His eyes would haunt you.

The kind of brown you’d find in the bite of an early morning mug of coffee, in the melted chocolate he found at the back of an old kitchen cabinet. The dark hue of forest floors and fallen trees and the mud that clung to filthy clothes and blood stained skin. You’d see them when you slept, burned behind tightly shut eyelids, face buried into a jacket that still smelled like those shitty cigarettes he found in an abandoned house weeks before La Muerte came to hold your hand.

He’d show up in dreams, the figment of his body beside yours in small cots and uncomfortable sleeping bags. Tricks of light beside fires that barely kept you warm. He existed in the words of those around you, his memory stained on each of your hearts. A small spark of humor to mask the pain that coursed through his chest—pressing down on shoulders that curved forward and a weary face.

The moment would remain carved into a beaten down soul, rising in the night like the faint glow of moonlight.

Stupidity was following him on a small outing, hunting for some food that would keep the group alive in the winter weeks to come. Love was fighting off infected by his side.

The gun ran out of ammo two infected ago, his knife slicing through what remained, dead brown blood dripping down the hand that clutched the handle. Knuckles pale and face stained red with the effort of battling in the cold. You were certain you fared no better, wiping the carnage from your face with the sleeve of your coat—trying not to gag at the feel of it.

“Was it worth it?” you joked, breathless and yet still alive despite it all.

He huffed, eyes rolling beneath drooped lids. “Was what worth it?”

“Disobeying orders?”

“Orders? Mierda you’re fuckin’ worse than them.”

Sighing, you tried to ignore the flare of irritation brewing at the base of your stomach. “We shouldn’t be out here by ourselves. There’s who knows how many more of those fuckers.”

“So you want us to starve?” Sliding the knife home, he checked the remaining bullets on an aged and barely working gun. “Didn’t know you were cruel like that mi alma.”

“Cállate,” you bit out, teeth digging into a curved bottom lip. But your smile was caught by the prying eyes of a man who knew you better than you loved.

How easy it felt to exist in his presence; the ease of his laughter, his snarky remarks that left you grasping for a piece of him to hold close. He was your lifeline in this world. Infection tainted the very ground you walked on, blood stained the footprints of your past, but his touch washed it away. You could remember vows whispered in the middle of the night, the cold press of jewelry against your neck lingered with every step you took by his side.

The promise to protect one another existed with ease in each breath you took.

Until the day it all ended.

“Let’s head back before we find anymore,” you called, trudging up the small path carved by two decades of people seeking safety.

Manny didn’t move, his fingers curled into a fist, face pale against the bright sun.

“Vida Mea?”

His eyes screamed everything before he could form the words on shaky lips and a thick lilted voice. The brown hue punctured by the anguish of promises he never wanted to break—vows of forever marked by the passing of people you once knew. One day La Muerte would come to claim his soul, this he knew.

He simply wished he had more time.

“Manny what’s wrong?” Rushing over to his stock still form, you reached for the hand that hung listlessly at his side. “Hey talk to me-”

He ripped his palm away, staggering back into the trunk of the tree behind him. The branches arched over your heads, blocking what sunlight raged across a clear blue sky. You wanted to press him for answers, find what changed his mood so suddenly. But a part of you knew the cruelty life could hand out—the agony you’d witnessed more times than humanly possible.

“Show it to me,” you rasped, surging close enough to catch him off guard.

“Mi alma-”

“Show me…the fucking bite Manny.”