this was surreal. this was what he had wanted so long ago, back when he was twelve and shipped off to boarding school. this was what he had wanted so long ago, praying to a deity he didn’t believe in. his words and his breath were stuck in his throat; he’s not sure how to react. his sister was still with him, alive and as uncooperative as always. his parents...were not. his parents...were in front of him? his parent. singular. the corpse of his mother was in front of him, her face different from the last time he had seen her. when was the last time he spared his mother a glance? months. years? no, it wasn’t that bad. months. it had been months - she called him to check up on his progress in school, and he thought to himself: “now she cares?” he was bitter and she could tell from his voice. did she say anything? 

no.

the thing looking at him right now wasn’t his mother. his mother was pristine, clean, orderly. her jewels always shined and her hair always in place. her smile was like a small cuts against his skin; now? her mouth sat half-open and half-closed. this was...surreal. her eyes were no longer the brown she had been born with. they were green, blue, yellow? he couldn’t tell. it was something inhuman. her face was now rotting into a murky gray, looking like a floor once residue has dried to its surface. her teeth were now jagged, yellow, and rotting. her nose was now different. her walk, once so tall and proud, was now slouched and slow. 

“hi.” his voice is rough; it’s seen better days, ones that were well fed and not hanging onto the last bits of water. ones that were privileged. it’s soft. he doesnt want to attract the attention of other walkers. his mother’s head snapped back to him, his eyes zeroing in on him. this was it. the moment he had eagerly waited for. it was coming and it was going to be his. he could see her brains splattered on the floor of the field, her daughter coming back and rushing to help her. he could see retribution. but -- 

that was a fantasy. not a reality, not until now. not until she’s coming towards him and his weapon is raised, the blade shining in the pale sunlight. nolan’s not sure what to do; he’s running on autopilot. this is a new world. different. he’s not the same person he was before -- if he’s going to survive, he can’t let emotions sway him. if he was going to make it until next month, he had to slash and kill anything in front of him. even if it was blood that connected them. even if she was the one who had been kind to him during the first years of his life. this is a game of family feud that has gone for too long. 

his weapon strikes and he’s sure he’s never going to forget the sound it makes. the blade connecting itself to the skin, the bone, the muscle. it’s sickening - haunting. he keeps swinging. nolan can’t stop. how will he clear this transgression from his mind and soul a few weeks down the line? nolan is usually one who plans ahead of time, but not now. he tries to comfort himself once he’s sure the walker is dead -- he had no choice, it was either she died or he died (she, being dead, and he, being alive; she, being the past, and he, being the present and future). he had no choice but to leave her there, his mind frazzled and confused, and leave the responsibility to someone else. he had no choice but to keep his mouth shut as he reunited with his sister, her mocking his fruitless mission for supplies to keep them going; his lips were sown shut once he joined crimson tide. if they knew that his mother’s blood was coating his hands, soon it will be his blood that coats the hands of another (his sister, probably. selfish bitch).

he still hears the impact of the blade and the corpse in his dreams. it gnashes at his brain; he doesn’t feel guilt, but doesn’t feel another emotion either. not the joy he thought he would feel, or the sadness that might have followed. he just felt empty. unsatisfied. was he supposed to cry like others have during this ride? that was a waste of what little resources were still hidden in his body, hesitant to leave. things happen, people die. a mantra he repeats to himself. he doesn’t feel guilt. another mantra. he shouldn’t. another.