true blue , the walking dead

03

SILAS GRIMES

The memory of Maris Lawson's arrival at the prison was still fresh in my mind, even after everything that happened since then.

Daryl and Glenn had found her during one of their supply runs, battered and exhausted. She had seemed so small, so vulnerable, a stark contrast to the cold and distant figure who had just walked out of the cottage.

I had stayed up late that night, eager to hear my father's thoughts on the new arrival. But he had dismissed my questions, too weary to discuss the matter. Only offering me tired hums in response, his energy spent from a day of ensuring the safety of our community. And so, I had resolved to speak with Maris myself the next day, to discover the story behind her haunted eyes.

But I never did.

And so, the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, with each passing moment, I found myself unable to bridge the gap between us. It was as though an invisible force held me back, my resolve faltering in the face of Maris's guarded demeanor.

All this time, I had been waiting for the perfect moment to speak with her, to unravel the mystery that surrounded her. But perhaps the perfect moment didn't exist.

I hastily tucked my gun away and hurried after Maris, my footsteps echoing urgently against the hard ground. "Where are you going?" I called out, my voice tinged with desperation. The trees around us cast long, dancing shadows on the path, as if reaching out to grab us.

Maris continued to walk, her gaze fixed resolutely on the path ahead. She held the bottle of alcohol tightly, her knuckles white with tension. The sunlight filtering through the leaves above us reflected off the glass, casting shimmering, fractured patterns on the ground around her.

As I hastened to catch up with her, my heart pounded in my chest like a frantic bird trying to escape its cage. "Stop," I pleaded, my voice cracking with urgency as I reached out to grasp her arm. My fingers closed around her slender wrist, and I pulled her to a halt, her sudden stillness a stark contrast to the frenzied beating of my heart.

Maris whipped around, her eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and pain. "What?" she snapped, her voice laced with irritation and something deeper, something raw and vulnerable. I couldn't help but notice the slight glaze in her eyes and the half-empty bottle of alcohol clutched tightly in her hand. Was she drunk?

The sun beat down on us, casting harsh shadows on the ground. Maris's posture was rigid, her shoulders tense and unyielding as she glared at me. I could almost feel the tension radiating off her in waves, her anger a palpable force that hung heavy in the air between us.

I couldn't fathom the source of her anger, and it irritated me like an itch I couldn't scratch. What had I done to deserve this cold, callous treatment? Was it so wrong to want to stick together in a world that had fallen apart?

As I stood facing Maris, her eyes locked onto mine with an intensity, I took a deep breath and tried to reason with her. "We should stick together," I said, my voice steady despite the turmoil that churned beneath the surface. "Try and find the others. We can't be the only survivors."

She furrowed her brows, her gaze unwavering. "No," she replied. "You're on your own."

As I studied her face, I couldn't help but wonder if her determination to go it alone was a reflection of her fear—a need to avoid the connections that could only lead to heartbreak.

My thoughts were a tumultuous whirlwind, a mix of irritation and confusion that threatened to consume me. I felt my frustration rising, hot and fierce, as I struggled to find the words to convey the urgency of our situation.