↳ 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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I ravenously shovel another spoonful of cereal into my mouth. It's dry and slightly crunchier than usual since it's stale, but I don't mind. When the texture becomes too much, I take a small sip of water, being mindful to preserve it the best I can. I find the method difficult, but I'm hoping it will be helpful in the end. Carl and I also agreed to split the granola bars I had found between each other and open a can of fruit to share.
Once the delicacies of our meal have been quickly finished, Carl sits himself down on the floor next to me with the can of pudding he found. The lid has been peeled back to reveal the vat of chocolate inside. He sets the jar in his lap and laughs slightly before dipping a spoon inside. "Aren't you gonna share?" I ask, raising an eyebrow with a smirk.
"I can't say." I take the spoon I had been eating my cereal with and take a generous scoop of the chocolate pudding for myself. I slide the spoon into my mouth and about gasp from the delicious, rich flavor.
"That's good," I say, jabbing my finger towards the pudding.
"Have more," Carl says, sliding the can so it's in between us. "In a little bit, how about we clean up that wound?" I nod, not objecting the offer for help. Maybe if I allow more of it, Carl can allow some in his own life.
Rick's rattling breathing fills the room. I keep my eyes on him while I eat. I can't stop wondering if he's just going to stop breathing altogether at some point. I make a note to wipe a wet cloth across his face later because it's still coated in blood and grime. It's truly disgusting.
When I finish eating, Carl brings a bowl of water and clean washcloths over to me. I pull up my pant leg and let him do the rest himself. Something about his willingness to help me is sweet, especially since we're not as close of friends as we once were.
The old bandage needs to be thrown out. It's completely soaked through. The wound, last time I saw it, was fairly small and didn't even need stitches. This new look at it, however, reveals that stitches may be in my near future. The entire side of my calf is stained with blood. As you get closer to the heart of the injury, the coloring gets darker until it's a deep maroon. Carl hesitates for a second as he looks at it before dipping the washcloth in the bowl and beginning.
The first dab is painful and I let out a whimper. I won't lie about that. "I can stop," he says sorrowfully as if he's the one that's actually hurting me. I shake my head, urging him to go on. If I don't let him, it'll just get worse. He nods, wetting the cloth again before doing the best he can to clean it, obviously trying to be as gentle as possible. I grip on the hem of my shirt to distract myself, but it really doesn't do much. Once Carl has cleaned it, I'm relieved to say that, although it's deeper, it's manageable. I just have to try to keep it clean and protected, both of which I've already failed to do at this point.
