Die. Rise. Repeat.

Follow the story of a survivor. no super powers, no playful furries, no teen dramas. just survival.


5. Morning after.

She drifted from sleep to life, by the sound of rain hammering the window. She was woken from the dead, reincarnated back from one hell to another. She had no idea where she was, or what happened. Deciding to wait for around 5 minutes for her head to clear up (or was it five hours?), she tried to collect the shattered pieces of her fragile mind, at least enough to create a cohesive recollection of what happened... uhh... she looked out a window. It was getting dark, but whether that was because it was late or because it was raining was hard to tell. But it must of been a few hours. Fuck, that's like an entire day, wasted on a stupid decision. 

From what Alyx could tell, there was a zombie that made her eat shit and get shanked, she stumbled into this run down place, and had to treat her wound.

Oh fuck. the cut!

Rising to her feet required a stupid amount of strength on her part. The sting of earlier was replaced by a dull, muscle ache that filled her whole right arm. She was silently thankful it wasn't her left arm, her favourite one. a wound there would have rendered her virtually defenceless. However, a cut on her second favourite arm probably wasn't in the top of her Christmas wishes.

She looked down at the gash. Despite seeing a considerable amount of blood, she noticed it was relatively dry. As her shirt was peeled from the sticky ooze that remained on her limb, her wound could be seen spreading crimson down her pale flesh. Despite the sight of her life slowly seeping through the abyss in her flesh, shit-for-brains woozy-ass past Alyx did a decent job of stitching. Admittedly, the last few stitches were not the work of any sober man (or woman) but they closed the wound and stopped the bleeding. She also saw the sugar, but that could wait a while before being cleaned up. Right now, her priorities lied in getting back to base, followed by unpacking, then a nice clean up, then re-packing for the next trip.

She re-bandaged her wound, tearing apart more of her clothes. Somehow, the flannel shirt that once hung onto her had turned into a flannel tank top, with both arms being used to hastily cover the days mistakes. Before Alyx left, she looked out the window. The rain always calmed her nerves... relaxed the poor girl, and helped clear any struggles she was facing...

Then it was back out into the wild.

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