Disclaimer- this story is based off of the show and comics of the walking dead, it includes characters created by Robert Kirkman's aswell as my ones made by myself. I do not claim any ownership over existing characters or the show itself.
Just thought I'd quickly say, this is my first time attempting to write a fic so I'll say a sorry in advance:). I've always loved the show and this is a story I've been wanting to write for a while but I've never had the guts to ever actually post. Please comment and let me know what you think, thank you for reading:)
I'd been been doing what I had to do to survive. Everyday since I got here I've kept my head down, not muttering a word to anyone unless it was completely necessary. I keep thinking it's best to not share my opinion or talk to anyone too much because what's the point? what's the point in learning names?, sharing thoughts, letting them in? I stopped doing that a long time ago.
I know I'm strong, put me outside the fences and I will stay alive, I can fight the dead, that's not the main fight for me. The fight is to continue on when I've lost so much, lost the person i was before the world went to shit, lost everything. I was 18 when the world started to manifest into what it is now, I'm probably about 20, but who knows? I stopped counting the days. Whenever I come across new people, I always tell them I'm older, not wanting them to underestimate me. I'm what's kept me alive this long, nothing or no one else.
It's been three weeks since I stumbled across this place. I soon found out it's called the sanctuary which I find ironic because no place can be a sanctuary anymore, it's only a matter of time before the dead wonder in and destroy everything in their path. It's full of people who call themselves the saviours. My first thought was that these people are completely delusional. The sanctuary is nothing more than an old factory, with tall fences, defiantly not a home, not to me at least.
I contribute and do my part. I was put on kitchen duty the first day I got here which annoyed the hell out me because I'd survived since the beginning, out there and yet I'm subject to degrading shit like this, cooking and cleaning. I thought I'd made it clear when I arrived that I'm capable of more due to the fact that I was alone and alive but I was told I'll have my chance to prove myself. I decided to do as told and wait for the time to show my ability to these jerks. I've seen women on the fences and going out on runs so I assumed at some point, I will get to do what I want to.
How this place was run was explained to me basically as soon as I walked in, there is a system. You work for your points and then use them to get what you need. I've been earning my own points to get myself the essentials as well as following a set of rules, which I've gotta always follow unless I want to be punished. It's crazy to think a community is run on a system even in the end of the world but from what I've seen so far, it works and it was all enforced by a man named Negan.
Despite living in the place run by this Negan, I've only seen him on the few occasions. Even when I first come here he only glossed his eyes over my small figure for a few seconds, turned to some other guy called Simon, uttered a few words in his ear and then left. He probably said something about the displeasing view of my appearance. Being on the road by myself, I hardly looked presentable for first meetings. Dressed in old jeans, discoloured and ripped. A blood stained tank top hidden by a black bomber jacket I'd found in an abounded store along with my boots which were visibly worn down the bone. My long, matted Curly red hair pulled back into a pony tail, with the shorter strands slicked back by the product of grease and sweat. Luckily the top of my grubby hair was hidden by my cap. I hated how the sun only made by mane more vibrant and made my freckles stand out against my pale skin which was, and always is, slightly reddened by the sun. Most people I come across seem to get a golden tan from being outside all day with the sun having us at it's mercy, but not me. People used to say I was lucky because I was the 'good looking type of redhead' if anything I took that more as an insult. I always hated my features, not that it matters now but still, in the presence of someone as intimidating as this Negan, I was self conscious, a feeling that I hadn't experienced since before the new world when my biggest worry was if the guy I had my eye on knew I existed.
The only other time I catch a glimpse of him is when he is strutting around with his weapon of choice hanging loosely on his shoulder which always gets on my last nerve because I can tell he thinks he is the biggest dipshit in this place, which I guess he is because he does run it. It didn't take me long to realise no one around here disobeys him. I listen to the gossip in the kitchen, the women talk about his bat called Lucille and how Negan uses it to bash in the skulls of his victims. Whether that's true or not I don't know but the respect everyone has for him, kneeling whenever he passes, makes me believe that not only is he a madman but also a huge asshole. It wouldn't surprise me if it were true, Negan wouldn't be the first bad person I'd come across since the beginning of the end. The dead weren't the only monsters the new world created, and anyone would be dumb to think otherwise.