𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 , 𝐫. 𝐠𝐫𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐬

seventy one -

EPISODE THIRTEEN
"to the ends of the earth"
SEASON 7

CARL GRIMES

his sandy hair is laced with strands of golden blonde and his olive green, ratty t-shirt is sculpted to the shape of his shoulder blades as he sits with a slight hunch to his back, his legs hanging off the dock. i wouldn't go up there, wouldn't bother climbing the ladder or taking the empty spot next to him if he didn't look so pathetic.

pathetic.

i sigh out my frustrations, sitting beside him on the hot wood of the dock. henry lifts his head, but not to look at me—i could've guessed. he stares ahead at the horizon visible from the high point of hilltop we sit on.

"if—"

"i—"

he glares at me and i glare at him as we cut ourselves short, both trying to talk at the same time.

he lets out a harsh sigh through his nose, "if you're gonna look at me like you want to hit me, don't even sit up here."

"i'm ... not." i have a hard time saying those two words.

"then listen, you're right, what you said the other week—i don't know you. i don't know anything about you or the world before or the world now. but i—i know some things." his eyes are downcast, practically puppy dog eyes. "my parents died. both of them. mom died when the outbreak started, dad was killed by some assholes on the road. he was trying to keep me and my brother safe and it cost him his life. i know what it's like to lose people."

not pathetic. not weak.

"we're not friends." he catches my gaze. "i know we're not friends, but i did save you from killing yourself out there."

i turn away from him, facing the horizon once again.

i didn't try to kill myself.

i was knee deep in dead bodies, burgundy and chunks of skin, insides, all up and down my arms and legs, coating the sleeves of the trench coat and pants i wore. i was alone, as far as i was concerned, no one was paying attention. they were all focused on clearing walkers from their section of the rotting herd, courtesy of the air strike.

i stopped to catch my breath and was interrupted by a walker reaching for me. it lied on its stomach, stuck beneath other bodies—trapped. no matter how much it reached for me, it would never get me. it stared at me with soulless eyes, a rasping mouth, and something inside me told me to kneel beside it, so i did.

at first, i looked at it as the things we run from, as the cause of our nightmares these past two years. then something shifted inside me, and i wondered, would it be better? to stop running, stop fearing, to let go of the pain, regret, guilt, loneliness, hunger. we run from death just to endure those very things that will end up killing us in the long run. in the end, running from death will only be rewarded with a drawn out, much harsher death than the short-lived fever a walker's mouth promises.

i wondered if it'd be easier, if this is what beth was thinking all that time ago—why fight day after day just to lose people? and one day, because it's inevitable, get gutted. mom tried to hide me from it, what was happening in the house those fews days when beth wouldn't leave her bed, but i knew what was going on. i didn't understand it, how she could think like that, but now—now i think i do.

i barely even noticed my arm had inched closer to the walker's plague-ridden mouth until a spear went through its head and it startled me out of my thoughts. henry stood before me, before us—me and my way out. he gulped in between quick breaths as he looked down at me, the long and sharp wooden stick clutched in both his hands. i can still see the look on his face, the look in his eyes. how afraid and concerned he was, but i didn't say anything and neither did he.