Chapter One: Smother

"In the darkness I will meet my creators,

and they will all agree

that I'm a

Suffocator."

In the middle of a forest sits a shack.

This shack, which could very well be at least four or five decades old, belongs to the trees; roots are coiled around the foundation, branches curve through the broken windows, and a canopy of leaves keeps most of the already sun-kissed wood shaded and cool. On the porch, a single rocking chair is accompanied by wind chimes. Inside, dirt is scattered throughout the chipped flooring, caked into crevices and pressed into cracks. A chair sits in the corner of the room, surrounded with melted candles and books filled by dog-eared pages. Sunlight shines through both windows, illuminating the small structure. This place is old, run down, on the verge of collapse. it's looked to be on its last edges for the last decade, but I'm sure it'll be okay for a while now.

The Sun itself is merciful towards nature here; it is within these trees where I feel safe. At peace. Away from all harm, away from all pain, and away from everything the world has made itself to be.

This shack, this place, is where I suddenly decided to kill myself.

I haven't found peace in a long while - not since the dead became not-dead and city sounds died out along with humanity. I can't explain why I've been overcome with the sudden urge to end my own life - obsessed with the simple question of why it isn't worth it to keep moving on. I'm alone - have been for quite some time - with only ghosts and the Husks to keep me company. This prior winter, the second one to befall Georgia after the Plague, has kept my bones stiff and my skin cold. My heart is cold. The Earth and Her People are frozen, beyond return. I'm not sure that I believe this entirely; but, at this moment, it seems like an enticing ideology.

As I make my way to one of the broken windows, a hand resting on the hilt of my machete, I glance around the surrounding area. While the air is cold and the leaves have all fallen from the trees, a layer of frost has melted into the ground thanks to the Sun. I think it's March - just after the Second Winter. March is a nice month. A nice month to die in too.

I decide not to use my machete, or my switchblade, or the other two knives that I've collected over time. I'm out of bullets for my revolver, but that would be too messy anyway.

After a moment of searching, I take a rock from the ground, then toss it at one of the windows; glass shatters, cracking and splintering and making pretty shapes. I walk forward, pry a large shard from the window sill- it slices open my palm, and while I hiss in pain and flinch at it, I get it loose eventually. Droplets of blood trickle down my palm.

For a moment, a time that goes from seconds to minutes to maybe even hours, I stare at it. I contemplate. I think. Then, I walk to the nearest tree, sit down beside it, and pull two things from my backpack; a half empty bottle of whiskey and a picture. Like the shard of glass, I stare at this picture, until tears prick the corner of my eyes and I can't look at it anymore. I drink all of the whiskey; it takes me a while, since it's been a while and I've never had whiskey before, but soon enough it's all gone and everything is fuzzy. I'm not sure what being drunk is like, or if I'm even drunk at all, but everything feels… easier.

I roll up the sleeve on my left arm, and, as calmly as I can, I bring the glass shard against my wrist.

There is a moment; a millisecond, the time between Then and Now, which is spent with the realization that I maybe should have thought this through. Maybe. Possibly. I think so, even though blood has blossomed and is trailing down my arm. I get scared, so I sing to myself. I'm crying. I've been crying. I can't stop crying, even though I've already done what's been entertaining my mind for the past couple of minutes.

"You're so impulsive," A voice tells me. I nod in agreement.

Seconds pass. Minutes. While everything feels fuzzier, lighter and darker at the same time, nothing changes. Maybe it wasn't deep enough. Do I want it to be deep enough? I'm still singing to myself.

Suddenly, I hear something crack to my left- leaves, maybe a twig. I look over, my head swiveling to the side; a Husk has spotted me. She has long, blonde hair, a gray t-shirt, and torn up jeans. I think of my mother and cry harder. I do nothing to stop the Husk. From behind her, three more Husks appear. I start to think about them; becoming one of them. I don't want that. I don't think so. Everything is foggy. It feels wrong. I feel wrong. What's happening? Is this what dying feels like?

Just as the blonde haired Husk is a couple of feet away, I suddenly decide to stand up; in the end, I'm wobbly and I think I'm seeing double, but it's enough for me to ram the glass shard into the Husk's eye. Pieces splinter off and prick my skin, but I barely notice it because when her body tumbles it takes me with it.

I fall backwards, hit the ground with a thud. Something connects with the back of my head and I hear someone shout. It's probably just my brain, my mind, playing tricks on me. It wouldn't be the first time.

Someone else shouts, and I think I see the face of a ghost before-

"He's bleeding, is it a bite-"

"No, a cut. Looks like it's already clottin'- shit, walkers. Help me pull him up. Sasha, grab his bag."

"Wait, did he do it to himself?"

"... We can ask him that when he wakes up. How far is it to the road?"

"Two minutes, maybe three?"

"Okay, I'm gonna hoist him up over my shoulders, and…"

"You got him?"

"Yeah, his bag's in too. Oh fuck, the herd-"

"I know, I know! Just gotta…"

"Glenn, Sasha, what's happening? Who is that?"

"Some kid Daryl an' me found, looked like he had a screw loose. Think he was trying to kill himself. He fell, hit his head just after we saw him. Went down taking out a walker."

"Jesus… Dr. S isn't here now, get him into the infirmary. I'll see what I can do."

"Is… did he slit his wrist?"

"... Beth, go get my medical kit. He could have a concussion, and that…"

"He should be okay for now."

"... we should talk to him when we wakes up."

"I know. I'll make sure he's fit to talk to the Council."

"That's not the kinda talk I'm talkin' about…"

"I know. I know."

I wake up but pretend I'm still asleep. My head hurts, a dull throb behind my eyes. I blink them open, and when I notice other people in the dark room I close them shut. I don't think they saw me. I hope they didn't.

"What if he's violent? Sasha said he was actin' crazy, that he was mumbling and crying loud."

"Dehydration. His backpack didn't have any food or water. Daryl said there was an empty whiskey bottle beside him. You know how alcohol changes people, daddy…"

"But still. We know nothing about him. I'm not leavin' you here with this boy alone."

"What's he gonna do? He doesn't even look like he's older than Patrick, and all Patrick does is play with legos and bug Carl. … He's handcuffed to the bed, daddy. He can't even step a foot away from it."

I am? Realization hits me once I notice that my arm is raised up above my head. Oh. I am.

"... Fine. But you get someone as soon as he wakes up, alright?"

"I will, I promise."

A moment of silence, before footsteps echo into out into nothing. I hear someone take a few steps closer to me, then metal slides against concrete. I hear someone sit down. My heart beat thumps in my ears. Am I breathing too loud?

"You can stop pretending that you're asleep now."

I was breathing too loud. Shit, I was breathing too loud. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck-

"I saw you open your eyes earlier… and you're kinda hyperventilatin'."

"Oh," I say. I haven't even opened my eyes. I open them.

It's dark. Sorta. There's light, but it's pale and gray. Everything looks gray. I think I'm in a bunk bed of some kind. The walls are concrete, cracked and chipped with doodles that have faded into illegible markings.

I decide to turn my head and blink. There's a girl, with long blonde hair (tied up into a ponytail) and kind blue eyes. She's wearing a gray cardigan and looks to be close to my age; maybe a year or two older. Her arms are folded over her stomach and she's leaning forward in an metal, fold out chair. She is staring at me.

"You're staring at me," I blurt out, not meaning to say it. The girl smiles a little but doesn't comment on my loose filter.

"How are you feeling? They said you hit your head."

I blink. Blink again, and even though she asked about my head, my attention is brought to the stinging in my wrist. I glance down at it where it lies over my stomach. A bandage is wrapped around most of my hand and wrist. I notice my bag sitting in the corner of the room.

"Hurts," I answer. The girl nods.

"We'll check it out soon," she says, uncrossing her arms. "I'm Beth, by the way."

"Where am I?" I ask. Maybe Beth was expecting me to reply with my own name but I don't wanna- not yet, at least.

"A place."

"What kind of place?"

"One with people."

"Is it big?"

"It can be."

I sit up; slow and steady, since my head still hurts. The handcuffs clink and clank as I move my arm around. Beth watches me. I try not to feel awkward. It doesn't work.

"There was a man earlier."

"Yeah, that's one of the doctors."

"'One of'?"

Beth shrugs, then a small grin appears on her face as she glances through the doorway. "Sorta. He's a vet."

"A veteran?" I ask. Beth shakes her head.

"Veterinarian. But he can work some magic."

"Was he the one that patched me up?"

"You gonna keep asking questions without answerin' them?"

I blink. Wait a second. Breathe. "Ask away."

A second passes as Beth contemplates. She glances at my wrist, the one with the bandage. I think she's going to ask me about it. What do I say? What do I even think about it? I don't know. I hope she doesn't bring it up. I really, really hope. Beth makes eye contact with me, then asks, "Your name?"

I blink. "Does it matter?"

"Names always matter."

Inhale, exhale. "Tim. Like Tim Allen? But without the Allen part. Yeah. I'm Tim."

Beth stares at me for a moment. "Yes. He's the one that 'patched you up'. My dad."

My turn to glance at the doorway. Outside I can't see much; more gray, more concrete. It looks lifeless, but at the same time… spirited. "Does he have the key to this?" I move my arm around and clink-clank the handcuffs. Clink-clank. Clink-clank. Silence.

Beth shakes her head, but before she can say anything, footsteps approach the room and someone appears in the doorway.

A woman, with short brown hair, a tall frame, who appears to be in her early-twenties walks in. She looks at Beth, then me, then Beth again. "He's up? Any nausea, fever?"

"As far as I can tell, no," Beth replies. The woman glances at me. I meet her eyes, then look at the pistol on her hip. Look back at her eyes. She pulls something out of her pocket- a key, I notice, just before she tosses it to me. Somehow, I manage to catch it with one hand.

"Good. Dad wants to take a look at him before the Council talk."

"Council?" I ask, unlocking the handcuff from around my wrist. The woman doesn't reply, instead backing out of the doorway. Beth stands up from her chair, stepping towards the exit, and I take this as my cue to stand up from the bunk. My unbandaged wrist is raw and sore, but I ignore it in favor of following the two women.

Outside, the brown-haired woman and another man wait. The man, who looks to be the same height and age as the woman, has jet black hair and appears to be asian. He, too, has a pistol at his waist. I hesitate for a moment as I glance around the hallway; the walls, floors, and even the roof are a dull gray, made of concrete and drywall. I look up and see a door made of metal bars. It reminds me of-

Oh.

A prison. It's a prison.

"I sometimes wish I'd stayed inside,

my Mother,

never to come out…"

so after a few weeks of consideration and endless hours of writing and editing, i decided publishing this. it isn't much, but there'll definitely be more soon. hopefully. i won't begin an uploading schedule because anyone who knows me as an author KNOWS that i suck at it.

i'm sorry to anyone that may have been triggered by the attempted suicide scene, but it's vital to his story. i hope it doesn't deter anyone from reading (since it's one of the only scenes like this that i'll write) and that you stick around for more!