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55: Time To Pretend

My name is Annabelle Lee and you shouldn't like me. The world ended and, yes, I survived, and to some that might be commendable. To some I might be a hero. To some I might be a role model or a savior or any other noble thing you can think of. They are wrong though. They are wrong about me. I am not a good person; I probably never was. There was no honor in this life. There was no glory to be found out here. Just death and deceit, that's all there is. Death and lies and a million things that prove my point that I am not worthy of life. I am not a good person. My name is Annabelle Lee and you should hate me. Right now I'm pointing a gun at a wounded man's head, and if he makes even half a wrong move I'm going to shoot him dead. So, if you see me coming you should run the other way and you should never look back. You should shoot me dead right where I stand, and this is why.

-o0o-

Three months had passed like a day. I had closed my eyes and when I came to I was miles away from the home I once had. I think it was because of the lack of good sleep. I barely slept now, and I was oddly grateful for that. When I slept I'd just have nightmares. When I woke up the horrors were still there, living nightmares wandering streets and trying to make me their dinner. Couldn't escape it if I tried. There was no getting around it, no getting through it, there was just surviving and trying to make it to another sunrise. It's no way to live. This was no way to live. But it is all there is now.

The first time I saw another living person was on the third day of that third month in, and that seemed fitting for some reason. I'd been scouting a house near a river, just trying to find a place to just have a moment to think. All I needed was a day or two to not have to be battling, just a day where I didn't beat some undead bastard's brains in. A day where I didn't have to look at the baseball bat that I'd used to kill my family. I thought I found it in that house. It was a one-story cabin with the shutters drawn and a distinctly unfriendly atmosphere. I didn't care though. I hadn't seen any of those things for miles, so I pulled up and hopped out, bringing my main rucksack with me.

The door flew open before I could knock on the door, a rough voice spoke out, "Get off my property." I saw the twin-barrels peak out of the darkness.

"Please," I held up my hands, "I'm not infected, I just need a place to stay." I nodded back to the car, "I'll give you whatever supplies I can spare."

A man stepped out; he must've been in his seventies by the look of it. His face was relatively clean-shaven, and his hair was almost white, "Ain't been bit?"

"No." I kept my hands up, "I swear."

He nodded back into the cabin, "Come on in then." I took a few hesitant steps up into the house, taking in the rustic décor, and wondering if he was going to shoot me. "Make yourself at home," He set his gun down on the small dining table, and smiled over at me, "You hungry?" Kindness? Was he for real?

I shook my head, "On no, just getting to breathe easy is good enough for me."

He started fiddling around in the kitchen, I saw him put on a kettle, "How long have you been out there?"

I sat down on the couch and let out an involuntary sigh, "Three months."

"Been alone the whole time?" Something about him calmed me. He seemed so completely pleasant. I didn't think kindness would survive long after all that had happen. I thought kindness would be the first one to go, but here he was. Letting in a complete stranger and making tea by the looks of it.

I nodded, continuing the conversation, "How long have you been up here?"

"Since the first news report came in," when the pot began to hiss he took it off the burner and poured the steaming water into two mugs, then added the teabags, "Figured it would be better away from everything."

I remembered the terrors outside for a moment, "It's scary down there."

"Here," he handed me the cup and sat down in a chair adjacent to me, "Whenever we came up here my wife would always force me to drink this stuff. I've always been more of a coffee person myself, but it's been growing on me."

We talked until the night came. Not about anything really, but at the same time about everything. It was effortless with him. He told me about the war he'd been in, Vietnam. He told me about his wife a bit, but changed the subject quickly. He told me how he'd grown up nearby. He told me the entire story of his childhood. I returned the favor. He insisted I didn't hold anything back. He said that after everything that happened it might be helpful to just speak our minds; that had helped him the most when he got back from Nam, and speaking the truth was the best thing for troubling times. It was nice to speak so candidly with someone after all that time talking to myself. I think he felt the same, because he'd urge me to continue, or elaborate, or he'd go on his own tangent. I don't think I'd ever had a conversation like that with anyone, let alone a complete stranger. In fact, by the time we called it a night I'd say we were no longer strangers. By the time we went to sleep we were practically friends. A new friend after all that had happened; it seemed unreal. Unreal, but I was grateful.

-o0o-

The next day we ate well and continued our storytelling. It probably would've been too weird to consider before all of this, befriending someone who could have been my grandpa, but it felt so natural. Sometimes I think that friendships are predestined, like Amanda and me, and now Mitch and me. Sometimes two souls just find it easy to be around each other, or maybe it was just nice to be near someone who was still alive. Either way the conversation flowed and the weight that had been cast on me was lifted significantly.

After dinner I decided to ask him about the one topic he'd been avoiding: his wife. "Is that your wife there?" I pointed at a wedding picture of a young man and woman. Must've been from the early seventies by the look of the hairstyles.

"Yeah," he picked up the frame and looked at if for a while without a word. When he did speak I could hear the agony in his voice, "I lost her about a year ago. Heart attack."

"I'm sorry."

I saw the tears growing in his eyes, "It's been hard. Miss her so much."

"She's beautiful," I tilted my head to look at the picture. She was. She looked like an angel in that dress, and a happy one at that. I don't think I'd ever seen two people smile so wide in my life like they were doing in that photo.

"Most beautiful woman in the world," he rubbed the glass of the frame a bit, "I used to tell her to be one of those models, since she was so pretty." I caught him quickly wiping a tear away, before he resorted to the smile I'd grown used to since I'd arrived, "Want to hear how I met my Maryann?"

"Sure," I turned to face him, leaning against the armrest.

He took a sip from his tea, "Well, I had just gotten back from my tour in Nam. I'd seen so much over there, it took me a few years to sort myself out again. Then a few of my old buddies were going to this festival called Woodstock, so I tagged along. Figured it might be nice." He stared at the picture once more as he spoke, and I could tell from the look in his eyes that he was back there, "It was the afternoon, and for some reason, I can't even remember, I needed to go to this little medical tent they had. That was when I saw her; John Sebastian was playing 'She's A Lady,' and she smiled at me and I knew that I was done for. She took care of me ever since." The way he looked at her was something else. I'd seen my parents look at each other lovingly, but not like this. Mitch and Maryann were in a league of their own.

I didn't even think before I said it, "So, it is real."

He slid out of his trance, "What?"

"True love," I felt so awkward saying it, so childish.

He leaned in a tad closer, "Didn't your Ma and Pa love each other?"

I shrugged, "Well, yeah, but they met in college. I think my mom was dating one of his friends, and then they started seeing each other. They never really told me for sure."

He shrugged too, "Different for everyone, I suppose." He set the frame down and picked up his mug, "I don't think I ever looked twice at a girl until I saw Maryann," he looked over at the photograph, "Then she was all I could see."

"She was lucky to have you." I might have felt jealousy then, but I was too preoccupied being amazed that a love like that even existed.

He let out a cackle, "No, it was definitely the other way around." He took another long sip, "It wasn't always easy, you know. Don't think I'm sayin' that. Some days were hard, we'd disagree about something, but it never lasted long. She used to always say that she could never stay mad at me."

I couldn't help but smile, "Good."

"We did fight though, twice." Together for almost forty years and they only really fought twice. My parents were always fighting, it seemed. Or at least, they did when they were still here.

"Do you remember what they were about? If that's not too personal of a question," I picked up my own mug.

"What did I tell ya? Nothing's too personal, not anymore. I mean, the rapture is coming, the time for keeping things private has passed." His eyes glazed over again, "To answer your question, I do remember the fights. The first was because she couldn't have children. I'd told her they had different treatments we could try, and there was adoption and we could find a way, but she wouldn't have it. She said if we were going to have a kid she's want it to be a little bit of her and a lot of me. There was never any convincing her, not when she'd made up her mind about something."

That explained why there were no pictures of kids around, it was just them, "How'd you guys get past that?"

"Simple," he shifted his legs so the other foot rested on the coffee table, "One day, after we'd had a big shouting match about it, she stayed the night with her parents, the first night we'd spent apart, the only night we ever spent apart. I remember that night so clearly. I couldn't sleep, I wasn't hungry, all I wanted was for her to come home and be next to me. So the next morning I showed up at her parents' with a bouquet of carnations, said I don't care about any of it as long as we were together."

"What did she say?"

His eyes got misty, but he didn't look away from me, "She just hugged me at first, and eventually she started to cry and say she was sorry she couldn't give me a family. Said she looked in to all the options already, but the doctors told her they wouldn't work. Not for her. I told her she was more than enough family for me, and we could be just as happy with just the two of us."

"That must have been so difficult," it felt stupid to say, but it was all I had and he didn't seem to mind.

"The second-most difficult experience we ever had together."

I had to ask, "What was the first?"

He sighed, "Five years ago she had a heart attack. I'd been out with some of my old war buddies, catching up, telling stories. When the hospital got a hold of me I rushed over there as fast as I could. I'd never been more angry in my life."

"You were mad at her for having a heart attack?" That didn't seem like him at all.

"No, but you wouldn't have known that by looking at me. I was so cross with her, but it wasn't because I was mad at her. It wasn't her fault. It wasn't her fault that I hadn't been there. It was all mine. All I could think was that she had been scared and I wasn't there. I wasn't there to protect her, to be with her when she needed me most. I wasn't there and it still kills me. She'd survived it, but I never really forgave myself for not being by her side. Don't think I ever will. That's love I guess: needing to be there when things are bad. Needing to take care of the person who matters most. When you can't do that it kills ya." Tears came back to his eyes, more severe this time, "And now she's gone. I just want to be with her again. I mean, what if she's scared?"

I reached out and patted his knee, "I'm sure she's safe."

He grabbed my hand so quickly I jumped, "I want to be with her again." He squeezed my hand, looking right into my soul with those swollen eyes, "That's why I let you come in, let you stay here."

"I-I don't understand."

"My Maryann is in heaven, I just know it," his eyes darted to the old shotgun on the coffee table, "I'm tired of being apart from her."

"What are you saying, Mitch?" Was he asking me to…? No. No way.

"I'm saying that I can't get to her myself, you need to help me," his grip intensified, "It is the only way."

I tried to pull my hand away, but he didn't let up, "I can't."

"Please," his voice was filled with desperation, "Help an old man get back to his wife." I sat there and thought. It was true, he missed his wife more than anything, I could see it in his face. But did I have to do it? Did it have to be me? Could I just leave him here to wait for Death, knowing it could be a long time for him? Could I keep him from getting back to her? But could I really kill a person? A real living person? Even if they were asking me to? I can't explain why, but I looked at him and nodded. The second I did his hand released, "Tomorrow morning, I'll make us some breakfast and help you pack all of my supplies in your car, then I go and see her." He stood up and took a few steps to his room, picking up the lantern.

I looked over at him, "This is really what you want?"

"It is." There was no hesitation in his voice.

I pulled the blanket from the top of the couch over me, "Let's get some rest."

-o0o-

I woke up to the smell of bacon, and it took me a second before I remember where I was. I was in my new pal Mitch's cabin, the same man who wanted me to kill him today. The same man who I was considering killing today. I rolled off of the couch and looked into the kitchen; he was at the stove, pulling the last few things from the griddle. He'd made a feast already.

When he saw that I was up he smiled over at me, "Just in time for breakfast."

"You really went all out," I sat at the table and eyed the spread.

"You should never skimp on a last meal, Annabelle." All color drained from my face, and all that blood went to my heart, which had suddenly become weak. Last meal. I looked over at him as he spooned some scrambled eggs onto my plate. "Don't look at me like that; I'm the happiest I've been in a while."

I carefully picked up my fork, "So you're still wanting to do this?"

"I know it's a lot to ask," he sat across from me and began to put the various foods on his plate. Once he'd served himself he picked up his fork and looked at me, "I just, I can't do it, suicide is an unforgivable sin. Won't be able to get into heaven and that's where my baby is. I gotta get to her."

I nodded, looking back down to my plate, "I know, Mitch, I know."

He pulled an envelope from his pocket, "This is for you." I took it from him and went to open it, but he stopped me, "For after." I nodded, trying to put it from my mind, and went back to my food.

-o0o-

"Have you," I searched for the words as I stood beside Mitch's bed, looking down at him with the gun in my hand, "Made your peace?"

He smiled at me slightly, "Said my prayers and everything." He looked so small then, lying there in that bed clutching the wedding picture. I could feel the heat behind my eyes; the tears were coming. Could I really do this? Could I really do this to someone who had been so kind? Could I really do this to my friend?

My voice was shaky when I spoke, "A-and you're s-sure about this?"

He looked over at me with such conviction. Of course he was sure. He held up the picture and looked at it, "There's only one thing I've ever been sure about in my life, and that's Maryann. I need to get back to her." I'd never seen that. I'd never seen that kind of love. Not in movies, not anywhere. It was real. It was Mitch and Maryann and it was forever. If this is what he wanted, I couldn't keep him from her. I couldn't keep them apart. They belonged together.

"Okay," my tears were flowing now, a steady stream. I wiped the snot that had begun to impair my breathing on my sleeve. I looked down at him through the watery veil, "Ready?"

"Yes," he pulled the frame to his chest and clung to it.

I can't believe I'm really going to do this. I can't believe I am actually going to do this. I turned off the safety on my pistol and readied it, trying not to sob, trying not to disturb him, but I couldn't help myself. I was going to kill the one piece of niceness that was left in the world. I tried to hide my sorrow, but my voice betrayed me, "You j-just think about her okay. D-Don't think about this, think about h-her."

When I placed the barrel on his forehead he whispered, "I love you, Maryann." I closed my eyes, sending a wave of salt water down my face, and pulled the trigger.

Bang.

I felt the tingle in my hand from the shot, and I didn't move. I couldn't move. I just stood there, gun still in place, and I cried. It came in a succession, the pulsing of my shoulders in accordance with my sobs, the mucus clogging up my nasal passage, the emptiness in my chest. The first person I met since this all started, and I killed him. I killed someone who was still alive. I killed a good man.

I stood there weeping for as long as I could, not wanting to move, not wanting any of it to be real. Eventually my arm got tired, so I was forced to pull it in. I made the mistake of opening my eyes. There he was, the life was gone. I killed a good man. I killed a friend. My stomach quivered and in a moment I was puking up breakfast in the corner of the room. What had I done? What had I done? I turned back, only glimpsing his foot, and I knew I had to get out of here. I can't be here. I can't stay here any longer. I wiped off my face and walked back out into the main room, past everything and out to my car. I needed to get away. I needed to get away from this.

When I opened the car door the white envelope was sitting there. Harmless and deadly on the front seat. I picked it up and sat in its place, buckling in before opening it.

Annabelle,

Thank you for your kindness, and for helping me get back to my Maryann. By the time you read this we'll both be looking down at you and smiling. Even with all the craziness of this new world I know you'll find someone to love you just like how I love Maryann. You deserve that kind of happiness for what you're doing for me. I'm glad we got to meet, even if the circumstances weren't ideal. You be good now, and know that your buddy Mitch is watching out for you up in heaven. I'll say 'Hi' to your family for you; let them know they should be proud. You're a true friend.

Stay Safe,

Mitch

-o0o-

My name is Annabelle Lee and you shouldn't like me. By any belief's standards I'm going to hell, or I'll be reborn as a piece of crap. There's no getting around it, that's just the way the chips fell. I'm not the good person I pretend to be. I killed a kind man, and several not-so-kind men after that. I've lied to the people I care about. I want to feast on human flesh for Christ's sake; I'm not a good person. I don't think I ever was.

A friend of mine, and the first person I ever killed, once said that the time for secrets had passed, and that speaking the truth would help ease the struggle during troubling times. And now, looking through the darkness at the injured man, mouth watering, trigger finger itching, I'm starting to think that maybe he was right.

So, there you have it. Thank you for reading. :))) I hope you all enjoyed this one (and FanFicGirl10 I'm sorry for postponing, but I had to do this). I had so many feels writing this baby, and I hope someone gets what I was trying to do with this. :) Please review, it makes me a happy writer.

Question Time! What do you think about Annie's decision to stop hiding? Do you think she'll actually go through with it? Also, what do you think of Mitch's story? And do you hate Annie like she hates herself? Can't wait to hear your thoughts!