"GET OUT OF MY ROOM!" the edgy teen hollered, slamming the door in my face. I clenched my fist, tempted to bash his skull with Lucille. If he wanted to be like his "real" dad so much, I could eat his brain too. Who said only zombies could do that? That's ableist.
"Give. Me. The. Hair. Dye," I ordered. I was willing to be patient with him throughout his emo phase.
No response. I opened the door. He was huddled on the bed, rocking back and forth. Pathetic. In his pale, bony hand was the can of hair dye he was using to make his hair black as the void. It was my job as his father to stop him from going full goth.
"Negan, I've always wanted black hair," he insisted.
I clenched my fist. "Son, you are to address me as 'Dad'," I instructed.
He sadly shook his head. "No. My real dad was killed long ago. By you," he disagreed. I could see how much this was hurting him, and for once in my life, I regretted bashing someone's skull in. Maybe he would be happier with Rick. But no. It was too late. I was his father now.
"Listen, little one. I had no choice. It was in self defense. If I didn't murder Rick, who would be the main character on TWD?" I protested.
Carl threw his hands up in disgust. I could see on his cowboy hat, coyly sitting on his bed, that there was hair dye on the edges. It had even seeped into his trademark hat. This had gone too far.
"Who are you?" Carl asked.
"I'm Carl," I replied, putting the hat on my head.
