OOC: Anna backstory
Sep. 2nd, 2006 11:10 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sky_from_seaThe first time the world changed--really changed, in a way Anna couldn't ignore or repress or work around, was a Wednesday.
She'd left the house earlier to help Rachel and Maria find their son, Paul, who'd stormed out that morning into the crazy streets of Boston. They all hoped he'd been smart enough not to travel into gang territory, but no one was sure, and panic was high.
They'd found him in a squatter's lean-to six blocks over, just on the edge of some really bad territory. He'd been huddled up, coughing and miserable.
Anna wasn't sure he'd last the night.
"Mom? Daddy?"
She pushed the door open carefully, looking at the mess of an uneaten dinner.
"Guys? I really hope you don't expect me to--"
No one answered, but someone was moving in the bedroom.
"Mom? Did your cough clear up? Because I managed to scare up some more Robi--"
She stops, foot hitting something soft and sticky, and then the smell--rust and copper/iron tang and it's blood and--
"Daddy! Shit, shit what, oh god--"
There's a chunk taken out of his neck, a chunk, and then the door opens and she can see her mother and she knows, she knows, scrabbling backwards, hands sticking in the drying blood on the floor.
Oh god, Daddy, you couldn't do it, could you? Oh, god.
The dry click as cocks the hammer on the shotgun isn't loud enough to mark this moment.
The earsplitting bang that follows isn't, either.
But the sharp report of the shotgun as she fires into her father's head, splattering his face all over the floorboards--that one is. It sends her to her knees, bile rising in her throat, lunch and breakfast, and all the food since the beginning of this mess. At least that's what it feels like.
Oh, god. She has to get out of here.
And she does.
****
Philly doesn't look so bad from the outside, and it turns out Ryan and Sarah are still alive, still healthy, still--well, still human. They give her floorspace, and she helps them (and their neighbors) clear zombies out of the next block over. They tell stories in the evenings, remembering college, and crazy nights with too much cheap beer and too many laughs. There are plans to head out of the city, find someplace that looks less like a war zone--get back to nature, Sarah says, teeth flashing white in the dark. It's at least one good thing to come out of this mess.
If there's any good thing, Anna says.
Later, someone else's teeth flash white in the dark.
Anna wakes up.
He's smiling, hand warm and careful on the back of her neck. It makes her feel safe, comforted.
"Hello, kitten. I think we'll keep you."
It's languorous and dreamy, and, she thinks, she's never liked pain so much before.
Oh . . .
****
She wakes up again, later, so hungry she can't see straight. It's almost the same feeling she gets after she's given blood, only it's scratching angrily at her stomach and her brain and the back of her throat, so maybe it's not like that at all.
Then there's warm smooth shoulders under her hands, and the hunger peaks, screaming in her blood, in the blood, and she bites down, reveling in the scent/smell/taste/feel.
It's like bliss. Like sex. Like heaven.
Like home.
"Oh, kitten. You're so good at this--a natural. Come on, now. Finish up."
The voice is soft, indulgent, and again there's that warm hand cupping the back of her neck. She leans into it, blinking up at the man, licking the blood from her lips as she drops the woman in her arms.
The woman--
The--
"Better now?"
She throws up all over his boots.
***
"You can't refuse to eat forever, kitten."
He's standing by the door, leaning, hips cocked just so.
"Watch me."
That would be more impressive if she wasn't curled in the corner, nails digging into her arms, into her palms, blood-smell rising up around her, nauseating and appealing at the same time.
He laughs, pushing away from the wall with his lower body, turning to head out the door.
"Oh, I will. And it'll hurt you more than it ever does me."
She has to believe he's lying. Has to.
Turns out he isn't.
****
"Now there, kitten, that wasn't so hard, was it?"
She spits at him, struggling weakly away from the dead boy in her arms, one hand coming up to wipe at her mouth.
"No. No it wasn't."
Bile rises in her throat again. She swallows it back down.
"It was damn easy."
He grins, leaning over to cup her cheek, this time, thumb stroking lightly over her skin.
"Yes, it was. And it'll only get easier. Now come on, the boss wants to meet you."
***
"Kitten."
"Nicky."
"What do you want?"
"A gun."
He gets it for her.
She uses it.
They never say 'thank you'.
It would be a lie.
But only a little bit of one.
This time.
***
She wakes up in an abandoned apartment, the smell of smoke still heavy on the air even after a week.
She wonders if she'll smell it forever.
Maybe.
If so, it'll be just another thing to deal with.
She's not ready to die, just yet.
Killing's easier.
She'd left the house earlier to help Rachel and Maria find their son, Paul, who'd stormed out that morning into the crazy streets of Boston. They all hoped he'd been smart enough not to travel into gang territory, but no one was sure, and panic was high.
They'd found him in a squatter's lean-to six blocks over, just on the edge of some really bad territory. He'd been huddled up, coughing and miserable.
Anna wasn't sure he'd last the night.
"Mom? Daddy?"
She pushed the door open carefully, looking at the mess of an uneaten dinner.
"Guys? I really hope you don't expect me to--"
No one answered, but someone was moving in the bedroom.
"Mom? Did your cough clear up? Because I managed to scare up some more Robi--"
She stops, foot hitting something soft and sticky, and then the smell--rust and copper/iron tang and it's blood and--
"Daddy! Shit, shit what, oh god--"
There's a chunk taken out of his neck, a chunk, and then the door opens and she can see her mother and she knows, she knows, scrabbling backwards, hands sticking in the drying blood on the floor.
Oh god, Daddy, you couldn't do it, could you? Oh, god.
The dry click as cocks the hammer on the shotgun isn't loud enough to mark this moment.
The earsplitting bang that follows isn't, either.
But the sharp report of the shotgun as she fires into her father's head, splattering his face all over the floorboards--that one is. It sends her to her knees, bile rising in her throat, lunch and breakfast, and all the food since the beginning of this mess. At least that's what it feels like.
Oh, god. She has to get out of here.
And she does.
****
Philly doesn't look so bad from the outside, and it turns out Ryan and Sarah are still alive, still healthy, still--well, still human. They give her floorspace, and she helps them (and their neighbors) clear zombies out of the next block over. They tell stories in the evenings, remembering college, and crazy nights with too much cheap beer and too many laughs. There are plans to head out of the city, find someplace that looks less like a war zone--get back to nature, Sarah says, teeth flashing white in the dark. It's at least one good thing to come out of this mess.
If there's any good thing, Anna says.
Later, someone else's teeth flash white in the dark.
Anna wakes up.
He's smiling, hand warm and careful on the back of her neck. It makes her feel safe, comforted.
"Hello, kitten. I think we'll keep you."
It's languorous and dreamy, and, she thinks, she's never liked pain so much before.
Oh . . .
****
She wakes up again, later, so hungry she can't see straight. It's almost the same feeling she gets after she's given blood, only it's scratching angrily at her stomach and her brain and the back of her throat, so maybe it's not like that at all.
Then there's warm smooth shoulders under her hands, and the hunger peaks, screaming in her blood, in the blood, and she bites down, reveling in the scent/smell/taste/feel.
It's like bliss. Like sex. Like heaven.
Like home.
"Oh, kitten. You're so good at this--a natural. Come on, now. Finish up."
The voice is soft, indulgent, and again there's that warm hand cupping the back of her neck. She leans into it, blinking up at the man, licking the blood from her lips as she drops the woman in her arms.
The woman--
The--
"Better now?"
She throws up all over his boots.
***
"You can't refuse to eat forever, kitten."
He's standing by the door, leaning, hips cocked just so.
"Watch me."
That would be more impressive if she wasn't curled in the corner, nails digging into her arms, into her palms, blood-smell rising up around her, nauseating and appealing at the same time.
He laughs, pushing away from the wall with his lower body, turning to head out the door.
"Oh, I will. And it'll hurt you more than it ever does me."
She has to believe he's lying. Has to.
Turns out he isn't.
****
"Now there, kitten, that wasn't so hard, was it?"
She spits at him, struggling weakly away from the dead boy in her arms, one hand coming up to wipe at her mouth.
"No. No it wasn't."
Bile rises in her throat again. She swallows it back down.
"It was damn easy."
He grins, leaning over to cup her cheek, this time, thumb stroking lightly over her skin.
"Yes, it was. And it'll only get easier. Now come on, the boss wants to meet you."
***
"Kitten."
"Nicky."
"What do you want?"
"A gun."
He gets it for her.
She uses it.
They never say 'thank you'.
It would be a lie.
But only a little bit of one.
This time.
***
She wakes up in an abandoned apartment, the smell of smoke still heavy on the air even after a week.
She wonders if she'll smell it forever.
Maybe.
If so, it'll be just another thing to deal with.
She's not ready to die, just yet.
Killing's easier.
