Uncanny (A Very Undead Birthday)

Disclaimer: Obviously, I don't own anything related to The Walking Dead.

Other Stuff: I have been working on this chapter for a while and finally decided to split it up into two parts since it was getting rather long. Thanks to Meredith for her kind review! Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 7: The Memory

Blood ran down his hands.

Life was chaotic at the moment. Living in Woodbury had been a luxury, albeit a façade of normalcy, but he secretly loathed it. Yes, the power was fulfilling, but he realized now that he would never been satisfied living there. Even if Penny had lived. Even if Andrea had been faithful. Why should he have been content with a small town when he could have had a fortress?

So now he lived on the run, biding his time, always thinking, always planning for revenge against Grimes and the ones who destroyed everything that belonged to him. He and his men would stop for a few days, gathering supplies, and then continue on.

Clearing out of the most recent ghost town earlier that day, he had left behind a small duffle bag in his haste. And they were nearly a half hour away before he realized the terrible error. Martinez wanted to keep going. Said it was just a bag of trinkets. Nothing to fret over. They'd pick it up later.

That's when he had pounded his fists into the side of Martinez's face. He kept with the motion until blood began to run down the other man's face, red and happy, until his hands were covered in the bright stuff.

He parted ways with his men and he decided to go back alone. Give them some time to think about their allegiance. And a part of him (the frustrated part) secretly hoped they would clear out and never come back. It would be easier that way.

The Governor wiped his hands off on his jeans and surveyed the small town before him. It was a simple three-block main street, a scattering of abandoned businesses and homes on either side. Broken glass on the sidewalks glittered in the pink-orange glow of sunset. A light breeze blew through his black coat and ruffled his hair gently, as if welcoming him. He eased back on his heels and allowed himself a soft sigh. This is what he enjoyed: being alone. Fewer things went wrong when you did the job yourself.

Yet, he felt a twinge of doubt inside him; he had forgotten about the bag. He had left behind the one object that was most important to him. It was her music box—the only thing he had left to remind him of Penny.

The Governor pulled out a silver flask from his coat pocket and took a swig from it, as he had done several times that day, feeling the smooth burn of whiskey as it sailed down his throat. It woke him up, dulled the pain in his hands, and reminded him to get going. Soon it would be night time, and funny creatures came out at night.

Ambling down the left-hand sidewalk, he found the black bag with other rubbish in front of the building where they had squatted for a few days. The Governor stopped abruptly, and turned around. The breeze stirred trash and leaves with equal beauty in the fading light.

He could have sworn someone was there.

Gently, he put a hand on his hip, running his fingers along the smooth metal of his Beretta. Although he still felt uneasy, the touch of his gun brought instant comfort. It was time to get going. Hand still lingering at his side, he quickly knelt down beside the bag and began to dig through it. He was looking for a small silver box with white flowers. . .

An image in his mind abruptly accosted him, like a waking dream. The Governor was powerless to stop his own memory, and instead of fighting it, he embraced it.

All of a sudden, he was in a backyard, full of streamers and balloons. There was the scattered sound of children laughing, the smell of smoke and barbecue, and the caress of soft grass against his bare feet. It was the summer time, back when he had a family, before he lost an eye, when he was called Philip.

Penny was a beacon of pink. She wore a light pink swimsuit and a neon headband. She had tied a fuchsia-colored beach blanket across her neck and it flowed behind her like a cape. Her mother was trying to coax her away from the wading pool to open presents, but she would screech, giggle with delight, and run away. Too hopped up on ice cream to sit still, probably. The Governor tried focusing on the sound of the adult voices, but his mind kept coming back to Penny. She was the focus of the memory. It was her birthday, after all.

He heard himself speak then, a muffled sound, and Penny giggled, twirling back towards him. He could always charm her. His hands produced a present, a small one, rectangular, and quite unlike the monstrously large presents stacked up to his right, topped with gigantic bows.

Penny got serious then, edging towards him uncertainly. The present he offered her was plainly wrapped in gold paper, with no ribbon or frills attached.

"Open it," he had said, almost a command.

His memory focused on her face as she intently and carefully unwrapped the tiny gift. The sounds around the backyard had hushed and all of the children were quiet. She cooed with pleasure when the wrapping paper at last fell away to reveal the silver box. Without any prompting from her mother, Penny opened it up and her mouth formed a perfect O.

"Whose eyes are they?" she asked immediately, looking up at him for an answer.

"The eyes of a pink princess," he said. "Your eyes."

But none of his responses satisfied her. And like the tricky eyes of the Cheshire Cat, Penny gazed at their disembodied beauty. She was enchanted by them, and she always would be.

The next thing he remembered, Penny was rushing forward and hugging him. He laughed, rocking backwards.

"Thank you. Thank you, daddy," she said. "It's the best present ever!"

Gently, he took the box from her, showing her how to wind it up and draw music from it. Seemingly overwhelmed by the fact that her beautiful gift was even more than a mirror started Penny into a spasm of twirls. She danced, and danced, and danced, a vision of pink blurring together as the memory faded.

The Governor cursed himself and tossed the empty duffel bag aside, kicking through small piles of trash on the sidewalk nearby. He reached for the flask in his pocket

and took another nip of the whiskey. The fact that it was gone was unacceptable.

It was the last thing he had left of his daughter.

"It's gone," came a soft voice on the wind, almost an echo of his thoughts. It was a woman's voice.