"Why do you care?"
"Because you let me. No one's let me care for them before...but you did."
"I've never allowed anyone to care for me before you showed up."
"Well..."
"I suppose we're in similar predicaments."
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A Carl Grimes/Walking Dead F...
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Two Weeks Later...
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The sky is such a beautiful blue, and I'm certain it's my eyes fooling me but it seems so much brighter then it had for the past few weeks. My senses, as of lately, seem so much less dull. The concrete roof of the prison under my legs doesn't feel uncomfortable, it feels supportive. The cooked squirrel that I've been devouring for the past few minutes tastes so much more flavorful then I ever remember it being back at the camp.
Everything has been smooth. Everything.
I sleep in an old office alone, not bothering anyone nor being bothered by anyone. My meals are from game I catch and wild berries and spores I can forage, except on occasion when Michonne is kind enough to donate some handfuls of canned goods to me.
I'm keeping to myself, I'm actually enjoying the time I've spent at this prison.
While I have kept to myself, Michonne and I would have brief conversations if she was ever bringing me supplies. Nothing important nor deep, just surface level topics.
I have also had a conversation or two with Daryl, the crossbow wielding, punk-rock looking man. The other day, we both shot the same rabbit at the same time and decided to split it evenly, however I am still very certain my thrown knife pierced it before his arrow could even graze the fur, but I digress.
The only thing I can't shake is that boy, Carl. He hates me, utterly despises me, for reasons I am still unaware of. In any scenario in which I am required to see him, he will throw me the nastiest glare. He'll roll his eyes if we unintentionally bump into each other going to the communal restrooms, and he will shove past me on the stairs if we trade watch tower duties with each other.
He's quite frankly a bitch.
As I'm sitting on the roof of the prison, quietly chewing on some wild berries I discovered a day ago, I notice the same insufferable teen making his way out to the makeshift farm that had been set up in the yard of the prison. It's a relatively good farm, tomatoes and carrots mostly, but not a singular person in this prison, aside from Herschel, have a clue of how the hell to grow them properly.
Growing up, my first "job" was at a nearby farmers market, owned by a family friend. The market grew all their own produce and harvested all their own goods. The owner, Martin, was an elder gentleman that taught me all the minuscule details that went into owning a successful farm. Along with that, he served as a form of father figure when my true one could not.
Due to the sun just barely rising in the east, Carl makes his way to the farm alone, the only other people being stationed in the nearby towers. He clutches a pale of water in his right hand, his left adjusting the Sheriffs Hat upon his head.
