Page 9 of Redemption
He even smells like Darius...
It can’t be him. What are the odds? It’s just not probable. Statistically impossible. Billions of people have died from the virus. They either turned into flesh-eating zombies,becamethe flesh the zombies decided to eat that day, or died simply from complications from the infection. How, after over a year, andwith confirmation that the base had completely fallen, has he survived?
I guess I shouldn’t really be asking that question of him when I can’t even explain how my uncoordinated ass is still alive. No survival skills. No preparation. No fucking chance in hell, but here I am, overcoming one major statistical anomaly after another.
Buthim…
Us?
Together????
We were on opposite ends of the east coast. Him, to the south, racked-up on a military base, doing whatever the fuck he was doing out there. And then there I was to the north, surviving my daily routine with no intention of seeking him out ever again. That is... until the zombiesdecided to take over and I, after everyone else died, made the decision to abandon everything that meantsomethingto me, to instead make the journey south to find the one person who proved I meantnothingto him. Regardless of the fact that I walked my happy ass all the way down here to find his royal douchebaggery, the big question remains: How is he standing in front of me?Me?!Here?! Right now?!
Has he been looking for me or is this a complete accident? Coincidental serendipity.
Or... maybe we’ve finally cracked completely, officially lost all our marbles, and manifested the ghost of our sexual past to deal with our current trauma?
That’s... very likely. A lot more conceivable than him just showing up out of the blue to rescue me after years and yearsofliterallybeing ghosted. Logically, after already losing half my marbles and subsequently conjuring an inner voice to rant to—
Oh, that’s me! Hello!!!!
Shut. Up. You annoying fuck...
—and now hearing about them shooting Jax and probably Hawk and Cole as well, any proper psychoanalyst would conclude I've just gone insane. Absolutely certifiably insane. The traumatic events, such as the ones I’ve lived through, can wreak havoc on a fragile mind such as my own. I once read that people with dissociative identity disorder can sometimes manifest new alters when the mind requires it. While I’m not saying I have D.I.D., there might be a chance my overstimulated brain randomly decided to create a new hallucination to deal with my current overly stressful situation.
Logical. Rational. Thinking.
But I canfeelhim.
How can I feel something that isn’t there? If one plus one equals two then me feeling him should make him real... right?
Hallucinations come in many forms, bitch. Even our selfish fuck of an ex. Let’s just sit back until you start hallucinating Hawk, Cole, and Jax. Then, it’ll all be right as rain. One big, happy, delusional family.
As I lie there in the mud, my brain short-circuits with all the possibilities and impossibilities until I’m convinced everything I see around me isn’t real. Nothing’s real. None of it. I was right in the first place. I’m already dead and stuck in fucking Purgatory. That’s the only logical explanation as to how I found three absolutely perfect guys to make me feel alive again and then came to find my fucking ex-fiancé saving me in the middle of a historical garden when he’s supposed to be dead!
“Don’t worry…. Abou—“
Oh great... Now I’m conjuring music.... That’s... That’s just fucking fabulous. Exactly what I need at the moment. As if I don’t have enough other shit to worry about, now I have an everlasting MP3 player stuck on play in my skull. It’s the absolute fucking cherry on my straightjacket-wearing sundae.
I close my eyes tightly at my auditory hallucination. Or maybe it’s real. Who the fuck knows? Bob Marley could absolutely be standing in front of me singing “Three Little Birds” if my logic stands true and I’m in fact already dead. Or, I’ve completely lost the plot and am currently flying over the cuckoo’s nest, once again. Either way, being dead and singing with the King of Reggae seems more entertaining than being crazy, so...
“Sing on Rasta-man...”
With my eyes still closed, my hips begin to feel the music, grinding against the dirt and the prodding steel at my backside. My shoulders join in a moment later as my worries begin to evaporate. A smile pulls at my lips as the song crescendos, realizing I’m about to be one of the few lucky motherfuckers who gets the chance to belt out the chorus with Bob Fucking Marley of all people, when suddenly the man at my back’s hand wraps around my face even tighter, muffling my impending karaoke session with one of the greats.
I huff an annoyed breath at the utter audacity. How dare he keep me from enjoying the afterlife. I’ll be sure to haunt him for all eternity for this, Rick-Rolling his ass, day and night.
Footsteps return to my right, causing my body to stiffen, the hand around my face tightening even more as his free hand moves to his side.
“Anything?”
“Nah, man. We got the other three, though. Might as well just leave a few of the new guys back here with Drone to keep a lookout. No reason for all of us to go hunting for her. She’s just one fucking girl; they’ll find her. No one survives out here on their own for long and, even if she does hide, she’ll fuck up eventually and show herself.”
There’s a grunted agreement, and then the footsteps race off again. At their departure, I press my hands against the dirt, tired of being a mattress for the jolly green giant on top of me. But as I try to lift myself up and out from under him, he doubles down, forcing me back into the grass. His mouth finds my ear a moment later. Soft puffs of hot air escape his lips and stir against my sensitive flesh, creating all kinds of nonsense to build low in my stomach and between my legs.
Ooh tingles.......
Ok... At least that proves thatI’mdefinitely not dead... Jury’s still out on Darius, however.
