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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M E G A N
Two pairs of people sit on opposite sides of the metal building, which is illuminated by the small fire.
Aaron and Eric lie cozied up next to the warmth of the small flame. Whereas Carl and I sit on the cold concrete floor, leaning against the wall.
Night has fallen since our subtle reunion. Neither the boy nor I have had an opportunity to discuss anything that happened this past week. Not anything from the night at the car, to now. The boy's whereabouts—how he ended up in the same place as me—remain a mystery for the time being.
I was finally able to introduce myself to Aaron, who graciously greeted me with open arms, literally. The man thanked me for saving Eric's life. The dramatics about what he would've done had his boyfriend died being something I'm glad he—for now—won't have to experience.
Carl then asked the two men the usual three questions, leading to a short discussion before we left the couple alone to bask in their short glory. The two of us have been sitting in awkward, thick silence for the past few minutes.
"New weapon choice?" The familiar sound of his voice rings out. A sound I'd convinced myself I'd never get to hear again.
"What?"
"You starting a tool collection that I don't know about?" He says, his hand motioning to the obvious dark-blue handle sticking out of my holster, where its flathead blade clearly doesn't fit.
"Oh, no." I say, a shy smile playing on my face as a result of my pride in my new weapon, as well as the awkwardness of our minimal words.
"The thin surface area lets it slip right out." I say, taking my weapon out of my holster and studying it before motioning as if I were to pull it out of a walker's head. The both of us dance around what happened, resulting in the small-talk being so, painfully awkward.
"Cool."
Our side of the empty warehouse falls silent yet again. The boy lets out a stifled sniffle. My eyes look around the room for something to start a conversation before they land on Carl's gun, one of the only weapons he's had since we left the prison. The nosy part of me wonders if ever he had to use it.
"So," I start, catching his attention. He slightly tilts his head toward me, not fully meeting my gaze. "How many walkers have you killed?"
"What?"
"How many walkers have you killed?" I say, this time a bit slower, carefully enunciating my playful words.
"However many were in my way." Carl remarks, in his joking manner.
