Bad feelings are one part of what sucks about this world. Good feelings are the other. Because the good stuff is what can get taken from you, the rug that gets pulled out from under you. A warming feeling that, once it's gone, leaves you out in the...
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C A R L
I slept in the car the night that Megan left, in hopes that she'd return.
After endless hours of waiting, the sun rose and with the sun came the heat of the mid-day. My time in that same spot didn't last very long before the heat started to get to me.
Soon after the heat, a herd of walkers from the aftermath of what happened at the prison swept through the area. I had to get away from there, hoping that the girl wouldn't return to the dangerous place just to end up not finding me.
Who am I kidding? She probably wants nothing to do with me after everything I put her through. She probably would be glad that I was gone, if she even went back to that car. Which the girl wouldn't dare go back to if she thought I was still there.
Through a few nights of trial and error, I learned that staying on the move is my best bet. I'm not going to find anyone—let alone a girl who doesn't want to be found—while staying in the same place.
My father wouldn't want anyone in the group to aimlessly wander anywhere after the eight months we spent out on our asses before we found the prison. He'd make sure we were traveling toward something, no matter how small the hunch. Any gut decision was a good one, to him.
Though it's far-fetched, I need to travel toward something. And the one sliver of any hope I have of reuniting with the girl leads me on the road followed by my intuition. She'd wind up wherever the walkers push her.
My faith lies on a vague location the unlikely change of heart of a girl who I've let down time and time again.
For the past few days, I've been traveling with the burden of living with myself. The anger I feel piles on when my mind repeatedly travels through the cyclical turn of events.
It all started with the girl's anger. She was mad about everything I'd done to us. And I keep reminding myself that she had every right to be.
Everything was all my fault. I'm the reason we left the prison in the first place. I'm the reason we spent several weeks rotting away in that house. I'm the reason we lost all of our supplies. And I would've been the reason those men would've hurt Megan.
If Daryl wouldn't have been there to stop them, my actions would now be past the point of forgiveness. I'd be too far gone.
Aside from everything I've come to know, my mind also stumbles across every single possibility of what happened back at the prison.
It has people written all over it. Someone selfish did that to the people I love. Someone selfish took away a place that could've lasted.
Now—if they aren't already dead—my group is scrambling to find something—each other or another secure place. They're probably worse off than Megan and I were.
