Bitter Murmur | Abby Anderson x Male Reader

Chapter 22

But there was no answer, only the sound of her retreating footsteps, the thump of her feet on the wooden floor as she backed away from him. He could feel the warmth of his blood on his hands, the sticky wetness a stark contrast to the cold steel of the knife. The whispers grew louder, a frenzied chant of anger and betrayal that seemed to fill his very soul. He knew he had to act, had to do something before it was too late.

With a roar that seemed to come from the depths of his very being, Y/N yanked the knife free, the pain a distant echo to the fury that now consumed him. He stumbled forward, his vision blurred with pain and rage, his hand reaching out for the only thing that could save him. Her hand.

Abby's eyes went wide with terror, her own hand hovering over the gun that lay between them. "No," she whispered, her voice trembling. "You're not... you can't be..."

But the whispers in Y/N's head had gone quiet, the rage replaced with a cold, calculated calm. He knew what he had to do. He had to show her that he was in control, that the whispers were just that, whispers. He took a step towards her, the knife in his hand now a silent threat that hung in the air like a pendulum swinging towards an unavoidable fate.

Her hand hovered over the gun, her eyes locked on his, searching for any sign of the man she had come to trust. But all she saw was the monster he had become, the creature that the whispers had turned him into.

"Abby, please," he begged, his voice a harsh rasp that barely contained the anguish that tore through him. "You're all I have."

The whispers grew louder, urging him to end her life, to prove his dominance once and for all. But he fought them, his feelings for her a bastion of strength amidst the chaos in his mind. He took another step forward, his hand reaching out to her, the knife forgotten.

Abby's hand hovered over the gun, her eyes never leaving his. She could see the struggle in his gaze, the desperate fight against the whispers that threatened to consume him. For a moment, she wavered, her finger itching to pull the trigger. But then she saw it, a flicker of the man she knew, the man she had grown to care for, and she made her choice.

With a sudden burst of speed, she dove for the gun, her hand wrapping around the cool metal just as Y/N's hand closed over her wrist. They both froze, their eyes locked in a silent battle of wills. The whispers in Y/N's head grew more insistent, a frenzied chorus that demanded blood.

"Please," he murmured, his voice thick with pain and desperation. "I don't want to hurt you."

Just after he said that, the door of the hut flew open and walkers fell in.

The sudden burst of movement and the overpowering stench of rotting flesh snapped Y/N out of his trance. The whispers in his head retreated, their voices replaced by the snarling groans of the undead. The world around them had changed in an instant, the intimate struggle forgotten in the face of the new, immediate danger.

Abby's eyes flickered to the door, her hand tightening around the gun. Y/N staggered backward, his hand pressed to his side, trying to stem the flow of blood. He watched as she took a deep breath, the anger in her gaze replaced by a steely determination that sent a shiver down his spine. They had survived worse together, and he knew that she would not leave him to die at the hands of the walkers.

But instead of fighting, she did the unthinkable. With a sudden burst of speed that defied the gravity of their situation, Abby dove for the window, her body gracefully arcing through the air. The shattering of glass and the sound of her boots hitting the ground outside seemed to echo through the quiet night, a silent contrast to the chaos that had just filled the room.

Y/N watched her go, his eyes wide with shock, the whispers in his head a distant echo of their earlier power struggle. The walkers had surrounded him, their decaying hands reaching out to claim him, but something strange had occurred. They didn't attack. They just stood there, their rotted eyes staring at him with an intensity that seemed almost...curious.

The whispers grew quieter, their rage replaced by a cautious interest in the scene unfolding before them. Y/N felt the warmth of the blood seeping through his shirt, the pain in his side a stark reminder of the knife that still lay lodged in the floorboards. His vision swam, the world around him growing hazy as the whispers grew faint.

As he laid there, the walkers closed in further, their groans a symphony of hunger and decay that seemed to echo through his very soul. But instead of the painful bite of teeth and the tearing of flesh, there was only a strange, eerie stillness. They hovered around him, their decayed fingers brushing against his skin, but they did not attack.