midnight in the garden of eden - carl grimes

I

-

i.

sound of silence
"death becomes me"

-

I'm not a bad person.

Or maybe I am.

I don't really know anymore.

The hands that guide me are rough, unfriendly. Hoisting me from beneath the arms as they drag my scrawny frame down a set of stairs. The air changes, cold and stagnant and smelling of stale dirt. I'm not sure where I am, the burlap sack over my head ascertains this.

I'm slammed into a chair, the knife wound in my shoulder is so agonizing, a bit of that weakness in me seeps out and I let out a groan. Somewhere, within the room, a voice asks what's going on.

"This little bitch's people killed Jesus." One of my takers gruffly responds.

"Jesus is dead?" The first voice asks. It's hushed, hollow.

There is a moment of silence, a shifting of feet, then the gruff man asks hotly: "The hell'd you do to get in here?"

"I hit a kid with a shovel—"

"—What?" It's the woman speaking now, discordant.

"He was trying to set that cat on fire—Look, I know, it sounds worse than it is though—"

"—Just shut up. We've got to deal with this."

By this they mean me.

And by deal with...

The burlap is torn from my face, my skin is sticky with sweat and tears, my hair has congealed to my dirty cheeks. A woman and man stand before me. Their faces full of fury, eyes in flames. Their hatred for me is all too evident.

"Are you going to kill me?" I don't know why I ask this, there's really no difference between life and death. Not with how I've been walking the earth like a corpse for years now. I'd been living like the dead. This is no life. Them killing me changes nothing.

"Who the hell are you?"

Who am I? "I'm nobody. I'm nothing."

"What's your name?" The question is harsh, demanding an answer.

For a second, I don't even remember what I used to be called. It has been so long since anyone has called me anything. "I don't have one."

-

The interrogation drags on, a slow and excruciating ordeal, each question a needle probing at the edges of my fraying composure. The responses I give are flimsy, fragile things, spun from threads of uncertainty rather than fact. It isn't that I set out to deceive—I simply no longer know what the truth is, or if it matters here in this cold, drippy cell. I'm not a bad person. I just want to survive. So I say whatever I think they want to hear, anything to seem harmless, anything to buy another breath, another fleeting chance to stay alive.

Who are you?

I don't remember. It's been so long since I've been anyone.