Sup ya'll. So seeing as I'm actually writing stuff, and I have a steady flow of creativity, some comments, some follows, would be verr' much appreciated :D This is my first REAL attempt at fanfic, and I'm pregaming for the new season. Bear with my attempts at humor. :D I plan to make this a very awkward relationship. Norman Reedus himself said that if his character was going to have romance, he wanted it to be really awkward. Well awkward it shall be. Now read! Comment!
Before the outbreak, Alma was exactly what one would call a couch potato. Sitting for hours a day on her computer, she was glued to her Netflix account and Pornhub. A task by day, duty by night. She still kept herself in decent shape though, or so she told herself. Whether it was through sex or occasionally hitting (and losing to) the gym, she kept herself from the deep depths of obesity. But that didn't excuse the thin layer of chub over her 5'1 frame. She always tried to convince herself that it would be easy to melt off those few pounds and show the muscle beneath, but she knew she never would.
All her life she joked that a good apocalypse would make her nice and skinny, and wipe out America's obesity problem. Decrease the surplus population, and knock out a lot of people she always kinda wanted to see zombified.
She then thought quietly to herself, Be careful what you wish for, McFatty. She knew she couldn't run for shit, her endurance was a bitch, and she had pigeon feet. Her fat, round ass was like a dumb-bell pulling her gradually closer to the fiery pits of hell where she probably belonged. At least she has painless tits. A manageable B. At least she wouldn't be giving herself black eyes when she ran.
When the zombies struck, she immediately began cursing zombie movie makers, yet thanking them so much. She thought secretly that they were part of some conspiracy pact to test all their fictional (now non-fictional) zombie theories. She truly believed for a solid 30 minutes when the dead began silently shambling down her street that it was all those motherfuckers'damn fuckin' faults. However, she thanked then infinitely for the knowledge gained- nail the suckers in the brain, don't get surrounded, don't let one within 10 feet of you without killing it, and don't you dare fucking make noise. Those fuckers can hear the fat on your body sloshing around, no less your wheezes as you try to roll yourself over the edge of that fence.
When it happened, she was at her parent's old house, an inheritance after they (luckily) died of old age in the comfort of the home in which they raised their three children. A small place, built too long ago on shifty rooms were filled to the brim with swollen and sore memories of a time much simpler than this. She remembered, as the dead walked past her house in small herds, oblivious to her presence within, that her siblings might still be kicking and screaming in the world beyond.
Alma's brother was god knows where with god knows who, so she chose not to worry about him. Like her, he knew how to laugh at the bad things in life, and it was laughter that kept the survivors surviving. Something within her told that Charles was fine and kicking more rotten ass than she ever would. Maybe in all the havoc, he'd find some man as gay as he was to love. The thought made her smile.
However she could shake her worry for her dearest sister, Emily. From day one, Emily was her partner-in-crime. A tyrant and a friend. A shoulder she knew would never slouch if it was supporting Alma's head. A heart in which to bury one's own, and a mind so quick, so sincere, that it broke you down into humble, inferior tidbits. You gladly let it. However, Emily was not a girl keen to fairy tales, like the one unfolding like a shadow over the earth. Her sister would be holed up in some mansion, up in the ritzy half of New York where she designed famous buildings, denying that anything was wrong. She'd curse private school, and God, and her boss, and maybe our mother, but she'd never stop to think maybe it was real. For once, her math problems couldn't solve the issues at hand, and Alma knew innately that her sister was NOT okay.
She had to reach Emily.
She knew from the moment the emergency broadcast was aired that her only place was at her sister's side as it had been for years. New York was quite the trek from Houston, Texas, but goddamn Alma wasn't a quitter when it came to those she loved most. She would easily give her life, her health, her laughter, her sanity, to save those she held most dear. A martyr, she joked. A fat, sarcastic Jesus who's too damn selfish to die for some fucker's sins, but self-loathing enough to put her desires aside to elevate another's. That was what a martyr was anyways. A suicidal mascochist/people pleaser. She truly hated every second of that existence, but Emily needed her. And like a martyr, she faced the dead with no intention of dying, simply so that she might live to save another, and eventually die to give life to someone who is more deserving.
When Alma left, those thoughts in place, she knew she wouldn't be coming back.