uhhhh

bite

"or when your lips turn red, with a hint of purple- 'cause of all the suction. that's my favorite"

jo knew what frances meant. she was quite fond of the sensation herself, it's been so long since she's felt something like that.

since she's felt anything, really.

it's been what, 212 days since the outbreak? you would think someone would've turned up by now.

but she had frances, a 16 year old from Minnesota, turned into whatever they were.

the wanderers was the name her father gave to them- lost souls brought back to life made solely to stalk lonely dark street corners, and empty woods- to drag others to the same fate.

jo had no intention of becoming one of them- and in a way, to fight off those blood hungry things, you have to become like one- a bottomless void.

but she was still a real red-blooded human on the inside, for better or worse, and when her father would not accept the boy who really could do no harm- she knew he was no longer a viable asset. he could not live.

frances is broken, for lack of a better word. The wanderers had tried to drag him to the other side, but he could not pass through the veil separating the human world we know, and wherever those beasts came from. hes full of emotions, hes still human.

her father could not see that, so her father had to die.

jo switches to a more comfortable position in frances' lap so she could look up at his emerald green eyes. he plants a soft kiss to her forehead, as if to say "its okay, you're mine and you're safe"

she smiles.

when she had first found frances, he was hurt- bleeding on the side of a long stretch of road like a deer caught by a speeding hunter.

first piece of evidence that frances was not completely wanderer. wanderers dont bleed.

or at least, when they do- it's more of a thick green consistency.

the second piece of evidence was the fact that he could love; not like that mask of
"emotions" the wanders can put up to disguise themselves. not even her father could argue against her this time.

of course though, he did.

so that's when she shot him.

with his own shotgun, she put the barrel to his forehead as he slept, the blood spattered everywhere, coating jo's face, her clothes, the walls.

"jo! no...why?" frances shook her father, desperately looking for a sign of life.

it was too late.

She smiles when she thinks about how swiftfully the life faded from her fathers eyes.

And she would do it again, and again and again- if it meant saving Frances.

(A/N) lmao i spent like 4 months writing this and i didnt even get to end it how i wanted it loollolol thats depression 4 ya >:)