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, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒄𝒆𝒅𝒖𝒓𝒆
𝕿here are two times when Carl Grimes has escaped and slipped through the grasp of Death's fingers like soft, dry sand. The first time occurred while trying to save a dear friend of his after she fled from what she feared the most; walkers. The second times betided after another friend was ready to cope with what he feared and hated the most; Rick Grimes.
Both times, he had woken up to the cerulean abyss sinking into his father's gaze. They would unfailingly be there casting at him with refreshing waves of fatherly comfort, and tiding over, and dragging in their passing spoiling shards and rocks of disorientation and fear off the shoreline. Every splashes of salty waves, were like deposing a gentle blanket strewing shells of alleviation that the boy would be embraced with great relief.
This third time, Carl awoke with a jolt, but they weren't present. His state was frantic, his eye unfocused; darted all over the place not knowing where to land on. The motions of his gaze were so rapid that each outline, colors, light were ripped from the constant pivoting movement of his head. A vertigo of stroboscopic images and fathomless shapes layered upon his vision. His head relentlessly turning, searching for them: The eyes and their soothing azure shade. They were nowhere to be seen. No even a trace.
Instead, the pair of gloved fingers loomed into his view again, dancing over him.
Uncontrollable stress caused him to shoot into an upright sitting position, but his attempt was a pathetic fail. Strenuous hands were holding him down like adamantine chains. They were strong, rough but a ting of reluctance spilled through them. Carl's eye remained wide, a pearl—shaped tear scintillating as it clung to the edge.
He cast his gaze over to the person who held his back stuck to the mattress beneath him.
It was a man, with broad shoulders and a colossal build. His complexion was a dark brown shade. A film of water tiding over the topaz—brown glow of the man's eyes made them slant at Carl with pencils of sympathy and shame. A field of thick darkish hairs clung to the lower portion of his face, climbing up to his ears. It gave a profundity and structure to his facial shape, and therefore concealing a certain innocence displayed by the chubbiness of his cheeks.
"It's okay." He mumbled. The delicacy and thickness spilling from his tone tinkled Carl's eardrums with a penetrating feeling of familiarity. He has heard the same voice earlier. Yet, this wasn't enough.
Familiarity wasn't enough for him; it wasn't what he wished. Familiarity was the bicephalous concept he depreciated the most. Brut knowledge meeting dull puzzlement. Which most likely means, a part of his questions would be unanswered, buried, thrown away like the last, soggy, limp fry you left out in the bottom of an oleaginous red box. Familiarity was a fuselage of warmth and frigidity that would only breed a mayhem of thunderous roar and blinding spears to his head. Familiarity was the worst feeling he could sense, and Carl Grimes was done with this.
