I felt myself thrust back into a memory, unwillingly. The haze of half sleep and consciousness makes me cognizant of my lucid but not lucid state. I knew I was trapped in the memory until it finished, or someone hopefully woke me out of it. I could never control when shit like this happen I just became a spectator as I watch the tradgedy of my life happen and live it all over again. What a nightmare.
I recognized it instantly. I was seven, and my mom got her hands on post-apocalypse scripts after the craze of them in the 2000s and early 2010s. She was supposed to be a side character in one of them, but that eventually fell through, shockingly men who accepted offers from women selling their bodies for opportunities don't really keep their promises. My mom slid me the second copy of the script she was reading through the crack of her door. I had a half okay PB&J that I made on a napkin and a glass of water in front of me as I leaned my back against her door on the other side. She hated having to look at me.
I flicked through the script. I heard her voice. It was always beautiful, even in its terror. She would always be mesmerizing, magnetic, that's the worst part.
"Start on page 15. You're Conner."
I flip to the page and take in the scenario. It's a zombie apocalypse, another one. She was obsessed with another one a month ago, but this is different from that one. There was an outbreak, and a bunch of people from some city in Pennsylvania made a makeshift camp in a clean area of the camp where some adult gunowners and military personnel had come together and cleared the area. It was a decently large camp. Too large for a zombie show. It would probably crumble in the future. It had a mix of men, women, the elderly, teens, and kids.
Scene 15 was a scene between Conner and Olivia, two main characters of this first season. It was the meeting scene between the two young teens, 16 and 17, respectively.
I heard her stand up and walk a few steps. Then her clear voice rang out, made to sound a bit younger and curious.
"Do you think they're dead?"
I take one breath and immerse myself in the scene or she'll get pissed.
I drag my nails on the hardwood floor to at least try and make some sound to mimic the action of shaving wood into a spear. It wasn't accurate, but it was all I had.
"Well, aren't you a ray of sunshine, ha." She lets out a sardonic laugh. I hear a grunt as she sits heavily on the floor. "What are you making?
I let out a gruff, annoyed grunt. "A spear." Looking back, it was only kinda ridiculous how I had to lower my voice to mimic being older.
I hear her clothes shift. "Why do you need to make spears? We have guns just fine." Her derision and mocking are clear.
I sigh. Partially because it's in the script, and the other part is genuine. I didn't agree with her choices on Olivia's character, but I was just a measly 7-year-old. What did I know?
"And we have a finite amount of ammo, and it's better if we don't waste it hunting animals." I sigh one more time, make noises as if I'm rummaging around, and grab the knife I used to make my sandwich and drop it on the floor. The clatter echoed in our tiny apartment.
"If you're gonna be here, at least be useful. Just shave about an inch or 2 and make a pointed tip like this."
That's when it all went to shit.
I thought I was doing good, following all the directions and reading my lines the best I could. It was supposed to be Mom's turn, but before I knew it, her pale hand gripped my wrist that was near the crack of the door that I was leaning on. I couldn't stop the shriek that passed my lips as her sharp nails dug into my skin.
"You missed the fucking sound of Conner throwing a piece of wood then the knife." Her grip only got tighter as I muffled my whimpers.
"I thought you finally learned, but you just keep messing up. Finally learned to be useful." She let out a frustrated growl at the end as her grip finally broke skin, blood dripping onto her nails and hand.
I don't remember how long it lasted that time. I was always stuck in limbo when this happened. My eyes slowly flutter closed as I see her finally pull away, nails painted red, and then I'm out.
You don't really sleep when you're in a dream or memory. As soon as you close your eyes, your real ones open, I've learned these past couple of years.
A silent noise died on my lips as I bolted up from my bed and ended up staring at the cautious eyes of one Anthony Miller standing at the open door. Fuck me.