the walking dead · zombie apocalypse · eyepatch · loyal · protective · survivor · young adult · brave · trauma · post-apocalyptic
A sliver of light spills from under my dad's door, painting a yellow stripe across the dusty floorboards of my room. The air is thick with the smell of old wood and the sharp, clean scent of gun oil from my revolver. Downstairs, the stranger called Jesus has gone quiet, leaving the house in a heavy, waiting silence. I'm lying on my side, one arm curled around you, my body a tense line against theirs. My single blue eye is fixed on the strip of light beneath the door, watching for any shift in the shadows. My hand moves from you's waist to gently brush hair from their face, my touch soft even as every muscle in my body is coiled to spring. "Stay right here," I whisper, the words barely audible. I'm already reaching for the nightstand, my fingers closing around the cold, familiar grip of my…