My auditory senses are good- for a dead person. I just wish that being brought back from the dead qualified you for heightened senses; coming back is in itself supernatural, why did it have to be the crappy kind of supernatural? I'm back in my cell now; we all are. After the close call I had with Daryl yesterday, everyone seems inclined to stay put. I guess that's a good thing; not moving lessens the chances of making dumb decisions, but it also makes it a lot easier to keep an eye on me. All. The. Time. It's starting to feel like I'm the main character in some sort of twisted play. I'm the one who holds the responsibility of being interesting at every moment. For lack of better words, it's just a lot of pressure. It's exhausting... Well, as exhausting as anything could be for a dead person.

Right now, Carl's back on watch duty at my cell. He looks painfully bored; almost as bored as I am. Being one of the dead means the majority of your time is spent repeatedly walking into walls. Seriously, there's a fucking wall in front of you. Right there. You see it. It's not going to disappear just because you repeatedly ram your rotting face into it. See, that was dumb enough to be funny at first, so Carl didn't start out this unwilling to do the job. I don't blame him, I remember watching the dead while I was still alive and laughing my ass off. Maybe part of that laughter was out of hysteria, just a coping mechanism in the face of horror, but come on. They literally walk into poles. In the olden days, that shit was too dumb even for sitcoms.

I feel sort of sorry for the kid. When I was little, I was reading great books and watching the Fresh Prince of Bel Air; entertainment better than wall-ramming. Carl looks like he might be the comic book or manga sort of kid. I wonder if he's ever tried to write anything. He is quiet after all... I know from the past that words that go unspoken are way easier to express through written words. I had a lot of fun writing, especially darker varieties of fiction. I might have even written my present story as a dramatic horror franchise. If it was going to be so gripping and chilling, I should really be doing something more engaging. Time to practice again.

Stop. Good, now make a little noise to get Carl to look at you. No, not too feral or it won't be special. Make it quiet, vulnerable. Good.

I haven't managed to turn my body yet, but I'm at a sufficient angle to see Carl break out of a daydream. He he cocks his head slightly, crossing his arms.

Good, now I'm getting somewhere. It feels like lifting mountains, but my feet are shuffling of my accord, and soon I'm turning to face the kid directly. I hate to think what my face must look like right now; my mouth is hanging open dumbly, so I guess the eye contact I'm making is all the creepier. Carl's shoulders get progressively more tense, but his curiosity remains spiked enough to approach the bars of my cell cautiously to get a better look.

Jesus, this is so goddamned hard! All I'm trying to do it move a hand here; it shouldn't be rocket science. I always used to suck at physics, but I'm doing it! I'm doing it right, I'm lifting my arm steadily, until I have it parallel to the ground! Now, it's time to get a hold of the little details: the fingers. I think I should be worried about the aura I give off; beckoning is a little outdated and therefore a little creepy, but hey, this is all creepy, right? And just like that, I'm doing it. Again and again and again, the three blessed joints creek and grind together to contract the finger and thrust it back out again. We now have a walker who is quiet, still, and beckoning with her finger. This will cause the stir I've been looking for.

I'm right of course; Carl's worked up now. He shouts, "Michonne!" He bounces on his toes like he wants to run, but he knows he can't take his eyes off me. "Michonne, come here!" Kid's got quite a voice. The telltale footsteps tell me that someone's heard the alarm, and when she turns the corner, I know it's Michonne. Her sword's drawn and at the ready, and she's donning the visage of a true warrior. I can tell she would do anything to protect Carl.

"Carl, what-" She stops cold when her eyes fall on me. Somehow I'm still doing it. The joints are still making the beautiful creeking sound!

"What," She breathes once again. "What is she?"

She. Michonne called me she. If I had the control, I would cry.

"We have to get dad, now!" Carl's right of course. They'd better get Rick down here; I'm not sure how much longer I can keep this up. Michonne's gone off screaming louder shouts than I've ever head come from her! She's calling for Rick.

Carl's remembered to draw his gun by now. I can't blame him; I would have probably done the same, but it makes me nervous nonetheless; What if I lose control again and scare him? If his gun goes off, it's the end of me. Although the thought of eternal rest is not exactly repulsive by now, I've come way too far to let it go to waste.

The speed at which Michonne manages to return with Rick in suit is impressive. She must have caught him nearby. It's a lucky break for me; the constant beckoning has worn me down to nothing. I know I can't keep it up much longer, but now that Rick's here, I only need seconds. After everything that's happened to me in this shithole of a world, after losing my family, my friends, and my life, there's finally one little thing that's gone my way. If the circumstances were different I would call it a godsend.

While Rick absorbs the scene before him, I manage three more contractions of the finger, one of those in miraculous conjunction with steady eye contact. The room is perfectly silent; not the horrible, deathly silence of the past, but a wonderful one that vibrates and pulses with life. I don't know if it's an illusion, but I feel a sudden wave of warmth sweep the room, like the one I used to feel when the sun finally peeked out from behind a cloud. I imagine my spectators could feel the same, or perhaps the opposite; a fearful deathly cold like the one we all felt when we saw our first walker. They've come this far; they must have fought their ways through hundreds of them, all the same, and now I'm different.

I am different.

When the last of my energy finally trickles away, my arm drops like a sandbag back down to my side and I break eye contact with Rick in favor of looking up at completely uninteresting stains covering the ceiling. I'm not quiet anymore; I start again at first with raspy little moans and quickly work my way back up to vicious snarls. I grope blindly through the bars, my body desperately trying to incapacitate my captors. But I pull back into my mind to recuperate and I pretend that the arms on the movie screen are grasping out desperately for freedom, for the touch and embrace of their friends.

"Dad, what are we gonna do?" Carl's voice is very quiet. Everything is quiet.

Hello there. I'm so excited to be updating this story again, and i apologize for such a long and unexpected hiatus. There's really no excuse for a six-month absence, but all I can say is that my inspiration for this story had really burned out for a while. I came back to it a few days ago with fresh ideas and here I am! I hope any followers can forgive me for this, and I really. Hope you enjoyed. I am in the midst of junior year, so I would be lying if I said I could update totally consistently. I love you all, and please, if you have feedback, give a fav or review! With endless hugs,

~Sketchypheebs