can't help falling||c.g DISCONTINUED

one

"She didn't need to be fixed, just loved."

***

Skylar.

Just the thought of it being a Monday made me want to crawl back under the covers and disappear. I glanced at the alarm clock—time to get up.

Usually, I'm already awake before the buzzing. But last night was particularly bad.

And today?
Today just felt wrong.

I dragged myself out of bed, wincing as my arms protested—bruised and aching like they were made of concrete. One glance in the bathroom mirror confirmed what I already knew: a black eye bloomed against my pale skin, angry and dark.

I turned away.

To distract myself from the yelling, the fists, the smell of alcohol that still clung to the walls—I took the longest shower I could manage. Let the hot water scald my skin. Pretend it could scrub away everything.

Once I was dry and dressed, I braided my hair over one shoulder.
Routine. Familiar. Controlled.

Then came the concealer—not to look pretty, but to survive. I'd gotten good at hiding bruises. Too good.

The house always reeked of alcohol.
Dear old dad. The town drunk.
He took his rage out on me—blamed me for Mom's death.

He'd snarl, "It should've been you."
The words stuck like broken glass in my throat.
The fact that he thought that—said that—
It nearly broke me.

But I couldn't call the cops.
I couldn't risk losing him to jail and getting tossed into some hellhole foster home, bounced around like the kids on TV. I had no one else. Not really.

Technically, I had family—Daryl and Merle, my uncles.
But they'd been gone for years.

Dad said he pushed them away to protect us. That Merle was into drugs. That Daryl wasn't civilized enough. That he was the youngest, and they abandoned him.

But I knew the truth.
He told them to leave. And that was before everything changed.
Before Mom died.
Before he lost himself—and me.

Now all I had left of them was a torn-up photograph and a name.
Uncles who were once family. Now just ghosts.

So I lived on. Quiet. Unseen.
A girl with bruises on her arms and silence in her throat.
No one ever suspected.

Dad had a good job. He smiled in public.
We looked like a perfect family.
But at home—
He'd rather it be me in the grave than Mom.

He hit me. Then he apologized.
Said he was sorry.
Said he'd change.
And every time... I almost believed him.

That's why I never told anyone.
Because in the moments he was kind, it was easier to forget the pain.

But it wasn't okay.
None of it was okay.

I snapped out of my thoughts and packed my backpack. Grabbed an apple. No time for breakfast.
Just another Monday.

Carl.

As I reached the bus stop, my best friend—Skylar—called my name and wrapped me in a hug. We'd been friends since we were six.
She was family.
Maybe the only real family I had left.

We stepped onto the bus, chatting like normal, and walked into school together.
That's when it happened.

The intercom crackled to life:

"This is just an emergency warning. We are going into lockdown. Everybody get to class."

Skylar and I froze.

Our first-period class was locked.

Panic set in.

Without knowing what else to do, we decided to go home. Skylar said she'd grab a few things and meet me at my place later.

I nodded and ran.

Skylar.

When I got home, I turned on the TV.
That's when the world fell apart.

News anchors scrambled to keep their voices steady.
Monsters.
On the streets.
Roaming cities.
The dead were walking.

I dropped the remote.

My heart pounded as I heard something move in the house.
I wasn't alone.

I ran to the closet, slammed the door, and curled into a ball.
Tried to breathe.
Tried to think.
Tried to forget the sound of footsteps that weren't mine.

Closing my eyes didn't help.
If anything, it made the monsters louder.