Trouble ▪ Daryl Dixon [UNDER EDITING]

1 [EDITED]

Death was inevitable.

Death was sneaky.

You never expected it. Death was like an animal slowly creeping up on its prey.

It's jaw agape as it drooled with lust, lust to take the life away from people who actually deserved it.

And nowadays, not a lot of people deserved to live.

So, as Rose carried herself tiredly through the woods and finally collapsed, her feet unable to carry her any further, she knew death would be approaching soon.

Her hand idly made its way to her hair, pushing it out of her hollowed face.

Blood slowly oozed from the fresh wound in her leg, it's crimson color creating a beautiful splash of creativeness on her jeans.

Rose smiled at the thought of art. Her hands picking at the fray in her worn jeans.

God, how she would kill to have some proper medical supplies right now.

And she would literally kill to have medical supplies, it wasn't metaphorical.

Rose pushed herself harshly against a tree, the hard bark pressing into her skin through the thin material of her shirt.

Her hand glided down to her injury, remembering the previous events of only a week ago.

She smiled eerily, her tongue darting out to wet her lips.

She remembered the gunshots. She remembered the screams.

She remembered her lust for revenge.

And suddenly, she was on her feet. Pressing herself to move forward.

The sound of shuffling feet stopped her in her tracks as her eyes wandered the forest in front of her.

Her nose scrunched up in disgust as the smell of rot and decay flooded her senses.

She knew the dead ones were close and she knew she wasn't getting far on her leg.

She took her lip in between her teeth and bit down hard as she dug her knife into the gunshot wound.

A metallic taste rising in her mouth as she suppressed an agonizing scream.

Blood and pus molded together to prove her thoughts correct, it was indeed infected.

A cheerful laugh escaped her chapped lips as the bullet, that had embedded itself into her leg, fell carelessly into her hand.

Tightening her bandana around her thigh, she took off.

Sprinting through the forest, she listened as the dead ones followed closely behind.

She had become used to their frequent moans, they no longer gave her night terrors.

Her feet smacked hardly against the ground as she whipped around to face the decaying creatures.

Her knife made a satisfying squish sound as she flung it into the head of a snacker.

Her pistol still felt heavy in her hand as she used the knife diversion to reload the magazine.

Her hands had memorized this motion thoroughly, her hands seemed to memorize a lot of things. Like the names and the blood of her victims.

A shot rang loudly through the air as the first snacker fell to the ground with a loud thud.

She pulled the trigger, over and over, until she couldn't fire anymore.

As more appeared, she began to feel woozy. Her body swaying from side to side as a content smile spread across her face.

A comforting numbness spread throughout her body and she knew she was greeting death.

She was almost there, she could almost taste it.

She never thought death would, metaphorically, taste so good for she craved it like an addict would crave nicotine.

Black dots consumed her vision as she fell to the ground in a heap.

The last sound she heard being the sound of an arrow releasing from a crossbow.

Death never seemed so peaceful.