Who We Are | TWD

.052

I wake up, throwing on a sweatshirt and pair of sleep shorts from the ground before wiping the sleep from my eyes. I'm exhausted, most of me still consumed with worry from the past few weeks. Things have been getting better, slowly but surely, yet that doesn't stop the restlessness from plaguing me throughout the day and each time I go to sleep.

I walk down the hall, already hearing Rick's music blasting from his bedroom. Luckily, he keeps the door shut in the mornings so the rest of us can sleep in a little, if we can or wish to do so. I turn towards Carl's room, knocking gently on the door and waiting for a response. "Come in," he calls from the other side of the door.

I enter his room, surprised to see him sitting on the edge of his bed, pulling his boots onto his feet. "You're up?" I ask, crossing the room to stand opposite of him.

"Yeah. Why?" I shake my head, dismissing the thought. I don't want to seem too surprised or worried, but I have every right to be. For the past few weeks, nearly two months, I believe, since Carl's been healed enough to come home from the infirmary, most of that time was spent in bed, Michonne, Rick, and I coming in periodically to check on him and keep him company so the healing process didn't become too lonely.

On each of those days, there was usually a process of caring for the injured boy. I usually woke him in the morning and helped prop him up in his bed. When he was ready, I'd make him breakfast and we'd sit in his bed and eat together, talking and acting as though nothing had even happened at all.

A few days after his return home, I had gone to wake him, but that was when his inability to sleep began. Long nights tortured by the pain from his wound caused his severe sleeplessness. Whenever I asked him about it, however, he denied his troubles and would take a nap later in the day when I was beside him, sleeping late into the evening until dinner. The entire time, I laid beside him, staring out the open window, usually allowing him to prop his head on my shoulder as he had let me do so many times before. I didn't particularly like the process, for it seemed to be filled with depression, the only times he gave much expression being the times when Denise came to check on him and make sure his healing was still going as she had hoped. Each time he'd tell her he was fine and the pain was gone. Once she would be ready to leave, I'd follow her out the door and explain the truth to her. It felt wrong to do to Carl since he just wanted to get out of the fucking bed and leave the house, but I knew it'd help him in the long run.

One morning, I had gone to see him as soon as I woke up, but saw he was already in a sitting position, staring out the window with tears coursing down his cheek. I had rushed to his side, more than concerned. "What's wrong?" I asked, scooting onto the bed beside him. He just shook his head, ignoring me and crossing his arms over his chest.

"It's pathetic," he finally mumbled.

"What are you talking about? What's pathetic?"

"This whole thing! Me!" he shouted back. Carl had never yelled at me like that before and it scared me deeply. "I'm sick of people coming in and caring for me and acting like everything is okay because it's not! My eye is gone and I'll never be able to see out of it again. Does nobody get that? Do you not get that?" I sat there motionless as he spoke, not knowing what to do. Carl lifted his hand to the bandage covering his wound and tore it away, wincing in pain as he did so. Once the white cloth had been removed, I could see the severity of his injury, something I hadn't seen before, but was now deeply highlighted with his anger.

"Carl, it's-"

"Don't tell me it's going to be okay again!" he interrupted. "It's not and I look . . . I look like a monster! Those things outside the walls - I look like one of them now."