follow you into the dark - carl grimes

VII

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vii.

bye bye miss american pie
"no angel born in hell could break that satan's spell"

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It's strange how things stay the same even after they've changed.

I remember leaving this house. My father's distraught face, too frightened to even speak.

I'm not sure how to put this, because I didn't really understand it then and it took me a while to figure out exactly what it was, but my good father was a weak man.

Good father. Weak man. That is all it was.

He did his best until he couldn't anymore.

I don't know what came over him that night. Why, after trying so hard to keep us safe, he just gave up. He saw the odds and figured that they were against us. Decided to take us out of the equation in the least painful way possible.

Maybe it was the evil forces of the mountain that possessed him. Made him do this terrible thing. I don't know. I try not to think about it. But at least he made it quick.

And that should have been it. I should have died and stayed dead. Or at least, when I turned, there was no soul left for my body to carry.

Instead, I woke up. I couldn't breathe. There was dirt in my mouth, my eyes, my ears. I clawed my way free of my shallow grave. The rain hit my face, I saw the bloody mud around me. I went to take a breath, but there was no relief from it. My lungs felt nothing. I felt nothing.

To my left, a few yards away, was the corpse of my father. Blown half his face off and the top of his head cracked open, brain matter splattered across the trees and wet foliage. He had aimed beneath his chin. A sure kill shot.

A scream ripped it's way through my throat.

He was dead for good. I was not.

At first, I thought: Maybe this is how it is. Maybe this is what it's like when you turn. Maybe they're all just trapped in their rotting corpses.

It didn't take me long to realize the truth. That while I had died and come back, I was not like the other undead creatures. I had control over my body. All my five senses had become overdeveloped developed and not only was I inhumanly strong but I was freakishly fast as well.

And I did not feel hunger.

And I did not feel pain.

And I did not feel tired.

Which was a whole other form of torture. A waking nightmare in a realm of darkness that never ceased. There was nothing fair about it. Nothing Godly. Nothing ethical.

The land got its revenge for our trespassing. And left me to be its beastly protector.

I was, and am, in no uncertain terms, cursed.

Anyone who sees me will know this.

Except Carl.

Who, undoubtedly, thinks I'm odd and slightly unhinged, albeit morally obligated.

But he could be thinking much, much worse of me.

I try to find within myself the true reasoning for why I am doing what I'm doing, and come away with more questions than I begin with. I hate thinking, I make an effort to do less of it.

I work on building a fire with the left over firewood while my traveling companion sits on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table, something my father was abhorred to, and quietly eats his dinner. If he's gotten sick of the cheap noodles, he has not mentioned it. Plus, it's the only option. He doesn't have much room to be picky.