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 chaos in motion, Tag: Rosemary || Spring 2014
Griffin Robinson
 Posted: Apr 11 2018, 04:59 PM
QUOTE
Griffin Robinson
The Saviors
16 posts
27 years old
Weapon:
Hunting Knife
© Squirrel
Offline
i shut my eyes, but the world's still burning


we'll find our way out

Silence.

Except -- no, that wasn’t right, was it? Griffin was alone--the twins were safe, back at the outpost--but even without Elias’ excited chatter or the rowdy laughter of the others Saviors, it still wasn’t quiet. Griffin’s boots crunched over gravel as he walked; leaves skipped along the pavement, open doors creaked in the wind, and a walker shuffled its way down the road, jaw gnawing at empty air until Griffin plunged a knife through its skull. Another rotten body, forgotten, left to disintegrate in the middle of nowhere.

Griffin’s gaze fell upon a nearby road-sign; familiar, his own scribble already decorating the back. He wasn’t far from the outpost -- a few miles, maybe. Close enough that he could return in a hurry -- but he already knew he wouldn’t need to, because this was a path well-travelled; not only by Griffin, but also the other Saviors who headed away from the outpost for walker maintenance, or to search for supplies, or to drop in on the other nearby communities, which is exactly why Griffin didn’t bother to search any of the buildings he passed. They were already picked clean.

He wasn’t looking for supplies, anyway. That wasn’t what he needed to worry about, not anymore, because there were plenty of Saviors who were capable of rummaging through deserted houses until they found something useful -- but very few who could stitch up a wound before it got infected. Griffin wasn’t out in the world for his group, but for himself. His family.

How long had it been? Griffin didn’t know. Before he’d arrived at the outpost, the months had blurred together; days into nights, seemingly endless, nothing to distinguish one week from the next except empty packets of food--never enough to feel full, never enough to stop scavenging--and layers of dirt which had clung to his clothes.

Too long. He knew that much. Too. Fucking. Long.

Griffin couldn’t let himself relax. He couldn’t sit still -- not until he knew where Sage and Rosie were. And maybe he’d never know -- maybe it was hopeless, maybe they’d died weeks or months or years ago, their bodies decayed beyond any hope of recognition, but Griffin was stubborn. He was insistent. Until he knew otherwise, until he saw otherwise, they were alive. And if they were alive, he could find them.

A noise jolted Griffin from his thoughts -- a metallic clatter, shattering the uneasy quiet. It was distinct for being so out-of-place; so sharp and sudden, something he couldn’t dismiss as an animal or a walker or a coincidence. Drawing his hunting knife--fingers curled tightly around the handle--Griffin lunged towards the nearest door. He rattled the handle, first, but of course it was locked -- and if the noise itself hadn’t been enough to convince him, Griffin was now certain there was someone else here. Hiding, maybe? A Savior who had been injured on their way back to the outpost and been forced to hole up overnight, or a stranger who’d heard him walking by and decided to lay low?

It didn’t matter.

The handle wouldn’t budge, and Griffin wasn’t exactly the sort to knock politely; he stook a step back, stiffened and braced himself, then rammed his shoulder against the door. Again, and again -- until the wood splintered away from the rusty hinges and the door finally gave way, allowing light to flood into the room.

And Griffin’s heart fucking stopped.

Rosie?” He choked out her name, expression twisting into something unrecognisable as his gaze flicked around the room, briefly, quickly, eyes lingering just long enough to see one of Sage’s knives on the floor--the design the same as his own--and the paper in her hands, and the roundness of her stomach, and the rope. “Fucking… fuck,” spat Griffin, shoving his knife back into its sheath before turning his gaze back to her, expression pained, and confused, and angry -- because he didn't know what he'd expected, but it wasn't... it wasn't this.

“What -- what the fuck are you doing?”


Tag: Rosemary Robinson
BY MITZI
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Rosemary Robinson
 Posted: Apr 12 2018, 12:53 AM
QUOTE
3 posts
17 years old
Weapon:
Hunting Knife
© Amy
Offline
Seventeen. How will I manage? How can I? I'm just a girl.


Just another unwed mother
One more sad statistic now.
Rosemary's pen moved across the paper at a snail's pace. She was not only writing out her entire history. She was writing what would be her last words in this entire world. Written so that no one could deny that she had said them. Written because she was alone and planned to be alone up until the moment she died; which wouldn't be long now. She had a chair set up under a noose hanging from the rafter right next to her. She'd been writing in a sort of stream of consciousness. Just letting the words and the pain and the anguish flow from her however she could. It certainly wasn't good writing. But it was real. The emotions were raw. And fuck it, she wasn't going to kill herself without a reason. She wasn't going to be someone who just gave up because the apocalypse was too hard. No. She was killing herself because she had been abused, mistreated, and forced to bear a weight no one should ever have to, especially at her age. Filled with a rapist's baby. Someone was going to read her story. She would make sure of it.

But Rosie was nothing if not a fighter. And there was a piece of her that was not ready to go. Who gives a fuck if you hate the child you birth? Birth it and throw it to the walkers out of spite, if you have to. Leave it on the doorstep of someone's camp and let fate decide what becomes of it. But don't give the rapists the satisfaction if having killed you too.

Maybe that was why Rosie was writing slowly. She thought she could delay the inevitable. If she took a long time to write out her history, then maybe something would come by and distract her from her plot. Something would force her mind, stubborn and already made up, to go a different road. And then she could delay everything until the baby came and she was forced to face her worst fears. And probably also get eaten because there was no such thing as an epidural nowadays, so she knew she would be screaming. So she took her time. Convincing herself it was only because her last will and testament had to be perfect and make someone feel something for her. She wasn't just another walker. She had been somebody.

Rosie's hands started shaking as she reached the end. Not only because she knew what was coming, not just because of the emotions she felt about writing it, but because she was running out of time. She reached towards her water bottle after she wrote the last words. It was time. As she grabbed the bottle, which had a few drops in it at most, her elbow hit her hunting knife, the same one that had been given to her by her late father years ago. Sage. Sage Robinson. As her note said, she had to make sure she said his name so she didn't forget. Her knife was sent clattering to the floor, hitting the metal of the desk legs as it did. It landed on the ground with a large thud, and Rosie didn't think anything of it for a few moments. She'd have to pick it up, to be sure, and place it next to her note. But until then, maybe she would add just a paragraph or two more. She picked up her pen and started scribbling again, about telling her brothers she loved them. But partway through that key word, love, Rosie's heart stopped.

There was a thud in the door. Followed by another. And another. Someone was breaking in. They must have heard the knife fall. Rosie scribbled the news, furiously now. 'There's someone at the door. Fuck. I dropped my knife on the floor and it made a huge noise and now someone's trying to beat the door in. I'll have to do this tomorrow.' She wrote, not sure why she bothered to do it. Maybe to buy herself more time? She didn't know. Clearly, she had a death wish so at this point what was the harm? She wasn't thinking rationally anymore anyway. All rationale went out the window after she found out there was a baby in her belly and trying to kill it would only hurt herself.

It all got worse once the door finally busted in. Rosie was bending down towards the knife, trying to pick it up to defend herself, but that was easier said than done with a twelve pound basketball stuffed under your shirt. But once the door cracked and the sunlight poured in from the opening, Rosie turned her head towards the sound and instantly wished she hadn't.

“Rosie?”

Rosemary grimaced at the nickname. She cringed at the sound of his voice. She felt vulnerable; bare. She knew what he would see. This was worse than her dead body hanging there. This was him walking in on her at the lowest point in her life. And seeing her again, a part of her wanted to beg for forgiveness. Another part wanted to cry tears of joy, that he was alive and she'd found him again. And the largest part of her felt an immediate anger that she hadn't known she'd still harbored. Griffin killed her mother. Griffin took her away from her mother when she'd needed her most. Griffin hadn't bothered to come looking for her when she was being tortured and raped and beaten and bruised. Griffin was supposed to be her brother, but he was nothing but a Brutus. Stabbing her in the back. And the best part was, he was clearly pissed with her too. As if he had a fucking right to be.

"Hi." She said simply, all of the feelings bubbling and mixing inside of her and coming out in an almost monotone drawl. What was she supposed to say? "Oh Hi, dad is dead and I was raped and look! You're going to be an uncle. Also Ignore the noose I'm redecorating." No, that wasn't possible. She wanted to just run up and hit him instead of talking, but she knew neither one was feasable. Instead she simply stood there. Red hair limply hanging from her pale head, sunken eyes from lack of sleep for years on end, a huge, overwhelming belly protruding from a skeleton of a girl. She didn't know how much he would be able to tell that she'd been hit and punched and choked, but she felt like she'd been hit so hard and for so long that even eight months later you'd still see the yellowed remnants of the bruises. She simply blinked at her brother who in comparison looked like he was at least clean and fed. He looked like a house pet and she like a feral beast; worse for the wear.

“Fucking… fuck,” Griffin said, and rightly so. She knew he'd be like this, but she just hoped she'd never have to see it. “What -- what the fuck are you doing?” Griffin asked, and Rosemary simply blinked. What the fuck did it look like, dillweed? She pursed her lips and gave a portion of the remark she'd thought in her head moments before. "I'm redecorating." She said dryly. She folded her arms across her chest, tucking the note under her armpits and tried to avoid eye contact. Where did they go from here?

"I've been here for a while now." She said. "Few weeks." She didn't mean this exact house, but in the area of this building her brother's drawings led to. She didn't know if she was saying this to make him feel like shit for not finding her sooner or to try to catch up in a way, but she said it anyway. She tapped her foot on the ground absentmindedly. It was a tick, reserved for when she was feeling impatient or anxious. Right now she was feeling both. "I'm not okay." She continued, anticipating some kind of 'how are you?' question. And then she felt the emotions in spite of herself. The pregnancy hormones, it had to be. Tears began to well up in her eyes and her bottom lip began to quiver. But the tears did not fall. Not yet. This was rock bottom. He was witnessing it. And that 'I'm not okay'? Probably the most loaded words she'd ever said. Such a simple phrase to carry so much weight. A piece of her, the quiet, buried piece that wasn't angry at her brother, pushed to the front of her mind with a question, and before she could stop herself she'd said it out loud. "Are you okay?" Her lip trembled some more and she looked at him with doe eyes, shiny with tears that could fall at any moment. She wanted him to be okay. She needed him to be okay.

If only so that she knew that he was in a stable enough place to take all of the hell she was going to unleash upon him once she stopped fucking crying.

Griffin Robinson | 1,527 Words
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Griffin Robinson
 Posted: Apr 14 2018, 04:46 AM
QUOTE
Griffin Robinson
The Saviors
16 posts
27 years old
Weapon:
Hunting Knife
© Squirrel
Offline
i shut my eyes, but the world's still burning


we'll find out way out

“Redecorating?" Griffin repeated, exhaling a strangled noise which could have been a laugh, in a different world, a world surrounded by trees and a lake and the faces of their family, smiling around a campfire. "Looks a bit shit, then,” he retorted--the first thing which came to mind--the corners of his lips tweaking into a forced, almost-smile; one which ended up looking more like a grimace than anything else. What else was there to say? They both knew the significance of the noose--the rope swaying ever-so-slightly as a faint breeze swept through the open door behind him--and the paper, a flash of white against Rosemary’s dirty clothes, the lines of scribbled black ink indecipherable but still there, still real, concealed beneath her arm and tucked away at an angle he couldn’t read -- but she’d still been writing and that was the important part. Griffin hadn’t spoken the question so that he’d receive an answer; he didn’t need her to say it out loud, because he knew. Of course he knew.

He sucked in a breath and stepped further into the room, looking at her through hooded eyes. “You have?” Fuck. “But--” he swallowed the thought. It tasted like bitterness in his mouth, uneasiness settling deep in his bones; a crushing, uncomfortable realisation. Had she seen the signs? She must have, to be so close, for so long. And he hadn’t known. He’d looked -- he’d looked for years, diligently and relentlessly, checking deserted houses and abandoned factories and overgrown campsites, and there hadn’t been so much as a whisper of her or Sage. Nothing. But if she’d been close by these past few weeks and he hadn’t found her even then... how many other times had they almost crossed paths, only for Griffin to take the wrong turning at a crossroads, to linger too long while waking, to spend minutes he didn’t have warming up food which tasted like dirt anyway -- and he could have found her. He could have.

He should have.

It was too late. Too fucking late. “I know,” Griffin replied, voice cracking half-way through the word; he swallowed gruffly, folding his arms across his chest. He didn’t add any bullshit comments--anything like 'but you will be' or 'it gets better'--because there was a time when Griffin would have spat in the face of anyone who’d tried to tell him that life would ever be good, but Griffin wore his scars on his skin--ugly, disgusting puckered ridges, a mess of criss-cross lines down his back--and while Rosemary’s seemed familiar in the way she held herself, they were different, too. Visible in wide eyes, in almost-tears and a balloon-sized bump attached to her thin frame. Too thin.

“I’m fine,” he gave a short nod, because he was -- and because he could see he had to be, and what worth did he have, unless he could be strong for his sister? “I’m okay,” he stepped closer still, until he was next to her, leaning against the edge of the desk.

“And before?” Before she’d been here, tucked away in a house so close to the outpost, just out-of-reach of her family. “How long--” he paused. “How long have you been alone?”


Tag: Rosemary Robinson
BY MITZI



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Rosemary Robinson
 Posted: Apr 20 2018, 11:27 AM
QUOTE
3 posts
17 years old
Weapon:
Hunting Knife
© Amy
Offline
Seventeen. How will I manage? How can I? I'm just a girl.


Just another unwed mother
One more sad statistic now.
"Looks a bit shit, then,”

She almost smiled. This was the Griffin she remembered. The brother that had existed before the chaos. The one at that lake, for one brief, beautiful year. Funny how such a good memory could come from such a dark era in human history. The world as she knew it had been extinguished, and from the ashes was a single flame. That flame was family. It was togetherness. It was Griffin before he'd torn her from her mother, before he'd killed her mother. Before he'd let her be dragged away. It was Griffin before... this.

But in that moment of humor there was hope. Maybe something could be salvaged from this. Maybe she hadn't just demolished everything. Maybe fate had intervened and everything was going to be okay, now that she and her brother were reunited. Maybe she was never meant to kill herself. There was a purpose for her in this world. Maybe God didn't exist. Hell, he couldn't exist after everything they'd been put through at this point. But maybe fate still did. Perhaps fate was a real force in the world and humans had labeled it "God". That everything that happened had its reason, and no matter what that reason was, the world was not yet done with Rosemary Robinson yet.

And then something swirled around inside of her. A parasite turned over and stretched out, its feet connecting with the interior of a uterus far too young to be in use. A disgusting bump appeared in her stomach and slid down as the foot or hand within her belly did. Rosie shuddered and her gaze hardened. Her hand instinctively flew up to her stomach, and she had to stop herself from heaving. She hated this part. Sometimes, when the thing was still, it was easy to convince herself that maybe it had died. That maybe she'd have lucked out and the thing would be stillborn and she could live without having to worry about what would happen if that thing inside of her also lived. But then it moved like this and everything changed. She remembered it was alive and she remembered why she had been doing what she'd been doing. If fate was real, it was cruel. To make her live with this baby, the product of rape and torture so unimaginable it could barely be fathomed by anyone who had not experienced it, was absolutely disgusting. How could she raise something like this? How could fate make her keep on living when that meant she still had to live with the memories of what had happened to her? Every movement that parasite made inside of her was another bad memory, one she longed to get rid of.

Her eyes watched as her brother walked towards her. He was always the rock. Always took on the burden of others. She knew that was what had happened when he'd killed mom. He did it so no one else had to. She'd come to peace with that idea, but being in the same room as him again threw all of that rationalization out of the window. He was moving in to take her burdens again. Pretending he was fine when in reality, who the fuck was fine? He just found his sister, knocked up and one minute away from slipping her head into a noose and jumping. Nobody could be fine with that, no matter who the hell you were. But Rosie didn't want pity. She didn't want Griffin to be her rock again. She didn't know what she really wanted. This rage was likely her hormones running wild and uncontrollable. The closer he stepped towards her, the more she bristled. She wasn't sure if this was because of her anger towards him or the fact that he was a man, and men had done some horrible things to her. Either way, she was stiff and eyed him intensely. But she didn't move. She kept her nerve and stood her ground. He was her brother. And she was stronger than she looked. It took more than a conversation to take Rosie down, and she had the spawn to prove it.

“And before?” Griffin began. “How long--” he paused. “How long have you been alone?” The question sent a shiver down Rosemary's spine. She knew what Griffin was trying to say. There was someone missing here. A glaring hole in this reunion. Griffin wanted to know what had happened. Rosemary tried to ignore it a moment. Talking about Sage would make the tears fall and her heart break. "Not long enough." She said, and let out a shaky sigh. It was true. She'd been stuck with those men up until, hell, eight months ago? After that was Ethel, and she died only a few months ago. Even now, was she really alone? She had a hitchhiker on her skeleton and though it wasn't much of a conversationalist, it was obnoxious all the same.

A few moments of silence let Rosemary know that her vague answer wasn't enough. A small tear trickled down her cheek when she realized she was going to have to admit to everything, and that her admission would likely lead to one of Griffin's own. After all, she'd seen one of the twins go down with a single gunshot. There was no way that she would ever be lucky enough to see both of them alive again. So which one would she mourn? It was a question that had haunted her every day since she'd been taken. She drew in another shaky breath and closed her eyes a moment. When she opened them again, her hazel eyes met Griffin's brown and she knew she had to come out with the truth. "He tried to save me." She said at last, the floodgates open and the tears now unstoppable. "He killed probably eight of those bastards before they brought him down. He took five bullets and kept on fighting." There was an anger in her voice at the memory. She was so proud of her father, but so upset as well. She wasn't sure if her numbers were right. It didn't matter if they were. Sage was a goddamned hero and everyone needed to know about it. For a span of ten minutes, he was a living, breathing Superman. She looked away for a moment, afraid to see Griffin's reaction. She tried to look at her feet, but could only see her stupid fucking belly. "There were only three left when he died. I got one right between the eyes. And it was one of the last two that put this fucking thing inside of me." She spat the words like it was a curse. A part of her wanted to hit it. She had wanted to hit it so many times. But every time she did, she only heard Ethel's voice in her head telling her it was a bad idea to force a miscarriage. If she was alone and lost the baby, the sheer amount of blood alone would attract every walker for miles. Rosemary unclenched her fist... when had she clenched it? And let out the breath she had unknowingly been holding. She got her tears under control and looked back up at Griffin, pain and hurt in her soul, all expressed through her hazel eyes, puffy from crying. "I didn't want you to see me like this." She whispered the truth. The truth of that very first question. That was why she wanted to die. That was why she had a crumpled suicide note in her armpit and a noose dangling in the drafty air of this place. She didn't want to be a burden anymore. But fate had other plans.

Fate always had other plans.

Griffin Robinson | 1,298 Words
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