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𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐫𝐞 𝐮𝐧.
𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐
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H E R
I am not a person who believes in much.
After the world decided to drop everything and end, with my imminent death most likely breathing down my neck, believing in anything became just a puerile daydream.
But, somehow, I have survived. Even when I should not have. Even when others did not. So, perhaps, there was something to believe in. To hope for.
And, at the very least, I did not lose out in anything by simply believing in something. Whatever it was out there, kept me alive. For some reason, for some purpose. Despite the fact that I was nothing, nobody.
When I had first arrived at the prison, I was merely an orphaned child refugee from a town by the name of Woodbury. To break my heart even further, my father and brother had died just days before when we were at war with the place that was now our sanctuary. I didn't get the full story, but I pried enough information from some of the adults on the bus ride over. Simply put, the man who had been running our safe-holding, who we called Governor and trusted, went insane with his power lust and killed almost all his soldiers, and then screwed off into the great beyond when he realized he was fighting a losing battle. The people at the prison were good, just trying to protect themselves. They were going to take us all in. Put two broken groups together to make one large strong one.
What would they want with a bunch of kids and old people? Sure we had our adults who were capable of actually doing things, but the weak outnumbered them greatly.
My father always used to tell me: "Make the best of things, Ellie-Belly." And I would always respond with: "Dad, I'm too old to be called Ellie-Belly." To which he would say: "Alright, Ellie-Belly-Jelly-Bean."
