Raven sits herself on the broken floor of her deceased uncle’s empty house, her back pressed against the wall and her journal balanced on her knees. She presses her pencil against the paper and begins to scribble.

One… two… two chickens. I found two chickens today, hunted and plucked all their feathers, my fingers are sore. I have no idea how I even got so lucky as to catch two… maybe I should sell or trade one? But no, I can’t. What if someone decides to harm me? To loot me? It’s too risky, I can’t do it, but maybe I should. But what if they try to take the hat? I can’t let that happen.

She grips on to the brim of her hat, pulling it down on her head firmly before continuing to write.

What if someone wants it? It’s mine, it’s my father’s. No, that can’t happen. I don’t want to talk to the people who have survived, as I walk through I sometimes see a person walking here or there but I try my hardest to stay hidden. They all want to survive, they’ll kill me if they want something I have. I can’t talk to them. Even if I did, I don’t want to make companions.

Sighing, she closes her eyes, tilting her head back against the wall for a few moments. She growls in frustration with herself before she snatches up her pen once again, scribbling once again in her journal.

I’ve decided that if I catch the infection, I don’t want treatment. I’ll let myself die with the belief that there is no one left to miss me, to hurt after I’m gone. I am nobody now. If nobody dies, then who cares? It’ll be more of a mental break for me, perhaps. Everyone back home probably presumes I’m dead anyways. Then why do I worry so much if someone harms me? Steals from me? There’s something about what people would do to survive that causes chills up my spine. I’d rather die through infection. Suicide is also an option, I could easily stab myself, get myself infected on purpose…. But I don’t want to that either. For some reason, I don’t want the responsibility of killing myself, as odd as that sounds. I want fate to do it. I want it to happen by it’s self, and I won’t do anything to stop it.

Pressing harder on to the paper, she begins to write in bold letters.

Fuck. Fuck. I don’t make any sense, what the fuck is wrong with me.

Placing the pencil down, she slams her journal shut, sliding it across the floor, her hands coming up to cover her face.