↳ it's who we are now...
oc x carl grimes
season 4-7
TW: Mentions of death, gory depictions, suicide, alcohol and drug abuse, language, smoking, violence, depression, and other mature topics.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own or claim to own any of The Walk...
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After about a grueling hour of moving, I crumble to the ground. I don't particularly want to at the moment, mostly because I'd rather get as far away from the smoldering prison as possible, but my will to stand up isn't as strong as my subconscious will to fall. My hands smack the blacktop and scrape against a pile of sharp pebbles where the skin has already been pink and raw. Carl immediately abandons the other side of his father to help me, but I'm already holding up my had to push him away before he can get too close.
"I need to stop," I mumble, eyebrows contorted as I take a few labored breaths. Carl just nods. Rick doesn't object to the matter, either. Instead, he hunches his back, palms holding onto his knees as his chest heaves rapidly. I guess we all could've used a break, but I was the first one to break the silence about it.
I turn my leg over, finally deciding that I have to face the truth about it. Good or ugly, it's there and needs to be dealt with. Slowly, I move my left calf so it's able to be seen from how I'm seated. Surely enough, there's a large circle of maroon coating the pant leg of my jeans.
"You're hurt?" Carl asks.
"Yeah," I nod, exhaling sharply, not taking my eyes off of my leg. Part of my wants to see what's underneath the stained fabric, but another part is hopeful that I can just ignore it and wait for the mess to go away.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he spats.
"I couldn't." I thought he'd be more sorry about the matter, but now he's just mad that I hid it. Deep down, I know that his anger translates to worry, but on the surface, it's complete agitation. I carefully peel my jeans away from the bloody mess to reveal something gruesome, yet truly fortunate.
I was shot, but in a way, not at all. The bullet somehow managed to just skim me. However, it took a chunk out of my calf. I take my backpack off my shoulders and search through it for the shirt I packed. I take it out, not hesitating to peel the black fabric apart. I lay a patch across the wound and pull my pant leg back over top to hold it in place. Really, I'm being quite nonchalant about the whole situation. The pain is indescribable as I do each of the tasks. I keep a straight face the entire time, as if it were nothing.
"Here," I say, reaching a strip of cloth up to Rick. "At least clean off the blood a little." I wave the fabric in the air, but he just stares at it.
"Save it," Rick croaks. I want to object, but I decide to just place the cloth back into my bag. I'll get him to use it eventually. If he doesn't want it now, it's best not to waste it. I zip up my bag, attempting to get back to my feet. Carl forcefully helps me. He's still mad, of course.
