my heart heavy with worry and fear.

When the camp was attacked, Toby was nowhere to be found. The irony was not lost on me—the very thing that had kept him away might have been the thing that saved his life. But I couldn't stay, couldn't bear to see the destruction and loss that surrounded me.

I left the camp behind, never looking back. Everyone I had known, everyone I had cared for, was gone. And Toby? I didn't know if he had survived or if he had met the same fate as the others.

A wistful smile tugged at my lips as I imagined Toby somewhere warm, the sun on his face, and the sound of waves crashing against the shore. He'd always had a dream of living by the coast, of waking up to the smell of saltwater every day.

I, on the other hand, had never shared that dream. The thought of living by the ocean had never held much appeal for me, but Toby had always teased that he'd drag me there, kicking and screaming if he had to.

In a way, I hoped that's exactly what he'd done. That he'd found his way to the coast and was living out his dream, far away from the horrors that plagued the rest of the world.

In the desolate weeks following my escape from the camp, I wandered through the remains of a world I once knew, lost and alone. It wasn't until I stumbled upon an abandoned car shop that my life took an unexpected turn.

Daryl Dixon and Glenn Rhee found me there, on the brink of death, my body and spirit broken by the weight of the world. From the start, it was clear that they were as different as night and day.

Daryl, with his guarded demeanor and hardened exterior, had eyed me with suspicion, his trust a hard-won prize that I had yet to earn. But Glenn, with his soft-spoken demeanor and gentle nature, saw beyond my rough exterior, recognizing the lost and scared child hidden beneath.

She's just a kid, Glenn had murmured to Daryl, his words a soothing balm to my weary soul.

In Glenn, I had found a reflection of my brother, a beacon of hope and kindness in a world overrun by darkness. His compassion and unwavering determination to help those in need resonated within me, a mirror of the strength and resilience I had once seen in Toby.

They took me to a prison where a huge group of survivors had found refuge, attempting to rebuild some semblance of normalcy amidst the chaos. Though it didn't feel like home, it held a glimmer of hope—a sense that perhaps we could forge a new life in this bleak world.

However, the fragile peace was shattered when a group of other survivors, led by a man with an eye patch, launched an assault on the prison. I didn't know who those attackers were or why they had come, but I knew that sticking around would only get me killed.

As I slipped away, the sounds of gunfire and screams echoing in my ears, I couldn't help but wonder if this was all there was to life now—running, fighting, surviving.

The realization hit me like a sledgehammer as I stared at the half-empty bottle in my hand. Shit, what the fuck was I doing? My head was swimming, my legs wobbly beneath me as I tried to stand.

"Shit," I muttered under my breath, cursing my own idiocy. How could I have been so reckless, so goddamn thoughtless? Drinking myself into oblivion wasn't going to solve anything. It was just going to make things a hell of a lot worse.

I forced myself to take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves and focus my mind. This was no time to be indulging in self-pity and booze. I needed to pull myself together and figure out my next move.

With a groan, I set the bottle down, vowing to leave it behind. I was better than this, damn it. I was stronger than this. And if Toby was out there, alive and fighting, then I owed it to him to do the same.

With a resigned sigh, I pushed myself up from the weather-beaten porch, the wood groaning in protest beneath my weight. The solitude of the abandoned cottage offered little comfort as I made my way back inside, each step heavy with the weight of my thoughts.

My eyes fell upon the loose wooden plank that hid my temporary salvation—the bottle that had given me a fleeting moment of escape. Carefully, I lifted the plank and nestled the bottle back into its hiding place, a bittersweet farewell to the brief respite it had provided.

"See ya," I mumbled, half-expecting the walls to answer. Maybe the bottle would mean something to someone else some day, but for now, I was done with it.

As I rose to my feet, the entire cottage appeared to lurch, as if the earth itself were intent on betraying my sense of balance. Panic gripping me, I reached out to steady myself, my hand finding purchase on the back of a rust-eaten chair.

The chair's frame creaked in protest, its once-sturdy form now weakened by time and neglect. For a moment, I feared it might give way beneath my grasp, leaving me to stumble and fall.