I may have had a sucky job when the world went to shit, but it did, in ways, prepare me for it. I was physically fit. I could read people like an open book. I was solid in my self-defense class. I was a striper. Being a stripper was definitely not my dream job, but it paid the bills and my college tuition.

I left Atlanta long before it fell. When the military men at the base started getting jumpy, I left. If there was one thing I knew, it was to stay away from nervous men with big guns. I'd been on my own for years before the apocalypse. It had served me well then, why not now?

Hell I almost got shot trying to get out.

A bell had gone off in my head that morning. People had begun to get short with others. I watched a father snap at his little girl for crying. I could see the shock in his eyes after he said it. I knew the thoughts going through his head. He thought about how he had never said things like that to his family before. The little girl just cried harder and ran back inside. I didn't want to see people lie that man fall apart. It was time to move on.

That night, I was approaching the high fence when a shot rang out beside my head.

"Holy Shit!" I spat out, pivoting to see who had almost decapitated me.

A young man stood ten feet behind me, holding a smoking pistol. The man couldn't have been much older than twenty-one. He wore the usual military cameo and a stunned expression.

"Give me that, you idiot!" I hissed at him.

The fact that he stood there in shock, as I walked quickly toward him and yanked the firearm out of his hand, told me he understood that he almost killed a human being. I didn't have the patients to make him feel better. All I could do was bestow some last minute advice as I clicked on weapon's safety and shoved it in my waist band.

Whispering to him, so not to make him feel even worse, "Look before you shoot. Take a deep breath. Squeeze the trigger as you let the breath out. Relax before you shoot. Too much tension makes your arms shake."

Then I was off. I agilely scaled the fence, dropping down as quietly as I could. I checked the gun as I stood, making sure it was still there, and making a mental note to check some gun stores for ammo. Then I slid out a knife. I had pilfered it from the kitchen that morning. Noise seemed to attract walkers, which meant guns were a last resort.

Being on my own meant adapting to survive. Conveniently, I was damn good at adapting, another perk of the job. That night I headed for the mountains. If I was up high, I might be able to see danger before it saw me. At that point another thought came to me, less people meant less potential walkers.

I got out of the city that night, taking down five walkers silently. Everywhere I went I saw walkers. Luckily for me, they all seemed to be focused on the glow from the base I had left. Every walker I saw further solidified my will to leave. There were too many of them. A tear rolled down my face as I thought of that father and little girl I had seen this morning. He would never be able to take those words back. And for the looks of it, he didn't have long with her left.

Sometimes I wondered if it was better that I didn't have any family left. I wouldn't have to watch them suffer. I wouldn't snap at them or argue about what to do. If I made the wrong choice, the only person I killed, is myself.

I was alone for two months, and damn I was bored. Originally I just wanted to survive, and I succeeded in that case. But it didn't take long for me to realize that surviving was NOT living.

I'd killed another eight walkers in that time. For some reason I couldn't let myself forget any walker I killed. My head told me that they were no longer human, but at the same time my heart cried out that they once were. I put a mark on the lone tree I'd make camp at for each walker.

I'd found a good place to stay. A ragged piece of earth jutted straight up. It was a bitch to climb, but that kept the walkers at bay. At the very top it was about ten by ten foot of solid, semi flat, land. A large tree sat at the very top of my mini-mountain. The tree provided a bit of shelter against Mother Nature's fury. About two miles away, a mostly deep river slowed down and went through a shallow part. I was able to fish for food there.

Any fish I caught, and I got really good at catching fish, was cooked another two miles from the stream. My strategy was to go in somewhat of a triangle. I didn't want to start a fire near my camp or my fishing spot. Fire was asking for walkers, and there were enough walkers that I didn't need to ask for any.

I made myself keep to a schedule. Every morning I rose with the sun. I stretched first. A pulled hamstring was a bitch. I knew that from when I first started striping. I never forgot to stretch again. Then came push-ups. I hate push-ups, but I also would hate it if one day I wasn't able to climb up to my little safe haven. Then I ran. I would run my triangle, looking for any signs of walkers nearby. Then I would walk to my fishing spot and attempt to catch a meal.

Everything was fine, totally boring, but fine.

That day started out like any other.

Stretch.

Push-ups.

Run.

Catch a fish.

I was halfway through cooking my fish when I heard a rustling behind me. I spun quickly, expecting a walker, whipping out my knife in a flash. It was not a walker that looked back at me. Two men stood there. The older of the two leaned easily against a tree. He wore a cruel grin that I immediately recognized from my former profession. He was a little over six foot, short hair, and had a drug problem. The last observation came as I quickly noticed his blood shot eyes and the slight shake in his hands.

The younger man had a crossbow pointed at my head. His hair was longer, and kind of shaggy. His eyes were blue and clear. His hands held up the crossbow steadily. The young man had his finger off the trigger. His face was hard, but not cruel. He was not a killer, but a hunter. I immediately knew that, out of the two, I was in more danger from the man without a weapon.

I knew what they saw as they stared back at me. I was still crouched down, but on the balls of my feet, one hand holding a knife. My almost black hair was long and wild. My skin had a dark tan from fishing in the sun. My green eyes were wide with fear. My tattoo of a thorny vine of roses was showing on my left forearm. My clothes were worn near to threads.

I was frozen. On one hand I wanted to run, my instincts telling me the older man was trouble. On the other hand I was desperate for human contact.

"Well you just gonna stare at us all day, darlin'?" asked the older man as he stood up and took a step towards me.

When the man finally moved, the need to escape won. I fled. I ran as fast as I could. I couldn't think straight. I was completely panicked. I ran to the only place I felt safe. As I made it to the base of my mini-mountain I looked back to see the two men running towards me. I climbed up to the tree, and grabbed the gun from my bag.

It was the same gun I had grabbed from the young man back in Atlanta. Holding the gun, I remembered how the man had almost shot me in the back of the head because he was afraid. I took a deep breathe. My nerves calmed just enough for me to regain control of my actions. I was able curb the irrational urge to shoot first ask question later.

The older man's head popped over the top of the overhang first. But he didn't even look at me. The man was breathing so hard he just laid down and closed his eyes. I nearly laughed. I was afraid of this man? I could probably beat him in a match based on stamina alone.

Now I had a different matter on my hands when the second man popped up. His eyes narrowed at me when he saw the gun, and I noticed his finger was on the trigger this time.

"Merle? You okay man?" the young man asked, not looking away from me.

The man on the ground, Merle I guess, muttered something unintelligible.

I spoke quietly, my voice sounding hoarse from disuse, "He needs to control his breathing. That's why he is out of breath."

Merle finally looked at me, "Aww shit Daryl, bet ya she does that yoga shit. Look at her ass. You can always tell them yoga girls by their ass." The tension dissipated at that.

I lowered my gun, "Is he always like that?" I asked, again bewildered by the fact I thought this idiot could hurt me.

"Pretty much." Daryl answered, taking his finger off the trigger, but not lowering his weapon.

"My name is Rose." I told them softly.

I got the idea for this story from a tattoo I want to get. I want to get a tattoo of a thorny vine of roses wrapping around my forearm. To me the tattoo resembles life. Like the rose, life is beautiful but has its painful parts. Let me know what y'all think!