It was sunny outside. I was not smelling the beautiful flowers in this distinct meadow. I was not enjoying the company of my family. I was not smiling into Sophia's eyes. I was not sleeping soundly in a bed. I was not hiking with my daughter out of pure impulse to "enjoy the day."
I was berrying another friend. This reminded me of Lizzie. That mentally distraught, little, helpless girl. She had no rationality of this world. Who would in such a world filled with nothing but death? If you were alive, you would be dead soon anyways. This friend was different, though. He made me smile. He was not psychotic.
He put a meaning into life, that of which no one else was able to portray. As I shoved the last portion of dirt onto his grave, I resisted the urge to cry. Emotions were useless and already as dead as I was. Why was it sunny? In literature, sunlight was a positive omen. I smirked. Literature didn't matter anymore. Why did I suddenly signify its existence?
I got up, brushed the dirt off of my hands, and walked away. As I was walking, I tried hard to forget the voices of my friends. Tyreese, Daryl, Carl, Rick, Mika, and Sophia. The more I attempted to silence their own resistance, they became more alive. I remembered Rick. He was able to hear the deceased's voices. Am I going insane like him? Is there a reason why I'm keeping them alive in my thoughts? What's the point of reasoning anymore? Everyone is dead, so no one is left to convince. I doubt anyone expected me to be the last survivor.
"Mama?" I heard a too innocent and familiar voice call me from behind. I slowly turned my head, not ready to believe what I wanted to see most. My tears betrayed me. They began to flow.
"Sweaty?" I responded. "Go back..." My voice choked. Why was I telling her to leave me when she finally returned? "You're not real. Baby, go back."
The trees were waving in the wind. The smell of death grew stronger. I knew she wasn't real. She was a figment of my insanity. I grabbed my knife, trying to keep it out of her sight. She was standing there. Right in front of me. How the hell was this possible? That's just it; it wasn't. My mind is going completely insane; doing something that I had pledged myself to never do as long as I was alive.
"Mama? What're you doing with that knife?"
I looked down, and cursed beneath my breath. I continued to stealthily creep towards her. "She's already dead," I repeated to myself in the softest whisper over and over again.
"I'm alive, Mama," she seemed to grow confused and angry simultaneously. "Why are you lying to me?" She began to raise her monotonous voice at me.
I was less than two feet away from her. I gritted my teeth in self pity. Why did I have to put her down again? She was already dead.
I elevated my dagger. She turned to face away from me. I looked down in relief. Killing my own daughter, watching her die for the second time, was going to be easier.
"Just look at the flowers, Sophia," my voice cracked.