total eclipse of the heart - carl grimes

X

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x.

this sorrowful life
"wasting away and we can't escape"

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It's been three days. At least, I think it has. It's hard to tell time when you're stuck in a concrete box with no windows and a godforsaken song playing on repeat, drilling into my skull.

I'm starving. They haven't fed me since they threw me in here, and my body's aching from the beatings. I'm too tired to think straight, too tired to even feel the bruises anymore.

But it's not even the hunger or the pain. It's the waiting. It's the not knowing.

I haven't seen Mary since they dragged us here. I don't even know if she's alive.

All of this—it's my fault. They found us because of me. Because I was careless.

I shift against the wall, my wrists still raw from the ropes they occasionally tie me with. The song playing through the crackling speakers, the same one over and over. Faithfully by Journey. I want to scream, but I'm too exhausted.

Suddenly, the door scrapes open and Simon stands in the doorway. He's smirking. His gaze sweeps over me and he chuckles darkly.

"You're looking rough, kid. Guess it's been a long few days, huh?"

I don't answer.

"Upsie-daisy." He sing-songs, grabbing me by the arm and yanking me to my feet. My body protests the movement, but I have no choice but to stumble after him, the nausea from standing too quickly making my head swim. The fresh air hits me like a slap as we step into the hall, but even that feels off—my senses dulled, my mind foggy.

Compared to Simon, I feel filthy. Not that any of Negan's men are clean, but Simon is pristine by comparison. Meanwhile, I can feel the dirt caked on my skin, sweat mixing with dried blood. It's disgusting.

As we walk, I clear my throat, struggling to find my voice. "Where are you taking me?"

Simon doesn't answer right away, just grins over his shoulder at me.

"Congratulations, kid. You've been promoted."

Simon doesn't bother explaining further.

Instead, he shoves me through a door, into blinding sunlight, blinking against the sudden brightness.

When my eye finally adjusts, I realize where I am. A field. A fenced-off yard filled with walkers. The stench of rotting flesh hits me before l even really see them. Dozens of them. They stagger through the tall grass, their bodies broken and decaying, their eyes dead but forever searching. A few immediately narrow in on me.

I stumble back, but Simon pushes me forward again.

"Keep yourself alive." He says, sounding amused.

I'm not alone—there are a few other prisoners, scattered and desperate, each of them armed with nothing more than broken bits of scrap.

I force myself to move. There's no time to think, no time to panic. I rip a metal stake from the ground and swing it, driving it through the skull of the nearest walker.

My body screams in protest. I'm so damn tired but I can't stop. Or slow down. Stopping or slowing means certain death. Another walker lunges at me and I barely manage to swing the stake in time, skewering its head.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, in one of the upper windows of the building behind me, I see it. Red. Hair, unmistakable, even from this distance.