I Am Yours, Don't Give Myself Back To Me.

Through The Flowers We Met

Shit, he was alright. 

Yeah, he was okay.

That's what he kept telling himself as he glanced down at his forearm, blood slowly seeping through his torn sleeve. It was just a small wound. It had to be, right? But deep down, he knew better. It was more than just the gash on his arm—it was the weight of everything pressing in on him, the gnawing realization that this peace, this illusion of normalcy, was as fragile as the skin that had just been sliced open.

It had started as a normal day—or as normal as his days could ever get. Honestly, he should have expected it. He should have known that this rare quiet was nothing but a cruel trick, a setup for the inevitable chaos. It was always like this, always waiting just out of sight, lurking until the moment he let his guard down.

He was out on an expedition to a new timeline, a place already overtaken by the apocalypse. By now, he'd grown numb to it—different worlds, same destruction. The empty streets, and the broken cities, or just wastelands filled with sand and shes, were all filled with the heavy stench of death. But today, for once, things had seemed to be going alright. He'd scavenged food, found clean water, and even picked up some usable scraps—survival essentials. It was almost too easy.

Too good to be true.

Of course, it was.

The attack had come out of nowhere, like a storm rolling in without warning. One minute he was alone, and the next, they were on him—survivors, or at least what was left of them. But they weren't just starving people looking for food. No, these were the worst kind. He had only encountered their kind a handful of times before. Cannibals.

They were filthy, rabid, driven by hunger that went beyond mere survival. It twisted them, turning their desperation into something monstrous. They didn't want just the food he carried. They wanted him. The thought made his stomach turn, bile rising in his throat. There was nothing more horrifying than the knowledge that another human being could look at you and see nothing but meat, nothing but something to be consumed.

He should have seen it coming. Maybe in another world, another version of himself would have. But this time, he was too slow. Too caught up in the brief moment of peace, wrapped up in the idea that maybe, just maybe, things could be different.

The ambush was swift and brutal. One of them had lunged from the shadows, their blade flashing before he had a chance to react. He barely saw the glint of the knife before it sliced into his arm. The pain was sharp and immediate, radiating up from his forearm like fire.

He stumbled back, clutching his arm, trying to suppress the wave of panic rising in his chest. Blood soaked through his fingers, warm and sticky, and he could feel the dizziness starting to creep in. No, he couldn't lose it now. Not here, not like this.

He glanced around wildly, trying to count them, but his vision blurred at the edges, warping their faces, turning them into shifting shapes that moved too fast. Too many. There were too many of them. And their eyes—so empty, hollow, yet filled with a hunger that went beyond anything human. They weren't people anymore.