↳ 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 don't know how long I sit on the floor feeling cold and numb. I don't hear Rick leave, but I know he's gone.
Sometime later, I hear the front door close downstairs. There's muffled chatter before I hear Carl come upstairs. The floorboards creak. I know he's at my door as the noise gets louder. There's a pause where the floorboards make no sound before Carl speaks. "Emmie?" he asks quietly. I don't answer, my blood running cold. He waits for a moment, not saying more before walking away and going to his own bedroom.
I never thought I'd be hoping this, especially not this soon after we got to a supposedly safe place, but I wish I was back out there. When I was out there, at least I had something to focus on. I had something to drown out the thoughts that never wanted to leave me.
I hear the door close loudly downstairs. I rush to the window across from me. It's the window that looks down onto the street. I see Rick strolling off the porch and down the road. He's gone. In the other direction walks Carol, heading to her house. I rub a stray tear off my cheek and go back to the door. I stroke the cold handle with my fingertips, thinking about opening it. I don't have to think very hard or long before the door is being pulled open and I'm tiptoeing past Carl's door.
The house is empty. For being such a big place, the occupants at the moment are slim. I make it to the front porch where Daryl sits, fiddling with his knife. I should've known he'd still be here. He hasn't had much interest in leaving the proximity of the house since we got here. Besides last night when we slept, I don't think he's been inside the actual house much either. He's still covered in filth and the shimmer of grease is still present on his forehead. When I seal the door, he stares up at me.
"What are you doin'?"
"Going to see Carol," I state, walking off the porch and through the lawn to the other house.
I find Carol in the kitchen, her knife clacking rhythmically against a wooden chopping board as she slices away at several canned green beans. "Hi," I say as I take a seat at the island, watching her work. "What are you doing?"
"Preparing the casseroles. It's my job." I'm jealous of how easily she was able to find a job and a purpose. "What are you doing? Rick said you left Ron's house earlier than planned."
"I did." I waver, gathering my words. "I don't like these people, Carol. I don't like how they make everything seem so simple and normal when half of them haven't even been out there before. They don't understand it. I mean, haven't you seen them? They hand out houses, food, and clothing like it's nothing. They have electricity and running water. This isn't normal. No one understands what we lost or who we had to become. While they were taking warm showers and watching movies on their flat screen TVs, we were watching people we loved die."
