have i danced with the devil? @piouswicker - Tumblr Blog

contritium :

Is this worth it? As bad as it was, that question always nipped at his heels & badgered his thoughts whenever in a situation similar to this. You see, Nathan was not good by nature; he was raised to do one thing, & one thing only: SURVIVE. Anything else was just side missions that would eventually contribute to his main goal in life. Everything in him told him to go the opposite direction & just leave; walk away before it’s too late & you get yourself killed for trying to be the hero. But his heart always seemed to be the exception to this & betrayed his thoughts. He continued to approach the scene, determined that this would be something that he would succeed at, that losing wasn’t an option. & truthfully, it wasn’t. Winning, losing, it was all the same—just words used to separate the weak from the strong. But that was where the problem was because physically, Nathan was a winner. His body was fit, matching the images of the Greek statues that he used to read about. However, his mind was not. He was neither this or that, just somewhere stuck in between the good & the bad. It was something that never quite matched up & because of that, Nathan was quick to give into his self-doubt and make the decision for himself: WEAK.

As he drew closer, Nathan’s eyes took in every detail that he could see. From the flowing red hair of the victim to the familiar clothing that the men were garbed in. While it was the apocalypse, certain people from certain places still wore subtle symbols that indicated who they were. Whether it be matching leather jackets stolen from the bodies of dead biker gangs or face paintings that matched those of a warrior, everything seemed to always have an alternate meaning. For him, it was the style of clothing that gave it away, the distinct rugged look that was somehow more menacing than any other raiders out there. He’d always figured that the reason for that was because he was now one of them, now one of them men who lived savagely, no laws or morals—a direct reflection of who he was now, & who he had always been. For a moment, he was distracted by this thought, the enormous field that separated the two together & all of the differences that filled it. But with a quick shake of his head, he was able to remember, to FOCUS. Nathan was not afraid of them or the damage that they could inflict on him. He was raised in a world where fear was not welcomed & neither was blind bravery.

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There was some undeniable part of her; some almost sickening segment of her being that almost enjoyed the sensation of the stinging of her cheek, brought on and crafted by the people who had raised the girl into more of who she was than even her own parents. The honest belief that violence -- pain -- were holy things that you just had to learn to master. Everyone knew that Adrian would kick out or humiliate anyone that didn’t practice this supposed art. There was no doubt in her mind that she wanted to hurt them, but there was also a niggling curiosity that wondered what would happen if they went even further. Only this was not the same, and she had to keep telling her wilted mind it was so. Somewhere inside of her she still saw Adrian as a man with overall good intentions no matter what road he would take to get there. These men wanted nothing special from her, only to see her bleed. Like witnessing red crimson spilling out from some unknown girl was something they needed to get along, to keep going and ensure their pulses kept ticking away. She hated these people and told herself she would still despise them even if they had been nice to her; like their rot was simply on display for all to see. Florence refused to acknowledge how she was like them in that sense.

Black eyes remained focused on the oncoming figure instead of the hands already grabbing at her, throwing her around as though she were nothing more than a rag doll. The newest member of the party looked like a leader in every sense ( was he their leader? ) Perhaps the others had laid off killing her because they had been waiting for his appearance. Maybe he would be the one to decide her fate; a worse villain than all the rest. They all had a certain lack of cleanliness to them like they had not washed for several months and still refused to. Like they just knew it would make people like her so uncomfortable and sickened, and they liked that response.

#( c: nathan )#violence tw #religion tw #abuse mention tw

diana-bishop

#; i'm gonna keep my sheep suit on.

fckoffhamlet :

send me 📚 for me to grab the book nearest to me, flip to a random page and use the first line of dialogue I see as a starter - sharp objects by gillian flynn, page 152 “a little girl who’s misbehaving and thinks it’s cuter than it is.” ( @piouswicker )

in this world true innocence wasn’t something that happened all too often, ophelia was a living breathing proof of this as she could act like a shy weak girl and switch to the demon that lurked under in the snap of her fingers. so when she came across the other redhead the first urge she had was to tighten her grip on her bat, florence remind the taller girl of those folk tales her mom would tell her about the vampires who play lost only to drain the life out of those stopped to help them. walking forward with steady pace and eyes making sure to keep on the young woman she tilted her head. ❝ you know what you remind me of honestly…a little girl who’s misbehaving and thinks it’s cute, you just have that face. ❞

She had not seen red hair on anyone other than herself in such a long time that it felt rather jarring; black eyes going as wide as marbles as she instantly mistook the girl for her sister. No, no, no. It wasn’t true, but it was easy for a warped mind to tell itself it was. Florence flipped the knife in her hands, not with any alarming skill but enough to show that she wasn’t afraid to use it. Even if it had nothing on the bat the other held. She would only attack if there was a reason for it -- constantly telling herself it was wrong wrong wrong otherwise. If He decided to whisper in her ear and say this girl deserved it, was that her fault? Her lips curled upward slightly at the words. “Then I’m afraid it’s only my face, for I can’t say that’s all too true.” In fact, she had always counted on doing what she was told; now she just had mixed opinions on the subject. “Bad behaviour calls for punishment, don’t you think?”

#( c: ophelia )#// i honestly feeeel this #+ i know the book but haven't read it yet!#mental illness tw #schizophrenia tw #religion tw

albctrcss :

futurama, season four, episode eleven, ❛ love and rocket. ❜ | @piouswicker.

she holds the bottle of pop tight in the crook of one elbow, her other hand grasped around the cap. the scrape of the ridges against her hand is familiar, comforting in it’s burning. it keeps her from speaking out about her embarrassment at not being able to open it. she looks at her company, smiles, and on her last real effort to open it, the cap gives way. brooke lets out a sigh of relief; it’s not her choice of drink, it never has been, and she’s almost certain it’s not good anymore. she holds strong to her upbringing: she plans to hold water in it and dump the liquid in it now down a drain somewhere. she sets it aside, flipping the cap over in her hand. imagine the shock, a girl born in cheyenne and raised with no real form of amusement. it was always a dream, leaving the city for at least a week to visit parks and hiking trails. the money they had set aside is worthless now, but it sits in the bottom of her sock drawer anyway. ❝ hey, i won free admission to six flags. just one more reason we must survive this. ❞ there would have been excitement once, but now it’s something DRY, hollow. it’s forced out her throat with the intention of sounding otherwise, but it falls as flat as it feels. brooke offers the cap to florence.. ❝ can i bribe you to walk with me? ❞

Eyes resembling the darkest of skies watched as the blonde struggled. Struggled with what? Florence didn’t know -- it didn’t last long enough for her to be able to find out. Fair eyebrows rose as she listened to the other speak, cocking her head like a curious red bird. “Bribe?” It was quite possible that the youngest Wicker could be bribed, but it would have to be with something of good worth to her. The acidic liquid sloshing around in the bottle didn’t tempt the girl in the slightest, but she took the cap anyhow and curled her fist around it. Her parents would never give her fizzy drinks; thought it wrecked the way the brain worked or something like that. She scrunched up her nose, not even trying to hide her distaste. “You might have just asked me to come along anyway. I’m not taking that bribe.”

#( c: brooke )

mitchmusing

🌈 ( florence / piouswicker ) we haven't interacted yet but hey ho

{Bring Me The Disco Memes || Currently Not Accepting!!}

@piouswicker

“Either you’re out or you’re in on your own,” he muttered to himself before he looked up to see another person there. He stopped in his tracks to make sure he kept his distance. Who knows what tricks could be pulled or even if they can be trusted at all? The questions remained in his thoughts before he removed the blade he had from his pocket and held it in his hand. “Where do you think you’re going?”

piouswicker

A disheveled appearance added with a knife clutched in her hand for her own safety -- the girl wasn’t sure what people would think of her. Did she even really care anymore? It seemed more likely that that part of her mind had been wiped away along with the other things she used to care about. The only thought survivors seemed to have towards other survivors were either if their opponents were dangerous or what they could possibly get from them. Florence’s palm began to hurt with the tight grasp she had on the rusty knife. She stared up towards the source of the voice, tone bland. “Am I trespassing?”

#( c: damon )#// no worries!

lcudationarchive-blog

🎵 ( florence )

random starters // accepting !

🎶 for me to use my favorite line of the last song I listened to as a starter: STUTTER — MARIANA’S TRENCH.

❝ i just can’t stand leaving you alone tonight. ❞ the words come softly, bashful against wind-chapped lips. It’s not quite embarrassment that leaves porcelain cheeks pink, but rather the admittance of finding companionship in a woman with hair as flaming as the hell fires beneath her feet ; the CONFESSION of a longing for something other than the harsh words from cohen’s lips or the l a u d a t i o n from the man she claims as a lover. oona wishes neither to be demeaned nor praised: she would like to simply exist. ❝ i hoped to have more time with you. ❞ emerald eyes avert their gaze to slender fingers, only briefly glancing up to gauge the other’s reaction. ❝ i … can go, though. it’s getting late. ❞

@piouswicker

piouswicker

Florence’s complexion suddenly quite matched her hair; if not more rosy pink than red in shade. Someone didn’t want to leave her alone. It was miracle enough that this person actually enjoyed her company. There was something familiar there as she looked at the other young woman, something where she didn’t even have to speak to know it was present. “You would?” She wrapped her arms almost protectively around her own waist, feeling the worn threads of an old cardigan. “I’m sure you have someone waiting for you, no?” The words were painful to say, as she really wanted ( needed ) this company. “It would be entirely selfish of me to keep you.”

#( c: oona )

gravediggcr :

→ florence wicker

This world is a macabre landscape of nightmares–interspersed with beauty if you knew how to find it. Places like Wyoming and Montana had been ideal places to wind up in at the onset of the infection that swallowed the world. Low population density and the general personality of its people had given them a leg up on the rest of the continental United States.

Surviving day to day had taken pieces of him, whittled him down little by little. In truth, he had been disappearing for a long time, long before the virus. Long before he’d even set foot back in Wyoming. What the hell was the difference between staring down the barrel of a gun here and doing the same exact thing in Kandahar?

A feminine voice answers him, eyes narrowed and jaw set. Perhaps in the times before it might have given him reason to pause, but Luther had been taught time and again that the fairer sex was just as if not more dangerous than their male counterparts.

“I am calm,” his tone is neutral, carefully masking his irritation. “I just prefer to be able to see people. It keeps things fair. And it will make my dog feel better.”

She wasn’t sure how it worked for some or most, but Florence had felt herself changing long before the outbreak. Like a dull knocking on the hollow of her skull, the awareness never faded. There was no real way of finding out what it had been to invite the final click; she supposed it was an accumulation of things, just like how insects gathered together and made their homes.

There was a sadness that would hit her from time to time, brought on by not being able to travel anywhere other than America like she had been promised time and time again. There would be no point in trying now; even different, those places wouldn’t be that contrasting from Cheyenne in the height of an apocalyptic setting.

The young woman latched onto a bit of brush that curled around right where she was hiding, like it would keep her feet firmly on the ground and staple her there forever. Was her hair peeking around the greenery? Probably.

Whoever the man was, he didn’t sound hostile. Only she had learned just because she might want to trust, it didn’t always mean it was the best option. “Okay,” Florence allowed, finally letting her frame peek around and move forward -- her dark eyes instantly resting warily on the animal before anything. “Do you feel better?”

#( c: luther )

conflicticn :

It would be hypocritical of Elliot to think that beauty couldn’t be found everywhere. The darkest reaches of people were beautiful too, eyes burning with passion of a different kind, difference being a trinket to Elliot’s magpie eyes. “Looks always have something to do with it.” There wasn’t a thought necessary to go along with that response. She was a naturally visual person, art weaving its way through everything she came in contact with. Everyone had the potential to envelope her, her tastes being varied but desperately changeable. “You know, I don’t think so either. Looks a little… Limp. No playing fetch with that one.” That was probably a preferred version of of a walker, others moving frantically without rhyme or reason and were willing to rip flesh from bone with broken teeth. “Alright no story about the walker food, how about a name? Yours preferably, not that things’.”

There would always go by at least one moment in a day where Florence would think about souls. She would think of her own, and the transformation it must have gone through in her twenty years of life. It was almost like she could feel it gradually getting darker, tainted by things she had done and people she had met. There was no honest telling whether it actually worked that way, but the girl had always had a pretty otherworldy view about everything in life. She gave her own explanations to everything she came across; that was just how her mind worked. “Florence,” She allowed warily, arms crossing over her chest. “What is yours?”

#( c: elliot )

cwriverdalegifs

piouswicker

cwriverdalegifs:

Actress Madelaine Petsch attends Gen Art Fresh Faces in Fashion Los Angeles 2016 on August 4, 2016 in Los Angeles, California.

#; i'm gonna keep my sheep suit on.

raconteurfoo :

His head cocked one way and then the other, examining the man looking back at him. Straggly blond locks that had been caked in a layer of dirt, some of the gold poking through. Patchy stubble covered the chin like moss, no suggestion of any kind of impressive ability to grow. Blue eyes that verged on grey stared intently into his own, showing him sadness and showing him compassion. Charlant was bent around the mirror, curved around its jagged edges which he held daintily in his hands. He’d been there a while, been lost in a dialogue without any words. The blonde jerked as he saw a shadow in the reflection, turning, he tried to remain calm but questioned if he’d ever been calm. Charlant offered them the mirror, remaining seated like a child, a crooked little child. “Who do you see?” Perhaps his mind had been delving further into some version of mania, but he couldn’t help but hope that the mirror had the power to show an alternative self. A self that was worse off or maybe better off, a future or a past. Something to allow his current state of dishevelment to not entirely rest on his shoulders.

Florence wasn’t too sure who she was anymore; not to a full extent, anyway. The many parts of her knew how to split and then come together again, like they were lost items at sea that soon found themselves washed up on the shore together. She wondered whether they were always together when she was asleep, because they certainly didn’t like showing up as a whole in her consciousness. She had been watching the male for longer than he had known of her presence; half-hidden by shadow and staring shamelessly. For some inexplicable reason, she knew that the survivor wasn’t looking at his reflection because of any kind of vanity. Almost like she could see the soul on top of the human carcass. Well, she had always wondered whether He had given her some kind of similar gift. The young woman wandered slowly forward as he offered the mirror, taking it recklessly and frowning as the edges cut into her hands slightly. She stared at the reflection until it was near unbearable and its expression seemed to change on its own. A girl whose hair had once always been brushed straggled around a pointed face -- complexion paler than it had ever been, and then handed it back to him. “Lost souls.” She nearly choked on a laugh. “No. That’s ridiculous... we’re not special, it’s the same case for everyone.”

#( c: charlant )#// how could i not have them interact lmao

phantcmsoul :

Sunken like ships, his eyelids felt like they were at the bottom of the ocean, it’s fragments slowly falling apart, decaying little by little. His hollow eyes were splotched with red, his little veins spread all over his sclera – a sign from his lack of sleep. If his father were with him, he’d call him غبي, why would he put himself in danger when he could barely function properly? In truth, he felt DEAD; more dead than the zombies lurking not too far from him. He felt like a phantom, a GHOST walking among the living. Did he feel? Did he touch? Did the person next to him see him, or was this another twisted dream? His hands reluctantly touched the ground, gracing the grass as if he was touching something precious. He was alive, not a ghost ( not yet). لجواب: الحمد لله ! Meaning, the walkers in front of them would sniff them out soon enough, but where would they to go? The creatures were blocking their path. Amir glanced over at the survivor, pursing his lips, “Truthfully, I don’t know how we’re going to get past this,” he whispered, his voice having the slight drawl to it, “we could try and kill one, and get all his insides on us.” He even scrunched his nose at the idea. “But it’s risky…and gross.”

A lack of sleep meant a lack of everything else, too. She supposed it must be the same for everyone. Her head hurt from thinking about things that didn’t matter, or did they? The solitude was twisting things up, making the unimportant seem crucial and vice versa. Just the other day she had sat for almost an hour, watching a tiny spider run up and down her arm. Most of her hours were spent praying until tiredness eventually came, but even then she never seemed to sleep for long. Her dreams were haunted by the past; shadows and blood; a face Florence wished she could just forget and yet wanted to be with her at the same time. Her feet had found the doorway before she could think twice about it, a hand clutching tight to a knife ( It was pointless hiding it. It was probably best that people were aware she was ready to fight if she was pushed. ) The redheaded female noticed the walkers in the distance without really knowing what they were. Either that or a group of raiders wanting to take something from her. She didn’t happen to see the stranger until he spoke; knife pointing outward as she stared blankly down at them. “You better get up if you’re to do anything -- or God save your soul.” She blinked as her head turned back to the crowd headed their way. “You really believe we would get away with only killing one?”

#( c: amir )#// hope this is okay! :)#religion tw

magpiedreams-deactivated2018041

Girl as a honeycomb— sickly sweet, riddled with empty spaces .

from “Untitled”, Mimi H. Kim (via magpiedreams)

#; what a big heart i have; the better to love you with.#o boy

darling-with-no-probs

#; i'm gonna keep my sheep suit on.

@conflicticn

How did some of the humans even last as long as they did? Praxidice felt flimsy in this mortal shell as woman Feodora; like it would crack if she so much as moved the wrong way. Still, there was a lot more to discover about the human way of life and she was very curious about it. How could any of them not be? All of that watching from above was sure to invite some restlessness to stir within them, to want to roam free outside of Olympia. Now was her chance. Praxidice had her knees pulled up to her chest, watching the folk go by with interest. Unfortunately without her special insight, it was hard to tell who was truly evil and who was not -- but she was ever so curious about the people all the same. The one nearing her right then may not fit under that category, but she was still one to work out. “Até.” How is trouble fairing you? “How do you like the change?”

#hst:greek #; i am the line between good and evil ( event. )#; closed #; i am the line between good and evil ( event: ate. )

THE PANTHEON / because we are mortal.

“ People who claim that they're evil are usually no worse than the rest of us... It's people who claim that they're good, or any way better than the rest of us, that you have to be wary of. “

#hst:task #; i am the line between good and evil ( event. )#// finally theyre alll out

gravediggcr :

Alone and forsaken by fate and by man Oh, Lord, if You hear me please hold to my hand Oh, please understand.

The sun creeps over the horizon, slow and still innocent to the carnage its rays would later touch. Luther is already awake, watching the shadows fade–three years of death had not quite diminished the beauty brought on by the destruction of mankind. Lions Park had once been carefully manicured and maintained, a clever scenic distraction from the prairie that compromised most of Wyoming.

Cheyenne had never been a particularly pretty place to visit, far enough away from the natural scenic attractions of the state. Yellowstone…the Big Horns. He’d slept off and on and throughout the night with Sundance and Cassidy keeping watch.

There’s a telltale rumble in his stomach and inspecting the contents of his backpack yields the same results it did the previous day. “Fuck.” He sits back on his haunches as Cassidy slips under his right hand, looking for attention. “Yeah, yeah, I know.” Giving the shepherd an obligatory scratch behind the ears before rising to his feet and grabbing the bow that had been leaning against his rucksack he sighs. Exeunt the tired hunter.

When the arrow pierces flesh and the life leaves his intended target’s eyes it’s in that moment where he forgets for just a second. Forgets the world and what he’s left with. Snap! The sound of a branch breaking brings him back, the rabbit at his feet as he pulls a pistol from its strap ‘round his ankle. Gettin’ rusty, kid. “Out where I can see you. Now.”

Finding the pretty things in a world stolen and ripped clean from your hands was hard -- but it was possible. Sometimes it meant seeing even that which you didn’t take notice of before in a different light; with a new perspective. This was certainly Florence’s case, though it wasn’t just the rise of the undead that brought forth such thoughts. Maybe it was age or just life doing what it did best -- changing people.

It was simple for her gaze to see that the park had once been a nice place; the vision was real and solid enough that it almost appeared that way around her. Green and bright, not at all like the drab grey landscape they had all become accustomed to. The mind was a very clever thing, and with each day that passed the young woman found it easier and easier to escape into it.

The house she had taken to and occupied was her haven, but sitting ( kneeling ) in one place for hours in front of a crucifix could get tiring for even the most devout. A row of trees and bushes offered her a new haven, perhaps one that scratched at her bare legs and tugged on the raggedy skirt she still managed to keep intact, but a haven nonetheless.

Retreating back around the corner was her instinctive decision; the voice sounded too clear and sure and she was afraid of what it might bring. “Sir, please be calm. I was minding my own business. Promise.”

#( c: luther )#// hi! i hope this is alright :)

hellstate--rp-blog

↪ b a s i c s ;

N A M E: Florence Wicker A G E: 20 P L A C E O F O R I G I N: New Orleans, Louisiana G R O U P: None F C: Madelaine Petsch

❝ One of the greatest gifts from God is the eternal perspective. It is a level of fearlessness, a level of understanding where one can experience even emotional harmony with God. ❞

↪ p e r s o n a l i t y ;

P O S I T I V E T R A I T S: charismatic ; pristine N E G A T I V E T R A I T S: amoral ; neurotic

↪ b i o g r a p h y ;

L I F E B E F O R E T H E O U T B R E A K:

A good catholic girl was all she was supposed to be. Poised and pretty; ready to do whatever was asked of her. Florence was born to a wealthy family in the heart of New Orleans, the perfect life was already set out for her before she was born. An expected, planned little girl to join their loving family. A wonderful addition along with the daughter they already had. The Wicker household was a giant one with a lovely garden to boot. Florence’s birth was easy and problem-free, and her parents were relieved and thankful to be able to have not one, but two beautiful girls not too far apart in age. They were doted upon and cared for just like every child should be, but not too much which might have been the case with some rich families. Florence soon became the star of the neighbourhood for her impeccable manners and always looking perfect. Whereas her sister liked to play outside and get her hands dirty, Flo couldn’t even stand one red hair out of place on her little head.

She took to academics quickly, with help from her parents. She began to memorize parts of the Bible; able to recite a good deal of it before the age of ten. Church was her favourite place. The tiny redhead liked having a purpose, something to do and focus on – and she felt that God gave her the exact purpose she was searching for. As she grew though, things started getting a little more complicated. Her peers found it difficult to take to her more unconventional ways, which were honestly more of that of an old woman than a pre-teen girl. At that age though, at least everybody tried to be friends. Her mother and father didn’t think there was anything too strange in this – she was only taking after her mother who Flo was turning out to be a carbon copy of. After all, she had her sister, right? The two girls grew even closer with age, spending most of their free time out of school in the garden and making up stories.

You’d think in a public school, Florence would instantly get popularity votes with being a rich kid. That wasn’t quite how it panned out, though; her dearest sister won that title. Flo was pushed more and more into the background, especially when there seemed to be no signs of her outgrowing whatever phase she was going through. She would turn her nose up at the thought of makeup, and parties. After school she would hurry to their local church, staying there until sundown, praying and sometimes just staring into space. Some would later report that they would hear the young girl whispering nonsensical words into the air, but she was always alone. Being this attached to her Holy place, it was no surprise the effect it had on her when the old priest passed away.

Mourning and quite pushed back in her religious journey, Florence never expected to like Father Adrian, the latest priest sent to their church. At first she actually made a point to make out that he was nothing like the last and wouldn’t fit in. And he was different, far younger than any she’d seen or heard of and though she would insist it wasn’t the case, Florence noticed that. She was a teenager after all, and her interest soon became harder to hide when he showed the same fascination for her. They didn’t do anything – just talked like friends would. Florence knew she wouldn’t be able to act on what she was feeling, ever. It would be impossible. Her innocent mind had been so full of good things, she never could have guessed what that man had in mind for her.

She would later remember feeling far too warm and suffocated as the bag was thrown over her head. When she finally came to, Florence was looking at Father Adrian with brand new eyes. He didn’t hold back any information, told her where she was and being a priest was only one part of who he was. The place ( building? ) wasn’t much different than a church, but the people were unfamiliar. They were all wearing odd clothes which were identical. The girl didn’t actually think there was anything too unusual about the sect at first, in fact, she was all for joining a new community and learning. And as a naive fifteen year old, she went ahead and accepted without truly knowing what she was getting into. Then came the strange practices, the ones which were almost satanic in nature. They were small at first but she knew it was wrong. This new… community grew into such a big part of her life that Florence was almost never at home, but she was ordered not to tell a soul otherwise bad things would happen. These people, Adrian being the ringleader, stole the girl from her family and the only life she’d ever known. Florence, being the good girl she was, went along with it to avoid trouble and upsetting the man she soon came to love.

L I F E D U R I N G T H E O U T B R E A K:

Those couple of years were dark, the darkest ones she had ever known. Manipulated into leaving her true faith behind, Flo soon became something else. She was no longer the content soul that sent everyone well wishes for no reason. It didn’t all feel bad, though. To her, there was a man who truly loved her and she didn’t believe he was using her accepting nature to turn her into one of them, which was exactly what ended up happening. They made her believe their beliefs were simply another form of Catholicism in order to get close to her, and then it was too late. Florence was in a dilemma. She wanted to go back to her family but she knew Adrian wouldn’t let her so easily. If she went, she’d be gone for good and she would never see him again. That could never happen, and so she went with them in their travels across America, introducing other people to their ways and fooling them into joining.

She would look back on it eventually and laugh at her stupidity. Having to sin in order to purify the soul? Inciting vengeance was doing God’s work? These were only a couple of the lies she believed and were therefore ingrained into her mind. It was going to take a lot of work to get them out and gone for good. They were in Wyoming when the outbreak began, and the girl wasn’t in the best state. Thinking her ears and mind and whole being were playing tricks on her at the mention of zombies, Flo half-believed it was yet another part of what she had gotten herself into. Had she done this? Had she summoned these creatures with these people? Was that the kind of power they wielded?

L I F E A F T E R T H E O U T B R E A K:

Fragile minds break, and that was what happened to the majority of the sect. They lost themselves or their lives and Flo was no better, she just knew how to stay more under the radar. There were messages in her mind; these things she thought she was ordered to do. If she didn’t do them, her mind would never rest and she’d only be worse. The redhead soon fled the falling apart group, only regretting it once she was away from Adrian. A part of her mind – the better part – knew that everything that had occurred in the past few years was wrong. A mistake of the worst kind. Yet the other part knew that it wasn’t going to be easy to just let go and move on, to become the girl she once was all over again. More than anything, Florence misses her family. Especially her sister and can only hope that they’re all alive and safe during these troubling times.

The girl, now a young woman, still doesn’t really know what to do or where she belongs. She feels lost without the others, but is also afraid to trust. Relying on herself seems like the best option, and even that can end in tragedy. Her sanity is hanging by a thin thread, and Flo is always quick to lay her unorthodox beliefs on other people, even muttering them to herself to make her feel less mad. Like peaceful reassurances. She has found an old house that obviously held a religious family once, and she hopes that with the crucifixes on the walls she can somehow will herself back into the person she once was.

#; about #; bio #my baby girl

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have i danced with the devil?