Hey! Updattttte! *IMPORTANTISH* Alright so I might have said sometime earlier in the story that Rebecca's eyes are gray like her father's, but they're not. They're green. I tried to find my mistake, but couldn't locate it a second time! Sorry!
Love for follows, favorites, and reviews!
Flowers: OMG! YOU LOVE MY GRAMMER? I'm not being sarcastic, really. I just felt so insecure about my writing on that last chapter and I love to know that you thought it was okay. Thank you so much! I really try to write well and make it so everyone can follow along, but I know that's not always the case. Especially with this being my first fanfiction story. I send you much love. *sprinkles and hugs*
SilverAdvenger12: Sorry for leaving you hanging! And I know! Daryl, he's just… and so… and yah. He's just everything. Thanks for the support and encouragement! *Money and friendship*
DIUC: Thank you so much for the feedback! I tried to make Daryl, well, Daryl. I also really wanted to show where this story is at in the show with how I portrayed the characters. I love that you liked this chapter, sometimes I'm just super unsure of my writing! *laughter and love*
FrogsCanBePrincessesToo: Thanks for the support, friend! *ice cream and hugs*
Disclaimer: I do not own the Walking Dead, however, if slavery was still alive and well, I wouldn't mind owning Daryl Dixon. And there I go sounding creepy again… *sigh* oh well.
Stiff = zombie or walker
I peered around the room. It was a small café, unfamiliar and bright with a misty intensity. Round, clean, and shiny tables were placed strategically around the room, comfortable chairs surrounding them. At the back of the café, a display case stood, empty and vacant. The lights glowed bright, shining down on where the pastries and cakes should be presented. Coffee machines and espresso makers lined the back shelves, a cash register and menu stationed in front of them.
I furrowed my eyebrows in bewilderment. I made a complete three sixty as I scanned my environment. When I finally froze my movement, confusion had fully set in.
I ended up plopping into one of the many plush chairs, trying to puzzle through the mystery of my location
"You always loved those chairs when you were a kid," a female voice snickered, love coating every word. I snapped my head up.
My mouth opened and closed a few times before I jumped back to my feet in shock.
"Momma?" I asked doubtfully.
She looked the same as I remembered. Her healthy, chest length auburn hair framing her soft, motherly face. She didn't have a gray hair, not even at the age of fifty-five. Green eyes sparkled lovingly as she leaned against the wall, a steaming cup of coffee in her hands. I had always been grateful to inherit those deep, beautiful eyes, but had been jealous of my sister, who had received her stunning auburn hair. Mine, a dull, burnt looking chocolate, couldn't even begin to compare.
I didn't know where she came from, but I couldn't care. I ran up to her, pulling her in for a tight hug. She was my exact height, not too tall, not too short, but I still felt like a child in her arms.
"I missed you too," she laughed, responding to my unsaid words. I hummed in response.
"Where are we?" I chuckled.
She pulled away, pausing to take a sip of her coffee, which had miraculously not spilt, and gestured around her.
"We used to come here when you were just a child. This is where your father and I met." I nodded appreciatively around at the small café, accepting her answer immediately as truth.
A bright smile on my face, I searched for my sister, believing her to be near. "Where's Riley?" My mother's content smile suddenly faltered, but didn't disappear. "Dad and I, we've been looking for you guys."
Her grin was now completely gone, replaced with a contemplative frown.
"Riley's not here, Rebecca," my mother informed me. I cocked my head, trying not to panic at the strange tone in her words. "Thank god for that too," she added in a whisper, more to herself.
I stepped back, suddenly noticing just how hazy everything seemed. How I couldn't see anything past the bright light shining in the café window. How I felt trapped, unable to leave this one room full of shiny tables and useless coffee. Everything rushed back to me. My injury, the stranger, my rescue, being separated from my father.
I peered down at my shoulder, seeing my lack of injury and noting my clothing change. I was now clad in a dress, a simple white sundress with eyelet lace and thin straps. My shoulders were bare, no bullet wound or scar marks on either of them.
A sick feeling came over me as I stared at my mother.
"Am I dead?" I asked bluntly, fearing the answer and looking forward to it at the same time.
She smiled faintly, it tinted with sadness and heartache. I held my breath.
"No."
I blew out a huge sigh of relief, unable to accept this as my end.
She didn't appear relieved though, just kept looking at me with a forlorn smile. Fear crept back into me. I took a hesitant step forward.
"Are you dead?" She didn't say anything and she didn't need to. The expression on her face said it all. Grief, regret, and sorrow mixed together, all showing clearly on her face, answered my question. "Oh, momma," I murmured, realizing just how real the possibility of her death had been. Just how real it was. Tears crept into the corner of my eyes. I shut my eyes tightly, forcing them to refrain from falling.
"Sweetie, don't cry," she cooed, placing her coffee down and moving toward me.
I felt arms wrapping around me a second time, surrounding me in a maternal embrace. I did as she said, staying strong and keeping the waterworks at bay. I needed an explanation more than anything else. I stepped out of her grip after a long moment of savoring her nurturing touch. Studying her face, I felt sure I would see a bite mark on her neck or a bullet wound in her head, but her skin remained as clear as I remembered it being.
"How? How did it happen?"
Her emerald, intelligent eyes examined me. "I don't think that's something you should know," she whispered. I narrowed my eyes, daring her to deny me this bit of closure. She sighed, giving me a warning look. "There were too many of them, of those monsters. Someone had to distract them. It was Riley or me." I didn't cry or yell at her words. I understood them. I understood what she did, but I didn't have to like it. I kept my face emotionless, not wanting my mother to see me as weak when she seemed so strong.
I swallowed before letting my eyes drift around us.
"So where are we, really?" I quizzed.
"Somewhere… in between."
What awaited us on the other side? Was it hell? Was it heaven? Was it something else entirely?
Switching my gaze back to her, I scrunched my forehead in consideration.
"In between what, exactly?"
She laughed, her normal light and airy attitude back. "Do you really think I'm allowed to tell you that?" my mother countered.
"What are you supposed to tell me then?" I tested, grateful for a chance to see my mother, but intrigued as to why she was visiting me from… wherever she had moved onto.
"I'm here to tell you that you're special, Rebecca," she stated, a warm smile on her face.
"But-"
"You're special, Rebecca, remember that, you and your sister both. It's time for me to go now."
Her face blurred suddenly. The whole room, the whole world, around me began to flicker. Pieces began to fade before my very eyes.
"Momma?" I cried, jerking my body forward in attempt to capture her image.
"Wake up now," my mother breathed, as if she stood next to me and not across from me, vanishing before my eyes. Everything turned to black. The tables and chairs dematerialized. The walls and the light shining in through the windows melted away. My mother disappeared, leaving behind nothing but a black abyss, and two words urging me to find consciousness.
"Wake up." I groaned, awakening to aching bones and tender muscles and a throbbing head. Though a biting cold still ran through my body, I felt warm blankets surrounding me, helping my body temperature to stay even. "Wake up," a soft female voice ordered again.
I opened my eyes, instantly noticing the severe pain in my right shoulder. I groaned, trying to ignore the slight pounding in between my temples and burning in my shoulder. I remembered everything that had happened, everything, including my lifelike dream.
A lamp to my right cast a comfortable sheen of yellow around the dark room. I peered up at a woman. Her blond ringlets, so contrary to my mother's wavy auburn, were tied back into a loose bun. Blue eyes inspected me briefly before an intense light was shone into my eyes.
I whined in surprise, but managed to keep my eyelids from shutting out the offending brightness. After a moment of checking both eyes, she removed the beam, which I recognized as a small flashlight, from my eyes.
"Reaction time is fine," she murmured to herself. She flicked her eyes upward, pondering something. "Pupil dilation is equal in both eyes." I watched, abstaining from making any more noise. This woman couldn't appear threatening if she tried. Her face had lines of kindness, her posture mimicked that of a mother, ready to hug her child at any moment. Her eyes, though a radiant cerulean, held grief filled sadness. I instantly had the urge to trust her, but still avoided speaking, preferring to observe. She hadn't done anything to hurt me and I didn't think she would. When her cold fingers wrapped around my wrist and she brought out a stopwatch, I didn't even flinch. After a short amount of time, she backed away from me.
I tilted my chin toward to her, a silent thanks for helping me, whether she wanted to or not. She offered a curt nod in return.
"Hershel!" she called, retrieving a glass of water from a dresser across the room. "Hershel, she's awake!" Even while shouting, her voice remained soft and compassionate. Moving back toward me, she brought the water to my lips, batting away my trembling hand that grabbed for the water. I took a long gulp, relishing in the feel of the water wetting my dry lips. How long had I been out? "Small sips," she instructed. I swallowed another drink, taking in much less this time.
The door opened. A man with a stethoscope and gloves came in, shutting the door gently behind him. His hair was white and his face was aging, but he had sturdy steps and a strong aura. He quickly glanced at me before turning away. His voice came out slightly raspy as he spoke.
"How is she doing, Patricia?" So that was the woman's name, Patricia.
Patricia stepped back. "She is still pale. She doesn't appear to have brain or nerve damage, but I didn't suspect there to be. She seems coherent, though she hasn't actually said anything. Her pulse is at one hundred and ten beats per minute, healthy, but still going a bit fast. "
Hershel nodded, pulling up a seat and settling down beside the bed. The bed I was resting in, much comfier than the last one, smelt clean. I felt as if I was dirtying it with my sweat, filth, and blood.
Actually, I probably was.
Hershel placed a gentle hand on my wound. I winced, but didn't yelp. It took me a minute, but I noticed the fresh bindings. I smiled slightly, knowing that somebody, or somebodies, had been taking good care of me. I sighed, feeling significant less weight in my shoulder, though it still ached with a scorching pain.
"The bullet?" I asked.
"Rebecca, yes?" he implored, needing a confirmation of my name. I nodded. He sat back, preparing himself to answer. "You were out for about an hour. During that time, we gave you some pain medication through an IV, low grade stuff. We've had to ration out our drugs, so you're not getting much, if any. Any pain you experience is normal." I brushed his words aside, just grateful they deemed me worthy enough to waste medication on. "We were also able to get the bullet out, clean the wound, and stitch it up. I bandaged your shoulder with fresh bindings. It should heal nicely, but we have to consider the fact that you have lost a significant amount of blood."
I bit my lip, following, and knowing what that could mean. "How long before my body goes into shock?"
Hershel rubbed his gloved hands together, leaning forward with a contemplative expression. "You may not go into shock at all. You could pull through safely. Your body just needs to replace the blood fast enough. But you could also go into shock and your body could give out. I'm going to give it to you straight; we don't know what's going to happen here. We can only hope and pray." I let my head collapse back onto the pillow, closing my eyes. Hope? Pray? I had been shot, I had been separated from my father, and I had just experienced a dream expressing to me that my mother was dead.
"I'm not sure if I'm God's favorite person at the moment," I murmured. If it really was up to chance, if it was truly a gamble, then I concluded that my situation wouldn't end up with an optimistic outcome. I only had a moment to wallow in self-pity before my sister's and my father's faces flashed before my eyes. I needed to stay strong. If hoping was all I could do, then I would be the best damn optimist in all of history. I opened my eyes, trying to offer the man who had treated me a smile. "I guess I'll just need to have some faith?" I chuckled, my statement coming out more as a question.
He nodded, giving me a soft upturn of his lips. Hershel hesitated for a second, before shrugging to himself as if giving into an irrational thought. "Can I ask what your blood type is?"
Who would willingly donate blood to a stranger? Andrea and I had been close once, but that had been a long time ago. We were both different people now. It was a new world, one where she didn't owe me anything. I didn't even know if she possessed my same blood type. I hadn't identified how many people lived on this farm yet, but I assumed the rest of them wouldn't give their blood willingly either. I decided to answer anyway, a small piece of hope struggling to survive in my heart. "A positive," I sighed, feeling the desperateness of my response.
He stood up just as Patricia moved in closer. She had been standing in the corner of the room, out of the way, taking everything in, but as soon as she determined that Hershel's and I's conversation had ended, she leaped to attention. He turned to her solemnly. "I'm going to go talk to the others, inform them of her progress, tell me if anything changes." She nodded quickly.
"Wait," I called. He raised his eyebrows at me, lingering in between the doorway and the bed. "Where is my gun?" No familiar weight tugged at my hip. No gleaming piece of metal rested on the dresser. I tried not to panic, knowing it wouldn't be good for my body to handle the added stress, as I waited for an answer.
I didn't expect his response. I thought I would receive something about how I couldn't be trusted with a weapon, how it wouldn't be safe to harbor an armed stranger, but I heard something I would never expect to hear in an apocalyptic world.
"No one carries weapons in the house," he informed me curtly, a reprimanding tone to his words. I tried to keep my mouth closed as I relaxed back into the pillows. Really? A zombie infestation, plus the possibility of dangerous hostiles, and he wouldn't allow guns in the house? I slight smile came over my face unexpectedly. Something about it felt so normal and fatherly and ordinary, that I couldn't help but feel warm inside.
However, the feeling soon dissipated as I worried over my unprotected state. If I didn't end up dying from blood loss or infection, I would be extremely pissed off if, out of all things, I got killed by someone just because I didn't have a weapon to protect myself with.
As soon as Hershel exited, Patricia crept back over to me, patting my hand when she was within reach.
"It will be alright," Patricia comforted softly, as if sensing my bleak attitude.
I stared at her, taking in her worried but confident eyes. Something made me think that she truly believed her words, compelling me to put trust in them too. "How do you know?" I probed.
Her fingers twitched nervously and a dark and miserable shadow shrouded her face. She turned her head away.
"I just do."
I understood then, in just one look, I received the reason for all of her poise and kindness and pain. She had lost someone. She needed me to be okay so that she could maintain her courage. She needed to believe that people could survive in this world. That living wasn't a lost cause. That she had a reason to struggle through this difficult life. Who was I to take away her hope?
I nodded slowly.
"Okay," I offered, not disagreeing. She sighed despondently in response. "I think I'm going back to sleep."
Patricia pulled the blanket back over my cold form with an understanding grimace.
I succumbed to the weariness. If I didn't have anyone, would I be fighting this hard? Would I have given up if it had turned out that everyone I loved had perished? If someone I cared about had been killed would I be strong enough to survive like Patricia seemed to be doing? I could wish and want and imagine that I would, but I didn't know. Death would be easy to surrender to, willingly or unwillingly.
People feared death so strongly. In truth, I didn't want to die. People were counting on me to stay alive. I wanted to keep breathing for as long as I could. I didn't necessarily dread death as passionately as most individuals, but only because I had seen so much of it, of its affect, that I knew the truth.
Going on was hard. Attempting to stay alive and keep pushing forward. Fighting to live, to breathe another day, challenged you mentally and physically. Knowing that you couldn't give up, couldn't have a break. Knowing that you'd have to keep hoping and fighting for something better, something that might never come.
I understood, I really did.
Dying was the easy part.
I was awake, but I didn't say anything. I didn't alert anyone to my awareness. I waited. I listened. I observed with my senses.
"Are you sure you want to do this? Give your blood to an outsider?" Hershel interrogated. It sounded as if he had repeated this question many times before. I didn't take offence from the enquiry. It didn't sound like a warning. It seemed as if the old man wanted a last chance to confirm someone's request, to make sure they wouldn't be making a choice they would regret later on. A male voice, familiar, though I couldn't place it, replied softly in the background.
"Yes, if it was Carl on that bed, I would hope someone would do the same. She shouldn't have to die, not when we can do something about it."
I couldn't help the upward quirk of my lips.
"There is still the possibility that she could recover without the blood." I held my breath, thankful for this person's offered kindness, even if they didn't act on it. A silence followed, but then I heard the sound of clothing being yanked back roughly.
"I'd rather the chances of her living outweigh the possibility of dying," the man explained gruffly.
The sound of supplies being shuffled clanged in the background. "You sure, Rick?" Hershel murmured. I'd have to remember that. Rick, the man I now owed my life, along with a few other people.
I heard Hershel's feet shuffle over to me, ready to wake me up for the transfusion. I felt him hovering over me, waiting for an answer. I shut my eyes tightly. I yearned to see the person's face, but I would just have to wait until Hershel woke me up. Until the man gave his final verdict.
This time, there was no hesitation in Rick's answer.
"Do it."
Whaddya think? I tried to capture the meaning behind the title of my story, I really did, but I don't know if my example went through clear enough. Anyway, how was the chapter? Interesting or, kill me before I die of boredom, uninteresting? For those of you who wanted to see the interaction between Rick and Rebecca, you're just going to have to wait, but, don't worry, I'll show it!
Tell me whatcha think! Thanks for reading!