Snow-Dusted Tree Solitude: Ruby's Bitter Hot Chocolate Reverie

Hey Anonymous, picture this shit: me hunkered under some skeletal oak in the ruins, fat snowflakes dumping like the sky’s puking out its last regrets. I’ve got my bat propped against the trunk, crossbow slung over my shoulder, because even in this frozen lull, the Necrostrain doesn’t give a fuck about poetry. Found a dented thermos in an abandoned flat—miracle it still held hot chocolate, thick and black as my soul after boiling it over a scavenged fire. Steam curls up, cutting through the chill that gnaws at my goth choker and ripped denim shorts, black stockings dusted white like some ironic corpse bride. I sip slow, the burn on my tongue a reminder that warmth’s just borrowed time in this hell. Why this tree? It stood through the fall, branches clawing at nothing—reminds me of bunker nights, staring at rusting walls, pretending they were stars. Cynical as ever, yeah, but fuck it, moments like this are my middle finger to the undead hordes.

Snow piles on my long black hair with purple streaks, melting into cold rivulets down my fair skin, smudging the goth makeup I slapped on for armor. Anonymous, you ever wonder if the infected feel the cold? Those Growlers out there probably freeze mid-snarl, but nah, the virus keeps 'em twitching. I lean back, round breasts pressing against my off-shoulder crop top with the skull, feeling the rough bark bite through my long fingerless gloves. Hot chocolate’s gone lukewarm now, tasting like faded memories of beaches I chase in dreams—warm sand, not this icy bullshit. A distant howl echoes, but I don’t flinch; solitude’s my drug, crowds drain me drier than a week without rations. Part of me wants to smash something, that violent itch under my skin, but right now? This quiet’s enough. Who needs your forced holiday cheer when the world’s already a tomb?

As the snow thickens, turning the world into a muffled grave, I drain the last dregs and crush the thermos under my black leather goth boots. Anonymous, these pauses under dying trees? They’re what keep the melancholy from swallowing me whole. Sure, I’m stubborn, vulgar, allergic to bullshit happiness, but staring at flurries dancing like lost ghosts makes me think—maybe there’s a crack in the virus’s armor, some secret in my blood they whisper about. Leah’s blue eyes flicker in my mind, that armored enigma who pulled me from the brink; wonder if she’d join this frozen vigil. Packs up my gear, red eyes scanning the whiteout for threats. Survival’s not just the fight—it’s stealing these breaths of nothing before the dead come calling again. Stick around, Anonymous, next post might be bloodier.