Sage ➸ Carl Grimes

10 ➸ paleness

Carl

"Be careful up there," Ian reminded me. I turned my head around and held a gun before me, grimacing.

Don't remind me to be careful, when you can't use the goddamn gun in your hands as self defense.

I lifted my chin as a subtle, careless gesture in response. I waited until I heard his ridiculously heavy footsteps clunked down the hallway and toward the kitchen, before I crept forward.

This was our third house. Same routine ensued; we checked the premises for walkers, emptied the house to nothing but its rotting dust, and took the little food, clothing, and weaponry for our own.

I always had difficulty taking something that did not belong to me. As a kid I would live with guilt if it weren't mine to keep, but here I was.

Taking people's clothes, food, weapons, household items, memories that never carried with them through the apocalypse was to me a sin. I had no faith in the sky above or whatever was claimed to be held in the horizon. But I was given a hope to take in as my own, and I wanted to believe it was Sage.

Ian was absolutely useless. He tried to fire his gun inside the house, with a single Walker already dead on the ground. We ran into a pack of few, and he took steps back and let me fend.

As if he was afraid to help me save my own life, and even his.

How is he still alive? I wondered. How is he and Violet still standing on the rotted soil of our earth, with a beating heart and a full stomach?

My gun was held between two hands; a finger pressed against the trigger. I took one step after the other, the hallway almost too narrow to bypass.

My forearms quivered and grew weak from the stance I was in. My hat lowered down above my eyes as a shield, and I liked to think of it as a filter.

A filter is what the sheriff hat on my head was. It was tight around my hair but overly long. Its rim dug and shielded my blue eyes from what was displayed before me. It filtered out the bad I didn't want to see. I was thankful for my hat. Although it was both a blessing and a curse to own for myself.

Did your dad use it as a filter, too? I then thought. Rick wore it willingly on his head every morning before leaving for work. It symbolized his leadership and ability to protect the ones he loved. Do you have someone to love, and are you willing to protect her?

I lowered my gun down in exhaustion, letting it fall into my belt.

I didn't even flinch when I heard a few banging noises. I opened my eyes again and averted them toward the disruption, a door at the end of the hall.

It was a closet door, and its peeling wood greeted my eyes. I could see how blood coated the tainted wood, and a patch of rope tied the doorknob shut.

A few moans and gurgles weakly fell from the other side of the door, and the figure behind it aimlessly called for my attention. Called for my blood.

I bit my lip and closed my eyes. The edges of my eyes burned, calling for cool droplets to trickle down. They begged and twitched and wished I would let go and allow myself to grieve, but I wouldn't. I wouldn't cry for a zombie; it had nothing left to guilt me over. I only grieved for what they were, and what they could've been.

The banging only increased, and moans echoed. The noise was sickly.

I puffed out through my nose and turned around, taking cautious steps toward the door. I could see how the violence of the knocking had risen as my beating heart edged near.