If I thought living before the outbreak was hard, it’s nothing compared to living after and unable to speak. I try. I try so hard to talk, and nothing comes out. Until I’m scared, and then it’s like a goddamn animal dying. But no matter how much I want to tell someone my story, tell someone what happened to me in the past when the outbreak first started, I can’t.  I can, however, write it down.  Not like I will show it to anyone.

When it first happened, I found myself on this island. It was long ago, only 3 years ago, but it seems like 300. I met up with a band of people, Mike was the leader. He fashioned himself as one at least. We were at the 8’s motel, that was our home. It was not a compound like it is now, but it was pretty open. I met a few nice people, one silent kid about my age, another seemed quite depressed. Hell, we all were. We stuck together, really, it was a close knit group with a lot of different types. Some military, some just kids like me. It was a hard time, before there were generators and before there was really any structure. I got along okay, until I met Donovan.

Not the Donovan I know now, though when I first learned his name I almost ran far and fast. It was another Donovan. He was angry, always angry, but somehow let me in. He protected me, I felt safe. At first. We fled the island and went to the main land where he was from. I knew no one, he knew everyone.

The random acts of violence were often when he was over stressed, or somehow got hurt on hunting missions. Everything was a backhanded compliment. “You look very pretty today, but you didn’t cook dinner right.” “Thank you for supper, but it was overcooked.” Slowly he wore down my barriers, my self defense, my pride. Soon I was left with nothing. The beatings happened more frequently, and when I would go for help to the hospital he’d tell them it happened because I was too careless on a hunt. They stopped believing eventually, no real reason for me to be there so often.  Then he stopped bringing me to the hospital and instead locked me in a closet, or an attic until I healed enough to be functional. Every time I spoke he would tell me to shut my whore mouth, then proceed to hit it. I stopped talking. I stopped living. Two years of that, and I was nothing more than the zombies that ravaged our planet.

One night, six months ago I cooked venison he brought home. I had a few potatoes and I fried them up in the fat of the meat. There was hardly enough to go around, so I made myself a small plate of potatoes and gave him the majority of the food. I spiced it with salt and pepper, some garlic I had left over and served him the meal. He finished it all, told me how good I cook, then backhanded me for putting too much garlic in the meal spilling my plate on the floor, telling me to eat it like the dog whore I was. I wasn’t fast enough getting on the floor, and he kicked my knees out, causing me to fall on top of the food. His foot planted into my back, slamming my head down on the plate and breaking it into shards.  After yelling at me to clean up the mess, I started to pick up the sharp pieces. Another kick sent me sprawling as I didn’t clean it up fast enough, the shard in my clenched fist bit deep into my flesh. Blood spilled out from between my fingers, and something in me snapped. He expected a little fight from me, but he didn’t expect the shard that went into his neck. His blood mixed with mine as I shoved it deep, pushing every last part in with my palm. Nothing stood out and he swung for me, knocking me into the table. That is the last thing I remembered before blacking out.

I woke to find the table broken, my body twisted on it. I am able to get up, nothing major broken, and I survey the room. The trail of blood leads into the bedroom, a piece of broken plate on the ground outside of the blanket that serves as a door. I creep up, slowly, and pull the curtain back. He lay on the bed, blood soaked around him, pale and eyes open staring at the ceiling. Creeping up, I poke him. He doesn’t move, and when I touch his face, he is cold. I panicked, and knew that his crew would be looking for him, so I packed up what little I was allowed and I left. I ran for the coast, the only way off of the main land. There I met another named Donovan, and bought passage on his boat.  I proved myself able to find rare things, like fuel.

That is until it all ran out of fuel and we once again were brought to the island. My first home. It’s changed so much, everyone has. So I’m back. Working at the Dollhouse to cut hair, massage, or nails. Now that survival isn’t everything, there are luxuries people wish to have now. And I feel alive. For now.