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Summary: It's been nine long years since this all started. After going through hell and back, Clementine finds herself back in Atlanta, Georgia; her home.

While writing this, I listened to 'Clementine's Theme' by Anadel on repeat from the original Walking Dead Game season 2 soundtrack as inspiration. So if you want, please listen to it as you're reading this to get you into the right feel of the story. It really makes a difference!

When Clementine was six years old, her dad built her a treehouse. When she was seven, her mom had bought her an art set for her birthday, and they had spent the day together painting a sun and cloud on the tiny wooden door. When she was eight, she had spotted a raccoon up there from the kitchen window and had begged Sandra to get the camera before it ran away.

She always loved that treehouse as a child. It was a special place of hers. It made her feel safe. Somewhere she could lock herself away in for hours with her books and crayons, and to her it would feel like no time at all had passed.

And now at seventeen years old, she couldn't hate it more.

Clementine stares up at the large dead tree and it's little wooden house perched on top. Some of the planks are missing from the sides as well as the rope ladder that used to hang down the front, figuring someone must've scavenged them for supplies somewhere along the road or was just destroyed by bad weather.

"I had a treehouse once," she had told Luke one night on the hill of the Ski lodge. She had gazed at the ground momentarily, reminiscing about the day this all started.

"I hated it."

Clementine can't remember how long she's been travelling on her own. She had left Virginia years ago and was lucky enough to obtain an old stained map with a large tear down the middle of it from a gift shop that was nearly picked clean by other survivors on the side of the highway.

She would usually take refuge in any small buildings she could find in between her time wandering around aimlessly searching for food and downing countless walkers along the way. Houses, churches, gas stations… anything she could find. But she always kept moving.

Only past experiences have taught her that it's never a good idea to stay somewhere for too long. It was just too risky. And so she had just kept walking.

She probably spent hours looking at that map, examining every single line that ran across it. Every river, city and road, nearly frying her brain just from trying to conjure up some sort of plan of where she was heading. She took note of the places she had been and searched already, as well as the places she hadn't.

About three years and six months later, she found herself here, back in Atlanta. Back where it all started. Home.

She doesn't exactly know why she came here. It's almost as if she didn't even realize she was heading back South. It was like some part of her was just drawn to it. But she had no where else to go, and every city she had come across since Richmond was completely abandoned.

The neighbourhood is so familiar to her. 23 Milton Road, the place she grew up in. It was the only house she ever lived in. Yet, everything seems so different since the last time she saw it. For somewhere that Clementine always viewed as being filled with life, it couldn't seem to be more dead. There are dozens of abandoned cars lining the streets and not a single person in sight. It's nothing more than a ghost town now.

It's a cold day. It's miserably quiet around her except for the wind whistling in her ears and the faint sound of leaves rustling somewhere behind her. It's midday, but the sun is barely shining and the sky looks to be quite gloomy instead.

She doesn't even know how long she's been standing there, staring up at that pitiful looking treehouse, wishing she could just burn it down and never have to see it again.

Clementine sighs, pressing her lips together, then forces herself to turn away and through the back sliding door at the end of the porch. It gets jammed for a second and she has to force it open with both hands before finally taking a look inside.

The house is trashed. Some of the furniture is toppled over while the rest had been shifted around in some way, probably from being used as barricades at some point. It's dark inside except for the rays of yellow light cascading in through the windows.

She exhales painfully, a wave of depression hitting her from the sight of her old home all torn up and destroyed. She steps further in, noticing that all the kitchen cabinets as well as the fridge is left wide open, some of the drawers even missing or laying on the blood-stained floor. Everything is picked clean.

She wonders how many people have taken refuge here over the years. Or even, how many people have died here? She's slept in so many abandoned houses herself, and she never knew whether those families were still alive or not, whether they had children, whether they were once a happy family… just like her and her parents used to be.

Her feet are glued to the floor, standing there motionless, heartbroken at the sight. It takes everything in her to walk further in, but she stops suddenly when she hears something crunch under her boot. She looks down to see the mess of broken glass and the picture frame buried beneath the shards, various pieces falling to the ground as she cautiously picks up it and turns it over in her hands.

It's her family photo, still here after all these years. The one with her sitting in between her parents that they took when she was eight.

Clementine immediately feels her throat tighten and tears pooling in her eyes at the image.

She stares down at the broken frame in her hands, a million thoughts flooding her mind at once. Her parents look so happy here. They all do. She never thought she would see their faces again after that horrible night in Savannah.

After a moment, she barely catches a glance at the wired phone on the table next to her and her breath catches in her throat.

"Clementine, baby…"

Her heart shatters at the sight of it all, the haunting memories of that day instantly rushing back to her.

"If you can hear this, call the police… that's 9-1-1."

She remembers that message so clearly. She had heard the phone beep every 5 minutes as she searched the kitchen for food to stash in her treehouse for her and Sandra the day of the outbreak. She listened to it with tears in her eyes, feeling more confused than she's ever been in her entire life.

"We love you… we love you… we love you."

Clementine sniffles, her face contorting from resisting the urge to cry.

She was so scared that day. The poor girl didn't have a clue of what was going on or what was happening to her parents. She just wanted them to come home.

After swallowing the lump in her throat, she removes the photo from its distorted frame, not even bothering to avoid the glass shards that pierce her hands. She tucks it into her back pocket and continues her path up the stairs, her head hanging heavy with every slow step.

She stops at the first door on the right. Her bedroom. She gently pushes the door open, peering inside.

The room is as much of a mess as the rest of the house. Her tiny bed sits in the far corner of the room. She wouldn't be able to fit in it now. The blankets and pillows are missing, and there is instead a large bloodstain in the middle of it.

Some of her things are no where to be found while the rest of them are splayed out on the floor and furniture like someone had searched the place for something. The bright pink curtains hang down on one side, looking as if they're ready to fall off the wall. They're ripped along the bottom and there's a large smear of blood on her yellow floral wallpaper.

Stepping further in, Clementine stares into the room before her with a pained expression, soon realizing she's not even phased by the sight. Pretty much everywhere she's been had looked exactly like this, all torn up and half empty. It's just the way the world is now.

Even though, she can't help but wonder what exactly happened. Who was here and where are they now? She guesses it's one of the many things she'll never know.

Standing here in the middle of it all, she never imagined she would ever go from an innocent little girl playing with her toys on her bed, to someone completely different in the exact same room, nine years later. She's come back as someone else. A girl who can barely even recognize herself anymore. She's alone and broken. She's killed people before. She's a murderer. She is the last thing anyone would have ever expected her to turn out to be.

This house. This fucking house is all that she has left of herself. Her real self, the girl she used to be. And now seeing what it's become, what she's become…

How did it get like this? When did she start to become so sad?

Being here just painfully reminds her of how her childhood was brutally stolen from her in an instant. In one day, she lost everything. And she never had the time to be a real kid again.

Clementine faces the dresser and presses her palms down into it, finding it difficult to breathe all of a sudden. Her eyes squeeze shut and her grip is tightening by the second before her hands suddenly jerk in anger and various items are brushed to the floor. They scatter around her feet and she ignores the sound of glass breaking as she lets out a loud sob, covering her eyes with one hand.

She didn't think coming back here would make her feel like this.

Her shoulders shake uncontrollably and she doesn't even bother to hold it in anymore. So many emotions are overwhelming her that she turns and slides her back down the dresser until she's sitting with her knees hugged tightly to her chest.

She cries and cries, finally letting everything she's ever felt these past nine years heavily pour out of her heart until she's drowning in her own flood.

For so long, she never let herself think about the past. It was just too painful. She's met a lot of people since this all started, but even still, Clementine would rarely speak of it to anybody. She tried so hard to forget about it. She told herself that she had to keep moving forward because it's all over and done with and there's nothing she can do about it. People are dead and it's because of her. So why is she still the one alive?

It feels like she's been sitting here for an eternity. The girl catches her breath and finds there is no more emotion left in her. All she can do is just sit there, numb, staring at the bed in the corner with her eyes barely alive.

Her face wet with tears, she heavily leans her head back on the dresser. Aggressively wiping her cheek with her palm, her fingertips brush the edge of her hat and she pulls it off in one swift motion. She holds the cap out in front of her with both hands, her arms outstretched and resting overtop her knees.

After all this time, she's still wearing this thing. All stained with dirt and blood and ripped on every side.

"Don't get my hat dirty," her father had told her the day her parents let for Savannah.

The memory embedded in her mind, she gently rests it on the floor next to her and pulls out the photo she found downstairs from her back pocket. As she examines it, blood is running out of the large cut in her palm from the glass shards earlier, smearing all over the photo now and dripping to the floor, but Clementine doesn't seem to notice, not even feeling a thing.

The tears beginning to flow again, she places it next to her hat with shaking hands and pulls the pistol from her hip holster, inspecting it.

She's been running for so long. Everyone always told her to keep on moving and to stay strong. She tried her hardest for them, but the weight of the world is just too heavy for her weak shoulders. For every day that passes by, she cracks just a little bit more, and those cracks will keep getting bigger until she completely shatters in one moment and there's nothing left.

She's spent too many nights crying herself to sleep. She's been hurt over and over again, and she tells herself that she's okay and that it'll all turn out alright, but on the inside, she's bleeding out and it just won't stop. It's exhausting her.

She's tired of running. Everyone she loves is dead, and there's no one left that loves her. All her life has become is a constant cycle of kill and survive. What's the point in living if she has nothing to live for? She's lost in this hopelessness.

Her eyes are squeezed shut and she's sobbing silently, harder than she's ever sobbed before. With her every muscle shaking, she slowly points the pistol under her chin.

Blood trickles down her arms and her grip is painfully tight. She remains frozen for what feels like a lifetime, constantly readjusting her grip on the gun and trying to swallow the sound of her whimpers. Her heart is hammering so hard in her chest she can hear her pulse pounding through her ears.

Thousands of thoughts flow through her mind of the people who were lost. First it was her parents, then it was Lee… then AJ. She wonders whether they've been watching over her, and if they were still alive, how different would her life have turned out to be?

For so long, she felt like she should have done something more for them. Like her best was never enough. What could she have done differently so she didn't have to suffer this hell that is her mind? She spent so long trying to find an answer to that. She never thought depression would be something she'd experience in her life. Not something so agonizing.

She holds her breath for as long as she can, tightening her grip, her finger daring to press just a little bit harder on that trigger, but after a while she finally eases her hold on the gun and an angry shout escapes her lips as she throws the pistol across the room.

She feels the tension release in every muscle and she can finally breathe again. She buries her hands in her hair, crying from the relief.

She swipes her palm across her tear-stained cheeks and the blood from her wounded hand is left smeared on the side of her face.

Clementine sits there for hours afterwards.

Her head is throbbing now and she feels exhausted. Eventually, she's not thinking about anything anymore. Finally, she finds enough energy in her to push herself up off the ground, her body and mind numb from remaining unmoving for so long.

Downstairs, she leaves the bloodstained photo facedown on the table with the phone, not even looking at it as she walks by, and silently leaves the way she came.