You don't control me, Dixon

➌ 84- Oh! We Got Names Now!

♤

As I stare at the empty room, I sigh. Being alone is never going to be easy, is it?

But then again, what do I expect from me? I'm a curse, to others and myself.

'Yeah, sure. Take my job and be like your dad, I'll be easier for me...'

So? I treat the others like they owe me. They don't. So I don't know why I expect them to treat me human.

Hell, I don't even look human. I look like the very same thing that everyone is scared of me turning into of. A walker.

'A husk of yourself.'

Slowly, I turn into the glass and focus on the reflection that doesn't seem real.

Eyes red and puffy, dead and tired.

Nose at an unmanageable angle that I don't think we can deal with ourselves. Scraps along the bridge and cheeks from the fall.

Blood masking the bottom half of my face mike a mask. The scar from...

'Who?' Little croons.

The husky one, sighs, 'Your whipman'

Philip.

Tears making lines in the dried blood making me seem even more pathetic. Cheeks hallow and skin pale from blood loss.

'Fine, Philip did this...'

I know, dear husky.

Hell, the hair is long and knotted. I hate my hair long. It reminds me of my time with dear old dad.

But the only thing I wasn't expecting from my reflection that looks so much like those lost child posters of where they just age the eyes and add winkles was the ear.

I had almost forgotten. Reaching up, I grope the lost part. Half gone and I barely notice the loss anymore.

'Stupid guns.'

Yeah, husky. Damn guns.

Sighing, I glance down at my blood soaked shirt. I carefully take it off and stand up, staring at the lack of softness.

I know that I haven't been looking often but it's like I'm totally different. My chest size has gone down, and it's not just the sports bra.

'Thank god. Now we look like me...sort of.'

My hips stopped being soft, but the sight and feeling is different. My stomach has given way to the soft dents and curves of abs.  The wrap of my ribs keeping from seeing the healing wound.

And the arms, scars, tight muscles and calloused.

I've grown taller than most of the boys, yet I still as small as Judith.

Carefully I unwrap the dirty wraps and stare, my vision blurring...

The scent is different. No more cigarette smell, but roses. No sounds of the television but sweet humming.

Clean, white and pristine medical wraps, incircle my chest and stomach. The last stint of dad and his patrons.

Tears stream yet nothing seems real. This is just a dream.

My hands move on their own account, ripping the clean and sterile wrap off as they land around me.

Words across my ribs scabbing. The blisters from the bad burn job catching the edges of the popped blisters.

Soft sobs from deep within me release on my own accord. Then, like a switch, my body straightens, wiping the tears away as it speaks someone else's words, "I'm here, you're not alone in this."