The difference between Marceline and her mother was very simple. Marceline swerved to avoid hitting road kill out of respect for their lost life. Her mother didn't want intestines nor blood spatter on her new Porsche.
Mom was ice queen; her only friends ravishing vanity and irresistible money - as fake as the ones that came over for brunch every Sunday.
Human morals long abandoned, she held herself like she had a pole lodged in her spine and something constantly balancing on her chin. Her mouth was always turned up in either a condescending sneer – most popular when she regarded her "pathetic excuse of an offspring" - or an artificial smile laced with plastic malice.
Marceline hated her smile. It was as white and neat as her $5,000 (custom-made, she would add in a pristine voice) Armani suit. Deities protect whoever all but breathes in its obsessively ironed direction.
Just like her mother's individuality when she was a teenager a dim, light flickered on and off in the corner of Marceline's vision, drawing her attention. As she lifted her head, her hazy chocolate eyes sliding open to look up at it, it flickered out, and the room was once again engulfed with darkness.
A darkness that covered all the cracks in the stone and the dried blood caking the cold, unforgiving floor that she lay so stiff upon.
But her eyes were open.
She could see.
Theoretically, anyway.
As her eyes adjusted, the window appeared -a dark smudge of a square. She squinted, trying to see beyond it. Past the shadow. To Morgan. She had been delusional when she first saw him. He was definitely breathing. Right?
Of course. Don't be stupid.
The sigh hurt her (probably broken ribs) and she grimaced as she tried to push herself up off the floor. Her arms shook so bad it was distracting, so she just gently laid herself back down, pressing her forehead to the cool slate. Her eyes squeezed shut as she cleared her head, breathing in a pattern.
Gerbils scattered and turned to dust in her memory as she shook her head, pushing herself up once again to an agonizing sit. She hunched over slightly, gasping for air before she felt her way to the blurry window and pulled herself up. She collapsed against the glass, gory hands streaking its smooth surface red, the fog from her quick breath hindering her vision even more.
There was no chair. There was no Morgan. The room was empty- very, very blurry and heavily bloodstained, but empty.
Maybe she had been hallucinating.
They had been short on rations lately, and cut their meals to once, maybe twice a day if they were lucky.
Speaking of, the dizziness buzzed behind her eyes again and she collapsed to a sit, leaning her head back against the cool concrete wall. Her hazy eyes scanned the room. No vents or windows. Probably the basement, then. The door was bolted shut from the other side, and the window on it was barred.
Or maybe this was all just a fucked up trip and there were no zombies and she was in a police interrogation room, finally coming down. It would be worth her mother's screams.
If only.
Certain that if she didnt leave soon she'd be eaten, Marceline forced herself to stand and make her way to the door. It felt like her insides were dragging behind her as she walked, leaning heavily against the wall for support.
She felt her hand brush against the handle of the door and, as useless as she knew it was, tugged down on it.
It opened.
What the fuck?
She immediately looked around the hallway - empty, as far as she could tell. She inched quietly around the door, shutting and locking it after her. Maybe they'll think she's supernatural or some shit.
She creeped down the hallway, searching for a stray pipe or a loose floorboard or something she could defend herself with. She knelt and slipped a hand in her boot, hope squeezing her eyes shut.
She felt the handle of her small switchblade and breathed a sigh of relief, standing and flicking it open with a sharp snap of her wrist. She could almost feel luck sitting on her shoulder.
The silver, engraved knife gleamed in the buzzing fluorescent lighting as she held it up, examining it for any damage. She heard footsteps and froze, eyes flickering around before she pressed into the shadows of a wall, breath falling shallow. Two familiar voices echoed into her ear, and she held her breath as they walked by. They made it to the end of the hall, unlocking the door. One of them peered in, and immediately yelled.
"Where the fuck did she go?!"
Marceline's heart nearly jumped out of her chest as the two ran into the room and she moved down the hall with tense speed. Just as the two turned, making to leave, Marceline slammed the door shut on them, bolting it.
Their protests, screams, and degrading profanities fell on deaf ears as she tossed stealth aside and ran down the hall, her grip on her knife tightening.
She crouched as she neared an intersection of halls, and she took the right on a whim. It worked in video games, and reality's rules didn't really apply anymore, so why the hell not?