I don't own the Walking Dead video game or the character Clementine. No copyright whatsoever.
Lee's blood is still on her dress. Blood and lumpy stuff she doesn't want to identify, but she shot him in the head after all, so she knows exactly what the coagulating jelly staining the front of her dress like a bib is. She should get some new clothes.
Yeah.
She will. And new shoes and stockings and some socks and a jacket. She'll keep the hat. This hat has been through heck and back with her, and anyways there's no blood or jelly on it. Just some dirt. it's sparklingly clean compared to her clothes. She's filthy.
So filthy.
A sudden wave of revulsion hits her hard and she begins to strip off the dress. She pulls and tugs and claws until the drenched, stiffening fabric is on the ground and she stands in her vest and underwear.
It's a hot day. The crusts of blood on her skin become more obvious because the sun's warming fingers refuse to touch the spots when she steps out of the shade of the oak tree. She wants a bath. The last bath she had was…a whole week ago. And it was cold. Lee had tipped some water over her hair, apologising for the temperature, then left her to wade into a beaten tub of equally freezing water. but it was a bath.
She'd give anything to have a bath right now. Anything to have Lee's fingers working through her knotted hair and his voice laughing behind her: "you're going to be blue as a penguin by the time we're done" and the chance to say "penguins are black and white" and to laugh again.
She crosses her arms as a hot breeze whipping across the dried fields, wishing she had a new outfit to change into right away. If only she had thought to pick up one as she made her way out of the city.
However, she can't remember a single detail of the trip out of the city.
She can't remember thinking, or crying, or having to dodge any zombies, or walking, or even moving or feeling scared or sad or anything. On the blank path she must have blazed through the hordes she had locked the garage door against, Clementine was no better than a zombie herself.
No thoughts or feelings or comprehension. Her brain was mush.
No don't think about brains because then I'll have to know what the jelly is next time I look at my dress.
Think about the gun instead. The gun dangles from her left hand, huge between her fingers and heavy with the weight of the five bullets that remain for her use.
So she didn't fire any after she shot Lee. Shot Lee.
Yeah she did do that. She brought the gun up to his forehead and squeezed the trigger.
Her eyes were frozen as the bullet punched through skin and bone and jelly, because it is jelly it's not the other stuff, slammed Lee's head against the wall which snapped forward from whiplash and splattered her with everything that was on her dress.
Think about new clothes.
She will get a nice new shirt, but keep her hat, some jeans because it was hard to move in her dress, some new shoes that will be better for running than the ragged pair of pumps she is wearing.
Not about Lee. About new clothes. Not about Lee. About what she'll eat tonight.
She'll have to scrounge from the city. Maybe she can find what that girl with the pickaxe missed. Maybe she'll find those other two…Omid and Christa? Those are their names.
Think about anything but Lee.
a/n: this is kind of word vomit for me. I have been revising really hard for the up-coming mock exams at my school, so I did this randomly in the breaks between Pythagoras's Theorem and pronouns. Hope you enjoyed it.