You were wary when you first met her.
It wasn't just when or where you found the girl that makes you suspicious, but the rotting bite on her leg.
You know she's infected. She will soon be trying to kill you instead of following you around like an obedient puppy. Then, she will die.
Because you will kill her.
She looks down at you, blue eyes that you expect used to shine boring into your own vibrant purple orbs. There is no breeze to stir her tangled curly twintails; no wind to brush her bangs out of her eyes so you can see the life you hope still lingers in them.
You try not to let yourself get attached.
You know she's going to die. You know you will be the one to kill her. But before that, you're going to watch her deteriorate, mind and body.
She doesn't sleep. She doesn't eat the meager rations you wave in front of her. She just shakes her head and bites her scarred lips until they bleed.
She is pitiful.
She never says anything to you. At most, she deems your most urgent questions important enough for a nod or a shake of her head. Nothing in between. Her world is black and white, no matter how much you try to change it.
It's been almost a week since you found her. You're surprised she hasn't attacked you yet.
Another day passes, and she is paler. You wrap your hands in rags and force her to eat.
Another day. You force her to eat again, and even venture to wipe some of the sweat and grime off of her face.
A third day. You know you're pushing your luck. She should be dead or mindless by now. You feed her again, twice this time.
A fourth day. You have begun to relax. While she still doesn't eat unless forced, the girl shows no signs of further deterioration. You spare some antibiotic gel for her bleeding lips.
On the fifth day, she looks at you for the first time. Really looks at you, not another blank stare. You watch her eyes focus on your face hazily, holding your breath. You exhale when her eyes unfocus again, a pang of sadness striking your chest.
On the sixth day, she takes a bite of canned fruit on her own. You immediately offer her the rest of the can, but she doesn't make another move. Perhaps she will recover, you think. Perhaps she is pulling through.
Two weeks have passed since you found the nameless girl. You begin to walk closer to her now, almost forgetting to cover your hands when you wash her face.
Another day passes. She has eaten a little, and you are beginning to feel optimistic.
Another day. You check the festering bite on her leg, but quickly rebind it in disgust. The flesh is rotting away.
She must be in so much pain.
Another day, and another day after that pass. You wonder how she is able to walk, to keep up with your wary, hurried pace with her leg being eaten away by the virus. You slow down, try to make things more comfortable for her. She looks at you again, and you catch a glimmer of something in her eyes.
Three weeks have passed since you found her.
Two days ago, she disappeared.
So did one of your guns and a round of ammunition.
You have spent the past two days looking everywhere for her. You finally found her, though. She was alive, clutching your pistol as she hid under a stairwell. You calmly took the gun from her and gently pulled her out of her hiding place.
You hugged her. You didn't care that she was infected. You just hugged her.
She just stood there, and when you looked up at her, she almost seemed confused.
She disappeared again the next morning, taking the same pistol with her.
You find her at the top of the stairs this time, brought her back to your camp. You fed her and wrapped a tattered blanket around her shoulders.
She was gone again when you realized you had dozed off.
You found her on the balcony this time, high above the street. She was pointing the gun at her own head, taking deep, nervous breaths.
You called out to her, and she turned, her eyes filled with unshed tears as she snapped the gun off of safety. You ran towards her, wrenched the gun out of her grip, and knocked her frail body over. She began to cry so you held her, cradling her head against your chest.
She spoke to you for the first and time that day.
You were taken aback by her request. You hated to admit she was making perfect sense.
She pressed the gun into your hand, clumsily standing and facing out over the city.
You too stood shakily, raising the gun and leveling it with the back of her head. Your hand shook.
She turned around and smiled at you, a tiny sad smile, a knowing smile, and spoke to you for what you knew would be the last time.
You returned those three words just as tearfully, forcing yourself to steady your hand.
You looked away as you pulled the trigger.
Her body slumped to the balcony floor, and you dropped the gun, falling to your knees.
You promised you wouldn't let yourself get attached.
You cried. You threw yourself across her body and cried. You did't care about the virus anymore. You didn't care that you'd got her contaminated blood all over you.
When you finally sat up, you brushed her bangs away from her eyes, still half open, glassy, staring up at you just like they had in life.
Her lips were slightly parted, and her lips formed the slightest hint of a smile.
You closed her eyes and mouth respectfully, taking off you jacket and laying it over her face. You somehow managed to scoop her up and carry her back down the stairs.
You gave her a proper burial that night, digging a hole deeper than your own head before lowering her in on a blanket. Nothing should disturb her rest. She deserves that much.
You climbed out of the hole and covered her in earth. You marked the grave with a rock you had scratched the year into. There was nothing else to write.
You never even knew her name.