𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐑𝐘──𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘭 𝘨.

𝟎𝟎𝟎

I remember when I was younger, around the beginning of the breakout, this guy, Jim, was the first in our group to get bit. He had this raging fever, one that made him hallucinate and sweat his soul out. Everyone offered to just take him out real quick and easy, relieve him of the pain with an inevitable outcome, but he was too scared.

He had asked my father to leave him propped up against a tree. I don't know what happened to him after that. Maybe he was discovered by a hungry horde of walkers, or maybe he still lingers in the Atlanta woods, a mindless corpse. Perhaps he has long since returned to the earth, becoming one with the very soil he leaned against, nothing but a pair of teeth creaking mechanically open and shut.

Back then, I thought about how stupid that was. "He's going to die anyway, why doesn't he just do it the painless way instead of turning?" I'd asked Sophia in private. I couldn't wrap my head around it.

But now I know. It's scary. It's scary to have your life in your hands, watching it slowly chip away, knowing you can't save it. You have to make the choice to either extinguish it while you can or ride it out.

I always believed if I were bit, I'd just shoot myself and forget about it. But when it finally happened, being dragged through the smoke-choked streets of Alexandria in the arms of my father and Michonne, flickering in and out of consciousness, I had the chilling realization that I couldn't do it. They were doing all this work to get me to a peaceful place—a place where I could die.

I had used the rest of my strength to lift my head and desperately scan my surroundings. I could see they were heading towards the church, a building left mostly untouched. I wouldn't have another option. My body couldn't carry itself, my breathing was shallow and hoarse, and my veins began to peer through my pale skin. I was going to die there.

I'd looked over to the distant forest. Endless trees, cluttering the ground and shielding whatever hid within. I imagined myself as the dead haunting the earth. Is that what I wanted to become? A future obstacle in someone else's way? An eye roll and a squeeze of a trigger away from being put down a second time?

It was better to just take care of it now, I'd told myself. Go to the church, take yourself out. Spare everyone the time. I swallowed the dryness constantly collecting in my throat.

"There," I'd croaked, making both my father and Michone stop to look where I wearily pointed. I couldn't believe I was doing this. I was still that terrified kid.

"Carl, no, we have to get you inside," Michonne had said.

She was right. I know that now.

"It's too dangerous out here," my father agreed.

But all I'd heard was, "no, come with us so we can blow your brains out."

I considered just accepting my fate, but the thought made my heart spike. "No," I'd frantically choked out. "I want to be in the woods." The sun would be rising soon, I hoped I could play it off as a final act of wishing to be in nature.

They shared a look with one another, a very obvious 'he's dying, we have to do whatever he wants,' kind of look. To be fair, I had been blatantly taking advantage of that.

They made a sharp turn, carrying me into the abyss of the forest. There, propped up against a tree, just like Jim, watching the sun rise, dad and Michonne said their goodbyes to me. They were sobbing, cupping my limp hands, pouring all their love onto me. I wanted to be in the moment, help them remember my last moments fondly, but I was so scared. All I could focus on was my burning skin, slick with sweat, losing all its peachy color.

"It's okay, it's fine," I'd muttered a few times in response to their breakdowns. Though, I doubt they'd heard me. My voice wasn't much by then. "I love you."

When I didn't have it in me anymore, they'd reached for their guns, ready to put an end to the eightteen years of life I'd fought to achieve. But, still, with all the time I'd had to accept it, I wasn't ready.

"No," I'd cried meekly, my eyes hardly open. "I'll do it."

"No, it should be someone—"

"Someone you love, I know," I'd cut off Michonne as I blindly searched for the gun still in my holster. "But I need to do this."

They couldn't argue with me. What would it have mattered? I was feverish, hardly breathing, and shivering despite the sweat glossing my pale flesh.

They wanted to stay with me when I did it, but I refused. I turned them away, said I wanted to be alone. They explained that if I did so, they wouldn't be able to bury me—my body would become a meal for the walkers.

I didn't care. "Please," I'd begged, clinging onto the last bit of life I had in order to make sure they left me. "I don't want you to see me do it."

Finally, they agreed, leaving me for dead in the woods. Crunching leaves and muffled sobs gradually faded away. I waited a moment before I fired a stray shot into a nearby tree, making them fully believe I'd done it. The effort of pulling the trigger nearly took me out. I had lost all strength.

I listened for the sound of their departing vehicles. When I knew I was alone, I dropped my gun, and slumped into the earth, my throbbing head against the tree.

I didn't have to sit there very long until it happened. I remember when every gear in my body stopped turning, my lungs emptied their last bit of air, and the horrid sound I released. I remember when the pain faded into nothingness. I remember when my heart stopped. I remember accepting my fate.

I remember dying, and then opening my eyes.

I felt nothing. I was light, painless, free.

But I didn't feel free. I looked around. Nothing had changed. No blinding light to follow, no choir of angels, no dark void, just the woods and a gun at my side.

I internally questioned if maybe something was wrong. Had I not died yet? Was I hallucinating?

I tried to breathe, but each attempt felt like a boulder was crushing my ribs, preventing any oxygen from entering. My body had retired, yet, my brain remained fully functional.

Back then, I was confused. I had cried out, trying to call out for my father, tell him I was alright, but only forcing out rattling groans, a sound similar to trying to blend silver-ware in a blender.

Maybe I'm still dying, I wondered.

But now, I know not to question it. I am dead, that much is obvious. It is pointless to try and decode what happened to me that night I died. My body reeks of mold and decay, my skin is grey, my veins are black and filled with old blood, my teeth are yellow and cracked, my hair is greased, my bandage is long gone, making the rotted cave where my left eye should be the majority of my face, and my vocal cords are strung out like old laundry.

I roam the woods I died in with the rest of the dead. I used to wonder if they were like me, trapped in a corpse and cursed to live out their death, pushed by the mindless urge to keep going.

But that's not true. They are a different kind of dead. They do not think. They do not live. They are walkers. I am not.

I am different. I am not hungry.

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