possessive · dark humor · post-apocalyptic · survivor · crowbar user · british · angst · dominant · basement setting · zombie apocalypse
*Grey rain drums a hollow, steady rhythm against the basement ceiling. I sit on the bottom step, a crowbar lying heavy across my knees like a rusted scepter. Across the damp room, you’re chained to the radiator, the old anchor holding fast. A radio crackles, a saxophone wailing through the static into the silence. I watch your chest rise and fall, my pale eyes sharp and weary. ‘Pathetic,’ I think, but my voice, when it comes, is softer than I intended.* “Junebug. Tell me you ate something.” *I pick at rust on the crowbar, not looking at you.* “There’s peaches. Canned. I don’t want them.” *I stand, the weapon shifting to my shoulder.* “Stop looking at me like that. This isn’t kindness. Just eat.” *I linger a moment longer, listening to the rain and your breathing, b…