Children are born into this world with unrequited glee, a grace that is often taken for granted. Tiny fingers balled into a fist, eyes bright with wonder, and hair as soft as a nymph's aura.
But churning inside every human being is a burning fire, doomed to wake. A cocoon grown carcass, ready to birth a hundred disasters, spread through out the span of a lifetime. And they will engulf you, turn you inside out, eventually to reveal your true colors, whether that be red, black or white.
One child, pursued a ravenous dream, with out the guidance of love or laughter, survival was an omen to nurture the soul.
Every child has a mother and father, whether they are there at their side or sipping red wine in the palms.
And this child, a peculiar one, always was and was made to be, had a troubled mother and a troublesome father. Her mother, a waitress, knew nothing more than loans and leviathon, dead set on a future of fame, without the ambition. She was a star that never made it to the sky, and she was dying. Inside, decomposing. She took the easy way out, a gun and a game of russian roulette. Risks were her mantra, and this one she didn't hesitate to take. Little did she care for her daughter at home, when depression was eating her whole. She didn't come home for dinner one night, and that was the last of Elizabeth Barrow.
The childs father was a direct man, with both his fists and his thoughts. He served in the army, and knew nothing other than drinking. He didn't care for his home nor his wife. But his daughter, he cared for her. But not enough to say goodbye when it came down to it. He had left one day and didn't ever come back, whether that was a result of the apocalypse or the fact he knew he was no good influence for his daughter. Who knew what became of Floyd Barrow?
Together, man and wife, made Lolita. A girl as strange as the name made her out to be. She had a temper the size of the statue of liberty, and the manners of a pig. But she was a peculiar kind of pretty, behind that shaggy bob of hers. She wore big clothing to hide away her blossoming curves and sneakers that were at the least, 5 years old.
No one had ever liked Lolita Barrow. And Lolita Barrow never liked any one, either. She'd set off homemade bombs in the school library and stole everyone's pencils in grade school. Now, a 14 year old girl in the middle of an apocalypse, her attitude grew even worse.
But no one was there to scold her, not a single soul in the whole wide world. Well, at least that's what she thought. She thought she was the last human on the face of the earth, fighting for the only thing that ever mattered to her, survival.
But she was wrong.
(A/N: I'd like to picture Lolita looking like Ivana Baquero in her role 'Pan's Labyrinth', with of course more shaggy hair and ragged clothing, along with a dirtier appearence. Or as Natalie Portman's role as Mathilda in Léon. (Her character was also in a way inspired by that character.) Lolita is of spanish descent (On her mother's side) and just plain American on her father's side. She know's basic spanish as her mother was born in spain. The name Lolita derives from the book under the same name, but I dont believe my Lolita to be a nymphet, I rather just have an interest in the name, it meaning 'sorrow'.)
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Dead Hearts (TWD Carl Grimes)
Fanfiction"Once upon a time, there was a poor child, with no father and no mother. And everything was dead. And no one was left in the whole world. Everything was dead." Lolita was all on her own when the group came and found her scavaging for food in a subur...
