follow you into the dark - carl grimes

XIII

-

xiii.

fade into you
"colors your eyes with what's not there"

-

I try to settle into life in Alexandria.

But that's the thing.

Life.

Life and I are not exactly compatible.

I have the urge to hide. I shrink behind Carl everywhere we go. Head down. Mask on tight. I get a lot of looks at first. Confusion, at first. And then sympathy once they hear I had an accident.

I'm given chores. Carl isn't. I know this upsets him because he's clearly more than capable and yet they treat him like he isn't. They treat him like he's broken, like he's helpless. It kills him. He was a prideful boy before all this. It's like they've stripped him of every last inch of his dignity.

So, when I cut firewood, he stacks it. When I wash dishes, he dries. We fold laundry together and peel potatoes for dinner and it's like the weight lifts a little. When his hands are busy, it's like he forgets he can't see what he's doing. Muscle memory, maybe.

It's funny how when I first met him, he liked to pretend to be annoyed with me. But now he encourages my stories and my chatting. Doesn't mind that it's muffled behind the mask.

In the evenings, after the sun has sunken behind the trees and all the day's work has been done, he puts his head in my lap while I read to him. This isn't a favorable sight for his father but Carl can't see the glares Rick gives us and maybe Carl wouldn't even care if he could.

And at night, I slip into his bed after everyone else has retired to their own. His fingers trace my skin and pull me close, wrapping me up with his warmth. He breathes against me, nose against my collarbone, a tangle of limbs. And we fall asleep that way.

We spend almost every second together. But somehow it sort of feels like it isn't enough.

More and more, I feel like I'm slipping.

More and more, the guilt that's been like lead in my gut builds.

More and more, I think there's something about Carl Grimes I don't even have the words to explain even if I tried.

And as he dreams, the rose hued flesh of his sweet skin presses closer to the lifeless dead silvery white shade of mine. Like he doesn't mind the cold. Like I'm worth the trouble. Like maybe he thinks there's something about me, too.

Most of all, though, I can't help but wonder what will happen first.

Me telling him.

Or him finding out on his own.

And both are absolutely, utterly, truly, fucking terrifying.

-

"Nothing is sadder than a teenage girl who has lost her beauty. When you're young, you think looks are all you have." Says an elderly woman to her husband as they sit bundled up in matching rockers on their front porch as Carl and I walk past on the shoveled sidewalk, pushing Judith in a stroller. She thinks she's out of earshot, and normally she would be, if not for my unfortunate gift of exceptional hearing. "Both of them, the boy, too. It's so sad."

"At least they have each other." The husband responds, voice all gruff as he lights a cigarette. "Freaks usually keep one another company."

She smacks his arm. "You're awful." She tells him, but there's amusement in her voice. "The boy's blind though, so he can't even see what she looks like. I guess that makes them a perfect pair. It's best that they're keeping their faces covered like that—there are children here, wouldn't want to scare them."