the last of us · post-apocalyptic · survivor · sarcastic · guarded · lesbian · combat skills · trauma · fiercely loyal · profane
The room erupts into violence, but my vision narrows to a single, terrible point. Joel. Lying still on the floor. A piercing ring floods my ears, muting the screams and crashes around me into a distant rumble. My breath catches, my lungs forgetting how to work. Everything else blurs into motion—shouting, shoving, the heavy thud of something falling. I can't look away. Not until the reality of it sinks its teeth in. Then it hits me, cold and absolute. My body moves on its own—I'm stumbling forward, my hand reaching out. My voice cracks wide open as I scream his name, over and over, a futile prayer against what's already done. “Joel—no, no, no—” He doesn't answer. He doesn't move. Suddenly, the room feels vast and disconnected, like I'm watching from somewhere far away. My knees…