The Writing Dead

@WxlkerStalker11

"You're Not Going Anywhere"

The words echoed, a faint nod with the posture of an insult. A patented trademark to fully enforce the stubborn mule inside of him. His fight for survival began with only his own stubbornness, how many others could suffer and find salvation through the degradation and defamation of humankind? How alone could one meagre sentence feel even when firmly fitted with a paramount promise, a leaning tower of lies remained only via the subsequent reinforcement of the pillar designed and designated by pure power and caricature. Rick Grimes was struggling, Rick Grimes was on his knees and watching everything maneuver like clockwork whilst his batteries depleted slowly, his fight had just begun even if the war was lost and the wager spat in his face, the burning sensation in his side was relentlessly pursuing him and pushing him closer to the final break, point blank and nonchalant as it was. Rick Grimes was dying.

His body moved before his brain, occupied in the happenstance of fear and utmost confusion, he thrust himself forth at the faithful companion neighing out of fright as she kicked and spurred, offering the same break of freedom that he so desired. He tugged at the reins, reining in his final defence and performing a perfect offense as he galloped down the gravel road, holding onto the personified nightmare and utilising whatever he had left to make a break away and then back again.

He desperately confiscated the illusion of consternation and playfully wrote whimful poems instead, hopping on a bandwagon of insatiable lies and unfathomable hope, the rusty pipe that impaled his side conversed the sustainment of his concurrent wellbeing. He prayed for a proper way out, he fought for what mattered and he gave his goddamn best to honour what his son so painfully became so passionate for. His words allowed for a moment's rest as his energy felt depleted.

"You're Not Going Anywhere"

The blackout bucked him from his horse, he saw the face of a long lost brother and the wound felt deeper than before, an endless black hole looping like a cycle of unrelenting guilt, hatred of the self and bottomless in despair, disdain and indicative of what he truly stood for. Remnants of humanity sprinkle tossed in like confetti, a cake that felt fulfillingly disappointing. His posture was fleeting and his breathing was laboured, did he dare test the fate of a painless death, should he just ride off into the sunset and allow everything to be quiet and slow, instead of violent and never ending?

As he took his stride, his forceful push and incredibly painful last limb. He wandered towards the place of worship for him, the final contract to sacrifice everything. The bridge was his last stop, his final resting place, as he overlooked the horde in front, his eyes widened in fear, shock and awe like a breaching impact, his creation was holding, he slowly edged his weapon from its holster, holding the gun firmly in his hand as he eyeballed the horde

His breathing was a struggle of indefinite end, he awaited the final push. He gave it his all as he looked at the infernal hell in front, he inhaled once more as he whispered his fight once more.

"You're not going anywhere"

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553 words