follow you into the dark - carl grimes

IVX

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ivx.

the wolf and the lamb
"you can try to run, you can try to hide"

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I stay in my room.

The sun, nearly invisible through the dense, melancholic murk, sinks below the snow-capped tree line, casting long shadows that blur into an ethereal shades of muted lavenders and grays. As I sit by my window, the chill of the glass seeping into my skin, I find myself entranced by the twilight. The urge to abandon this place should be overpowering, driven by the haunting memory of the recent event that took place in the bathroom.

Carl.

His mere existence kindles a desperate wish to belong, to be more than the monster lurking beneath my skin. But even as I cherish these moments of closeness, I am acutely aware of the danger I pose, the ticking time bomb hidden behind my veneer of humanity. The knowledge eats away at me relentlessly.

I am an aberration, a conscious cadaver masquerading as one of the living.

The duality of my existence weighs heavy, each passing day another day closer to discovery. The compulsion to leave, to flee before my secret is unveiled and catastrophe ensues, clashes with the yearning to stay by Carl's side, to bask in the warmth of his presence for just a little longer. Anything I feel for him is tainted by the fear of harming him, of the inevitable moment when my true nature will surface and shatter the fragile bond we share. As dusk deepens into night, I am left to grapple with this tormenting dichotomy, torn between the instinct to protect him by leaving and the selfish desire to remain close, despite the peril it brings. In the end, it is Carl who ultimately sways my decision either way. The reason for both my solace and my sorrow.

Hesitantly, shamefully, I reach shaking fingers to my lips. The icy, rough surface of them is what I find. I can just make out the dark outline of them in my sheer reflection, gray and morbid. There's nothing romantic about them, they are grotesque.

How could he bring his own sweet, pink mouth to the abomination of my own?

That's it. I'm leaving. I have to.

But this decision comes too late.

My door creaks open, the light from the hallway spilling across the wood floor. A familiar silhouette crosses the threshold.

"Sharon?"

I remain silent, hoping he might assume the room is empty, that he might turn and leave, sparing me this confrontation. The stillness is thick, the breath is caught in his throat.

He steps inside anyway, shutting the door softly behind him, plunging us back into darkness. His presence fills the room, a mixture of comfort and inevitable doom.

Neither of us move for a moment, then he lifts his hand, moving it out into the silent, open air. He waits.

I'm selfish because, before I can stop myself, my greedy little fingers are closing around his. We stand there a moment, his thumb runs over my knuckles.

"I was waiting for you." His voice is so quiet.

"You were?"

His hand traces up my forearm to my elbow, each movement deliberate and gentle. There's an almost imperceptible heat to his touch. It ignites something deep within me, a blend of longing and fear, a spark that sets my emotions ablaze despite the perilous truth I harbor.

I realize he is trying to pull me in closer, his breathing in shallow, like he can't quite catch it. He's nervous.

"Did you want to sleep alone tonight?" He asks this as if he is already prepared for rejection.