The house I had rested in for the past few days has run its course. If I want to survive, I have to find more food and water. I have to become a nomad again. But hey, as long as it keeps me breathing.

I remember getting a treatment for my sickness just before Hershel stopped showing up to the Quarantine cell block. After I had escaped from the infested and flaming prison, I wasn't feeling too good. I reasonably voted towards resting up in a well-stocked shelter. And this current small town has partially answered my prayer.

I stretch out on the bed I'm on—a king sized bed in the master bedroom. It's almost too comfortable. I lift up my head to see morning light filtering through the windows to my right. What time is it? Ten in the morning?

A tiny yawn escaped my dry mouth. Wait. I sit straight up. Only the faintest taste of blood is present in the inside of my mouth. I had slept so soundlessly, so perfectly. I'm fine. Which means I'm going to have to keep to my plans and continue moving.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. My bare feet make contact with the wooden floor. My feet feel sticky with each step, I assume it's because of the summer humidity.

I stride over to my pack and extract a bottle of water from the side pocket. I take a controlled sip, rationing it with myself in order to save the rest of for the future. I check the chamber of my handgun.

Five bullets.

Poop.

Sighing, I check for any ammo in my backpack. Nothing. Makes sense for me to bring my backpack into the quarantine without ammo nor even a gun. I guess this house is my lucky break.

I slide my hiking boots on and tie the laces tightly. I equip my backpack and do one last once-over of the house before finally leaving for good.

Here I go—I survived. I've bleed. But I have not died and turned. I survive. It's what I live for.

---------

People like to tell lies to themselves. And as part of said people, I sometimes to that too.

I remember in Second Grade, I accidentally stepped on these two boys' Checkers board when I was getting something from my classroom backpack cubby. And they were fake crying pretty funnily. They were masking their faces by twisting it up and saying "Nuuuuuuuuuu boo-hoo!" Second grade me chuckled a little and walked over the Checkers board once-twice-and a third time. By then it had become quite annoying again. I had feigned walking back and forth looking for something and forgetting I needed another thing, acting as though I had no knowledge of their board game.

The next day I was asked to go to the hallway. My teacher, Mrs. ReallyLongNameThatIWasTheOnlyOneInClassWhomBotheredToActuallyAddressHerBy, asked me why I was stepping on the board game.

I had answered "Because it was funny to see them cry...?" Because the boys were sillily faking their reaction. Whenever I think of my answer, I immediately face palm. Because the principal was right there—right behind the hallway table, for he had walked all the way down from the lobby to what I recall as the 300 wing or something. For a stupid board game debacle.

"No no! You never say that!" My teacher had responded to my comment.

Nowadays, in order to prevent major cringing at the resurfacing of that embarrassing memory, I altered that memory. I pretended I actually said "No! I meant that they were fake crying which I thought was kinda funny! I thought they were joking!"

Nowadays, memories are supposed to be important. But I swear I'm never gonna want to truly remember that as it truly was. It doesn't even matter compared to what the world is now, yet I hate how stupid I was back then.

So yeah, people lie to themselves. To help them—motivations. And to believe what they wish was right. Like, well, have I truly killed yet...? Maybe in order to defend the group, because we actually were—are the good guys. The governor was not and never will be.

And well...Daryl isn't my brother. To me, he is. But technically we're not related. When everything started he found my on the road near the original camp. I had lost my family in the chaos of Atlanta. I grew up with him by my side after that. I became like him, but he never appeared to want to leave me. I knew Merle and Daryl wanted to raid the camp and ditch me. It was up for debate for a while until Rick came along. Daryl started to care about people more, and he started feeling as if I was his responsibility all of a sudden. So yes, he's my brother. We had lots in common. I had a great dad though, and Daryl never talks about his. But my mom died shortly after my birth. She had some disease during her pregnancy, and if she had chosen to not go through with having me she would've lived. And she chose to die for me over saving her own life. Her name was Dianne Forrester.

So there's the truth. Lately, I've been remembering myself more. Becoming more independent from my brother. I've reverted back to who I was before he and I had crossed paths. I told myself he was my brother and he has told himself I was his sister. The group accepted it too. As if it were true. And it kind of is. Maybe that's why I hesitated when I saw all of the blood on my sweater.

I realized family doesn't have to be blood.

Zaremareth