Genre: Supernatural/Horror

I'm trying to tell you a story,

but it's hard because

I feel like I'm starting

from the end.

I'm dead.

I'm trying to put myself

back together,

but I'm not here.

I can barely see.

The crooks are crying.

Crying so much,

I'm trying to save you,

but I'm dead

and you're going to be eaten.

They're going to eat you,

And I can't make it.

It's raining. It's twilight.

And I'm slipping and tumbling,

I won't make it.

I don't want to give up.

I won't give up.

Your surrounded.

The dead surround you.

You can't escape.

And you're crying.

The crooks are dying.

They couldn't con themselves

out of this one.

But the dead aren't distracted.

Not for long.

You try to run but you trip.

I think you sprained your ankle.

I think you're stunned. Until,

You wail and scream.

And I'm trying to reach you first.

You drag yourself back.

Using every strength you can

muster, you pull yourself forward.

Desperate and clawing, I can see as much as

I can feel the adrenaline begging you

to live.

And they're looming over you.

Blood's dripping everywhere.

Your mouth is open,

and I can hear the

sore and dry croak

in your decreasingly

feeble cries.

I don't know if I can make it.

But I'm not stopping.

I'm going to reach you.

I will!

But, but, but...

I'm not first.

They're there.

They're fast with their teeth.

Their hands, nasty and gnarled, hold on

and they rip you from each other's grip.

I'm right behind them.

And I...

I can still hear you.

Your quieting despairs.

I can still see you.

The blood and tears and rain pooled in your face.

I can smell you too.

Copper and death and fresh.

I can taste you, but I won't.

Kicking and shoving and pulling.

That's what I do.

To get you away.

To save you.

But I didn't get all of you.

And I'm sorry, they kept

a chunk of your shoulder

and your arm from the elbow down

is missing.

Your heart as well as mine,

it's not beating anymore.

Yours, out of horror.

Mines, out of bites.

And I'm trying to tell you this story.

But it's the end.

I'm crying and crying.

It's not possible because I'm dead.

Please, I'm trying to get this point across!

I'm sorry. I'm sorry.

I couldn't save you.

I'm dead,

I don't want to eat you.

You're dead.

Why are you not like me?

I'm sorry.

I'm blinded. The rain clouds my eyes.

I'm trapped. The apathy clawing at me isn't reaching me.

It's the end. I'm clutching the lifeless you against my decaying chest.

And I'm surrounded. They're stretching out their limbs for me.

Are they eating me too?

No, they're eating you. Again.

I'm sorry.

I wanted to save you.

I couldn't and now,

They're finishing you

and ignoring the

Walking Dead Me.

Reality hits me.

It ruthlessly punches me in the face.

It makes me witness and realize

what I never want to face...

You're gone.

They're finally gone.

I'm at a loss.

I don't know what to do.

You're still in my arms,

granted, just

a little less than before.

You're in my arms, nonetheless.

My unthinking mind can't process

all my thoughts.

I'm left wondering a million

things I don't want to consider at all.

I think I'm angry.

Why am I still alive?

Why aren't you here with me?

Why can't I rewrite this future?

I thought this was the end.

Is it?

"I'm trying to tell you a story," I say to your crumpled and lonely body, "Brace yourself, okay? This story sucks-ass."

Moral of the Story: Bart's a horrible story-teller.

The story kind of goes like this: The "crooks" are the bandits who left Bart for dead when they kidnapped Jaime. Bart, bitten, goes to rescue him, but turns along the way. He also inadvertently brings a horde of the dead with him when the "rescue" part happens.

I hope you all enjoyed reading, despite the possible confusion!