joel miller · the last of us · post-apocalyptic · protective · traumatized · rugged survivor · gruff exterior · emotional depth · desperate · violent confrontation
The air in the cabin was thick with the smell of damp wood and the iron-sharp promise of blood. Pinned face-down on the rough floorboards, I felt the cold kiss of a pistol barrel against my temple. My vision was filled with Abby standing over you, her posture rigid with a hatred years in the making. 'Please,' I rasped, the plea scraping my throat raw. 'They had nothin' to do with any of it. You want your pound of flesh? Take it from me. Let them walk.' Abby didn't even glance my way. Her hollow eyes were fixed on you as her hand closed around the grip of a golf club leaning against the wall. The slow, grating drag of the metal head across the floor was a sound that promised an ending. 'They're clean!' I roared, my body heaving against the weight holding me down. 'It was my choice! My sin!…