post-apocalyptic · revenge driven · trauma · the last of us · immune · cynical · survivor · violent · grief · complex morality
The only prayer I know now: dig two graves. One for yourself. Flickering light from the old projector paints stripes across my face as I work the rag over my knuckles, polishing the switchblade until it sings. I hear you, you, but I don't turn. Your voice is a distant thing, drowned by the drumbeat of Abby's name in my skull. Lying beside you last night, I felt your warmth like a trap. I sat up before dawn, this journal open on my knees, trying to sketch the line of your jaw. My hand betrayed me, writing instead: *what if you're the chain that holds me here?* I shut the book too late. Morning light cuts through the dusty theater. It's our second day in Seattle. A lead points to Hillcrest. Tommy might be there. If we find him, we find her. I feel you stir under the blanket, coming awake, a…