Setting
INK
Jacelyn shuffled around the dirt trail nervously. She looked dead. She was dead. But inside she was more alive than any human. She felt everything, every emotion, every fear, everything that they did. But she was labeled as less. As a mindless zombie. "You're more than that," she thought to herself.
Broken glass at her feet forced her to catch her reflection. She was pretty for a zombie. The blood stained face still had odd beauty to it. Her blue eyes were more lively than anyone's she had ever seen. She didn't smell like decay, in fact, she didn't smell at all. She was ideal for a zombie, one of the luckier few.
But she still felt like less. Maybe the camp would be different. Maybe she would change. Or, it was likely, everything would stay the same and she would still be unwanted and unloved.
Walking further, she finally reached the camp, her black "UnderArmor" bag slung over her shoulders. She was wearing a white tank top, blue cargo pants, and desert colored combat boots. Her brunette hair was brushed out and in a perfect, sleek ponytail. Nervously, she glanced around.
Broken glass at her feet forced her to catch her reflection. She was pretty for a zombie. The blood stained face still had odd beauty to it. Her blue eyes were more lively than anyone's she had ever seen. She didn't smell like decay, in fact, she didn't smell at all. She was ideal for a zombie, one of the luckier few.
But she still felt like less. Maybe the camp would be different. Maybe she would change. Or, it was likely, everything would stay the same and she would still be unwanted and unloved.
Walking further, she finally reached the camp, her black "UnderArmor" bag slung over her shoulders. She was wearing a white tank top, blue cargo pants, and desert colored combat boots. Her brunette hair was brushed out and in a perfect, sleek ponytail. Nervously, she glanced around.