This is my first TWD fic. And it's going to be a good one (hopefully).
01.
The first thing that comes to mind is fire.
He is so close to red, orange and gold that it's practically burning him. An image of his legs and arms covered in cherry bubbles, oozing with pus, makes him shiver violently.
It was a small cabin that reminds him of his own – or what is now left of it. Bits of wood are being flung violently across the terrace. A plastic chair and small table erupt into flames.
The only thing he can think of doing is staring. He just can't help it. This place has been like a second home to him.
Ever since those...things started appearing, he's been living between its damp walls. Now he can only imagine the destruction that it's no doubt being exposed to on the inside.
And it hurts him. God, it hurts.
A familiar pain shoots up his armpit and he can feel a damp patch of sweat spreading around his shirt. His eyeballs dart across the cabin and he swallows, legs trembling as he begins the descent down the crumbling steps.
One.
His hands reach for the safety of the straps of his backpack with only one thought in mind – he has to leave. Now.
The very moment he saw the fire, right after he had returned from hunting a small rabbit, he should have ran. He should have left for miles, found a decent place to camp for the night or scavenged for more supplies.
He shouldn't have walked closer – he knows that now. His brain just went blank and his rational side seemed to have taken a hiatus. But he was angry. Fucking angry. How the hell could this have happened? Who on Earth would burn down his place – his place?
He falls.
Two.
He loses his footing on the wood and his body is forced down awkwardly. He hears something snap beneath him and prays it's not a bone. Not his bone.
A grunt escapes his lips and he scrambles to his feet, only for his bag of supplies to pull him back down again. He grits his teeth. Pulls.
It's wedged tight in between planks of wood. They had been torn apart in his fall and now he has to pay the price – either waste valuable time pulling the bag out of the ground or make a run for it. The decisions are clear cut; ones he should be used to making after a good few months have passed since he left home.
The crackling fire startles him from his dilemma and he's once again transfixed at the sight.
He holds his gaze, as if in a showdown with the flames that are threatening his mere existence. Pulls. Nothing.
He won't give up, though. He can't. He's too damn stubborn and it's taken him months to put together a portable survival kit. It's something he's proud of, just like the fact he's made it this far. Only now it's being taken away from him.
First the cabin.
Then his supplies.
And now his life.
This is it, then. This is how it's going to end.
He knows he's exaggerating. He knows that if he pushes the rucksack belts a few inches away from his body; pulls himself to his feet, walks away – that he could survive. He could practically crawl away from the wreck, right now, and live with hardly any burns. He damn well knows it.
Only he's tired. He's just so tired. Not just physically – although his diet of canned food and the occasional wild animal would say otherwise – but mentally, as well. He's experienced enough to come to the conclusion that this is pathetic.
Hiding himself, bracing for impact, keeping armed at all times – he wants it to stop.
He wants everything to fucking stop.
So he closes his eyes and repeats the same mantra in his head: End it here, end it now.
"You fucking crazy, kid?!"
His body jerks forward. He is shocked for several reasons.
He isn't dead yet. That was a person's voice.
His arm is on fire.
He blacks out.
Strike three.