To Lay By Your Side

by catsonscooters

Finley has been content with being alone most of her life. The destruction of the old world serves as a minor distraction in her quest for happiness within solitude but the biggest shake-up comes in the form of a man and a barbed wire bat that's thirsty for her blood. *biggest cheeseball award for descriptions goes to me*

1. Chapter 1

Hi there! I, like many others, have fallen into the vortex of Negan and figured I'd try my hand at writing. It's a short chapter but I've already got the second one in the editing stage and hope you stick around!

I just want to catch my breath. Since the world went to shit, my anxiety has been at DEFCON 1: Maximum readiness. The way I feel, I might as well be in the Oval Office with my asscheeks clenched so damn hard I've got a piece of the fine Italian leather chair lodged between my crack and a shaking finger on the big red button of doom, ready to blow the world to smithereens.

Except, wait, the world is already fucked and I'm not sitting pretty on Pennsylvania Avenue; I'm laid out on the fucking forest floor while listening to the ever-present chorus of flesh eaters as they move in from all angles, ready to cash in on the free buffet that is my mangled body.

It'd been foolish to jump from the tree I'd sought shelter in, but hindsight is 20/20 and a massive pain in the ass and a whole bunch of shoulda, coulda, woulda, but in the end I did it and now I'm paying for it. My twisted ankle had slowed me down, but it wasn't too bad until I mistook the bank of the creek I'd been following for solid ground only to have it cave under my weight. The sound of a bone breaking is one that doesn't fade into oblivion as easily as one might hope. What started as a sprained ankle was now a full-blown situation and I quickly found myself up shit creek without a goddamn paddle.

I tried to push through it, I really did, but when you're alone in this new world you've already got every odd stacked against you but add an injury to those odds and you're well and truly fucked. So I guess I shouldn't be too upset that I'm about to be dinner for the undead. When you stop to think about it, was there really anything worth fighting for anymore? I permanently smelled like a prepubescent teenager after gym class and my ankle throbbed like no other with every spiteful step I took and for what? To find another tree to call home for the night? To wake with the sun beating down on my burnt skin and dry eyes? To feel the pain of talking to the wind with only the sound of silence as a response day in and day out?

Fuck Pennsylvania Avenue and all the comforts of a home, I'm perfectly happy on the floor of this strange forest. Death will come to me as a friend, something I haven't had in such a very long time and I'll take comfort in that.

But the sound of the flesh eaters as they stumble closer to me shakes me from my peace and I remember that I don't want to die, not really. I don't want to feel the chipped and rotting teeth tearing through my flesh. I don't want to feel the warmth of my blood as it leaves my body. I don't want this and yet, what can I do? So I close my eyes and offer a prayer to anyone who might be listening to make it quick, just make it as quick as can be. I listen to the horde of death and try to redirect the focus on my breathing instead. In and out, in and out, in and out. Then I hear the gunshot.