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M E G A N

"So now that you have a little liquid courage," Ron starts. "Will you tell me what's really going on between you and mister Grimes?"

Although being this tipsy is very dangerous and stupid in this world, I don't mind the feeling as much as sober me thought I would. In a way, I actually prefer having to a slur my way through this conversation on Ron's bedroom floor, carrying out my attendance at the group's welcoming party.

"Nothing."

Although that isn't anywhere near the truth, it is exactly what I know about the situation going on between Carl and I.

Absolutely nothing.

Ron smugly cocks his head to side, a suggestive expression on his face.

"Okay," I mutter. "Maybe not nothing."

"I knew it." He starts with a grin. "Alright, spill."

"Well." I start. "The night before he left—" My words come to a stop as the corners of my lips twitch upward into an embarrassed, drunken smile. "After Deanna's party,"

"Go on."

"We kissed."

"That's it?"

"What do you mean that's it?" I ask him, seeing the disappointment in his face, as well as hearing it in his tone.

"All you two did was kiss?" He asks.

I can do nothing but give out a wobbly nod. A cheeky smile playing on my lips as the boy raises his eyebrows at my own innocence. "Is that so bad?"

"I was hoping for something a little more—" His voice hitches in his throat as he drunkenly tosses his hands in the air. "I don't know—exciting?"

"Like what?" I ask.

"Like what?" He mocks me. "You know what—and don't make me say the S word, because you know I w—"

"Okay, fine!" I say, letting out a laugh. "I know what you mean." The both of us chuckle a bit at my franticness. "And please don't."

"My lips are sealed," He starts before adding a forced cough. "Virgin."

"Is that why you wanted to get me drunk on a work night, Ron?" I ask, a slightly wheezing laugh coming out, along with my words. "So I'd tell you all of my secrets?" I joke.

"Well, technically," He starts. "Every night is a work night. At least for you it is."

"Which means that I'll have to look your dad in the face tomorrow morning, knowing that his stolen rum is what put me to sleep." The smile fades from my face, in a moment of slight realization.

In this fun moment, I've managed to forget all about how I am now being held accountable by these people. I now have a community to answer to, and a job that I am responsible to upkeep. And drinking—even once—could probably jeopardize that.

If I get caught.

Though, nobody should suspect a thing. A sleepover between Ron and I isn't something uncommon in Anderson household. Jessie and Pete remind me of how my own mother used to treat my friends when I'd bring them over. Telling them to make themselves at home if they were a part of our family.

"You really like working under him?"

"Yeah." I start. "It's nice having someone care about my future. I kind of stopped planning for it a long time ago."

"When the world went to shit?" He asks. An eyebrow curiously raised as he aims the question in my direction.

I shake my head. "Before."

A few moments of tense silence pass.

I'd already told the boy where I was before all of this went down. It isn't new information to him. But, we haven't talked about it at all since I first told him, leading the topic to feel like more of a dirty secret than a simple element of my past.

"Well, that's not a problem anymore." He starts, slightly wiggling his head, trying to shake it back and forth. "And I think that if anyone has a future here, it'd definitely be you."

"You think so?"

"Totally," He starts. "This place needs someone like you." He raises his eyebrows a bit, waiting for the shy smile to finish creeping upon my face. "This family needs someone like you."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, come on." He tilts his head to the side, reaching forward and roughly pushing my shoulder, causing me to sway to the side, before bounding back into place. His dramatics are of no avail as he stares at my confused, exaggerated expression. "You're one of us now."

"What?"

"You're kind of like—the sister we never had. Sam and I." The boy takes a second to put together his sloppily tipsy words. "The middle child we never knew we needed."

"I haven't heard many great things about being a middle child," I start.

Ron's smile quickly halters at my deceptive words. A sneaky grin starts to slowly play on my lips.

Clearly, I am in no position to be picky as long as I'm associated with these kind people. Especially since this is the closest I've ever been to having a family. And it may be the lonely foster child within me, but the Anderson family has come to be something I've never known I've always wanted.

"But I guess it'll have to do."

☆

I stand in the expanding graveyard, staring down at the—mostly full—glass bottle in my hand.

Ron's bottle of rum.

After only a few weeks trapped in a community with nothing to do, and no one else to talk to, the boy and I quickly learned a lot about each other. I guess I was lucky with who I'd gotten stuck with in such a small place.

The Andersons found it somewhere in their heart to include me as one of their own. A new girl brought in, similar to the way people used to try to domesticate wild animals.

In the short time we had together—as a family—I learned a lot about what my life was supposed to be like. What I was supposed to spend my time focusing on, instead of just running around trying to survive.

Jessie was the one who helped me throughout the surprise of my own womanhood. I'd heard bits and pieces about periods before, but I was never able to figure it all out. The woman allowed me to have what seemed like a staple experience that I was originally supposed to have with my own mother. Only—I accepted a long time ago—stuff like that would never get to happen.

In between all of the new bits of normal life that I was introduced to, I also managed to help the woman learn more about how I had to survive. Out there. Although such a frowned upon topic among the Alexandrians, she was eager to learn.

Yesterday, she even managed to take down one of the intruders. One of the wolves. And right after the church tower fell, she put down a few walkers and got us all inside the Anderson home, safely.

Jessies was proud of herself, as was I. It was rewarding, knowing that the woman finally felt that she was able to protect her children. It felt even better to know that she considered me to be one of them.

During some of her final moments, the delicate woman held such a brave face for us—Sam and I.

I wish I could say that her encouragement was enough to keep his panic under control, but there's a reason why I'm standing at the foot of her empty grave, watching the pile of dirt grow as people pass by, throwing handfuls of loose soil on top of it.

Nothing but a small hole in front of the wooden cross that sticks out of the dirt. To give the illusion that we know the extent of what happened to her body.

A few of the other Alexandrians put trinkets inside the hole—stuff that was symbolic of her residence here. My sacrifice—to later be disintegrated by the soil of this earth—held more than just the memory of the woman.

Now, beneath the dirt is her itchy sweater that she lent to me that night of Deanna's party. The sweater she ended up saying looked better on me, before, ultimately, letting me keep it. It was also what I was wearing that same night out on the dock, when I kissed Carl.

The mountain of memories that I made in one sweater—as of recent events—might as well have been buried along with it.

A second grave—one of the only other completed memorials—is Sam's. Right next to his own mother's. Their times of death being almost identical, even though one was for an adult and the other was for a child.

I was somewhat relieved when I first saw his grave—despite how morbid that seems. His impression of a grave is the same size as his own mother's. I don't know how much worse I'd feel if his body was somehow recovered, and I had to stand here and look down at a child-sized grave.

Instead, I stand in front of three small mounds of dirt and one small hole that has yet to be filled.

The third completed memorial being Deanna's, as hers was a priority. The burial of a leader was the first in line, as we'd known about her approaching death before it even happened. She was bitten when it all went down, and stayed behind as we all made our way onto the street. Her body has yet to be recovered as no one could find it this morning in the house where we left her.

Only one more empty shell of a grave is left uncovered and that one belongs to Ron Anderson.

The boy who'd changed in the blink of an eye, after his father's sudden death. I would wish that the two were somewhere together, but Pete doesn't deserve to see his family again after everything he put them through. Even inside of whatever afterlife I can try to force myself to believe in.

It was his father's demise that drove Ron to such condemning insanity. His resentment for Rick was something he didn't try to hide much, but the extent of his anger was now irreversible.

I'd once explained to the boy how triage worked, and he seemed to understand it. Assessing a situation based on levels of need, and urgency. But that was before he'd changed. And before he'd seen his own brother—then his own mother—as a real-life example of the new term.

I'd always known that a moment would come where I'd have to choose between my group and the Andersons. It was always lingering in the back of my mind.

But, I thought that simply moving into the new household was the extent of that dilemma. And that the choice was already made. I mean—it had already done a considerable amount of damage to my life.

Last night—as we inched our way through the familiar street filled with the dead, hand-in-hand, covered in their scent just to blend in—was when it really all came down to it. Making the right choice. Something that—if not approached correctly—could've been the last choice I'd ever made. Or maybe even someone else's.

And my choice was just that. It was a choice—right there in front of me—to kill him. To put an end to Ron. To do whatever I could to stop what was about to happen.

One dire instant was all it took. The insufferable feeling of choosing who in front of me got to live, and who—unfortunately—had to die. In making my hasty decision to kill, a rogue gunshot from the properly aimed weapon was the one thing not running through my mind.

The alcohol in my hand slightly sloshes around, gently pattering against the glass of its bottle, held firmly within my palm.

The same guilty palm that had to strain itself in order to get a tighter grip on the rough handle of my screwdriver. My own reliable weapon that sits in my waistband, has now claimed its very first life.

It was a lot more difficult than plunging the thin blade through the skin of a walker. Human tissue was tougher. A lot tougher.

And when the blade slid up—through the back of his neck—and into the brain stem, the durable human skull didn't help much either.

It shouldn't have surprised me, but it did. It all seems like common knowledge now, but a few days ago—before I'd been forced to kill—I would've never thought that there was that much of a difference between the two.

And I never should've had to find out in that way.

I kneel down at the edge of his empty grave. My knees sending a few stray chunks of dirt tumbling into it. A small hole, similar to that of his mother and little brother's.

The fate of his remains being the same as the rest of them. Despite how desperately I tried to catch his body as it dropped to the ground, the walkers still found a way to have at it. Right in front of my own two eyes.

My hand cranes around the neck of the bottle as I bend over, placing it in the damp soil.

Sorry, brother.

My dry eyes twitch, no longer feeling the same burning that they had been all night. The skin of my face remains dry with the damage my salty tears had previously done to it.

I fold my bottom lip inward, biting down on it, as I stare at the lonely bottle.

Nobody else had any desire to put something in his shallow grave, leaving Aaron standing behind me, waiting. The man composes himself, his hands at his sides—one of which contains a shovel—as he patiently waits for me to leave. The kind man giving me my own time to mourn, despite how the rest of Alexandria now feels about the kid.

With a reluctant sigh and an involuntary quiver of my lip, I wipe my hands on my pants and stand tall beside Ron's grave. My blood-stained hand places itself on top of the wooden cross, and I take a moment to squeeze my eyes shut.

"Megan?"

I open my eyes and turn around to see Enid standing in front of me. A surprising sight considering she'd disappeared outside the walls shortly before the herd came. I'd be stupid to expect that she'd be here standing in front of me.

Nothing comes out of my mouth, but it doesn't have to. Our heavy, weighed-down eyes do all of the talking.

The girl walks toward me, closing the gap between us. Her thin arms pulling me into a tight, desperate embrace. "I'm so sorry." She says into my shoulder.

She then pulls back from the hug, a bit teary eyed. Although the tough girl doesn't seem like she'll be shedding any of the building tears any time soon.

"Have you gone to see him yet?"

The worst part of it all.

The immediate consequences of my own actions. Something ambitious I did out of a desperate attempt to save Rick, instead left his own son now lying limp in the infirmary. A sight I hadn't seen since the middle of the night, when Denise needed me to keep pressure on the bleeding wound.

What little medical expertise I did have, became completely useless the second I laid my eyes on the gaping hole that used to be one. An eye. A quite lovely blue one.

I haven't let myself think about it much.

For now, I can handle staring at the four new crosses sticking out of the ground. I can watch as the people of Alexandria paint the Anderson's names on the memory wall, adding them to the list of loved ones that the community has lost.

However, the thought of Carl's name ever being up on that wall—added to that wretched list—makes me crumble. What I'd do if he, too, was just another empty mound of dirt and a cross, is something I don't want to think about. Especially when it'd be all my fault. And last night was the closest he'd ever gotten to that becoming a reality.

"No." I mutter, shaking my head.

"Are you even going to?"

My teeth find my bottom lip as my eyes stay glued to the dirt. "I can't."

"Yes Megan," Enid starts. "You can—and you should."

"How am I s—" I suck in a breath, averting my eyes from Enid's as they start to sting. A growing lump in my throat being choked down as I force out my hoarse words. "How am I supposed to walk in there, and just hope he'll be okay? How am I supposed to just be by his side—knowing that it's all my f—"

"It is not your fault."

"But—"

"I don't care." She starts. "I don't know what led up to what happened—and I don't want to." She shakes her head, her bottom lip slightly twitching. "Were you the one who pulled that trigger?"

"No, but—"

"Then it is not your fault. You understand?"

I subtly shake my head, swallowing the painful lump in my throat.

"And besides," She sighs. "Carl needs you. He just spent the night fighting for his life. He needs you right now. No matter how it happened. All that matters is who's there for him. And who's not."

"Would that make me a bad person?" I start, my eyes drifting toward hers, finding them after her scolding. "If I didn't go—what if I can't find it in mys—"

"You're not a bad person. So stop telling yourself that." Enid walks a bit closer to me, putting a reassuring hand on my shoulder. The warmth of her skin feels hot against mine as my blood runs cold. "I don't know Carl well, but I'm not blind—"

My eyes immediately squint a bit at her word choice.

"Oh god," She chuckles a nervous, breathy laugh. "I didn't—" Her words abruptly stop. "What I mean is that I'm not clueless, okay?"

The girl manages to put her serious face back on. It doesn't last long before I let out a sigh, which turns into an involuntary laugh. Enid quickly loses her composure, giggling along with me.

"Look at us," I start. "Laughing—in a graveyard."

"Dead walkers are everywhere." Enid states, turning around and motioning over to the few Alexandrians that have spent all morning dragging the bodies over closer to the gate. "And it smells like gasoline."

A brief moment of silence takes place after her words. Which soon gets cut off by the both of us involuntarily snorting into more laughter. I place a hand over my mouth.

A gasp leaves from between my lips, briefly ending my laughter. "I have so many patients to see. Everyone got hurt."

Concern takes over both of our expressions, but only for an instant before we start laughing, yet again.

"My boyfriend's dead." She states with a stifled wheeze.

"I'm the one that had to kill him." My raspy voice says shortly after. The both of us hold our hands over our mouths, trying to contain what we can of it.

"Yours has one eye." She says, sending us spiraling into another fit of delirious laughter.

Normally, I'd be freaked out if someone referred to Carl as my boyfriend. I'd be nothing short of terrified. But now, that title seems on par with the problems we've been having lately, and we clearly have more important things to figure out.

So, in my state of grief—four, more like five times over—my compulsive laughter lets Enid's assumption slide.

"We're going to hell, aren't we?" Enid asks.

"No," I start. I clear my throat, forcing down my laughter. "No."

All it takes is one more glance into each other's teary eyes to—once again—enable our laughter.

"Okay, maybe."

☆

Immediately after Enid and I became breathless in between our sporadic giggles, we slowly sank back into the brutal aftermath of what'd happened last night. What we tried to turn into tears of laughter, left us both a sniffling mess on the infirmary steps.

We decided to leave the graveyard, as it was kind of awkward with Aaron standing there. Not that he'd be one to judge us, especially after all we'd lost in just one night.

My—somewhat unexpected—companion through all of this explained to me how Glenn found her, and basically forced her to come back. If it'd not been for him, I probably would've been laughing like a maniac, all alone in front of Ron's grave.

Unfortunately, Enid isn't by my side anymore as I drag my heavy feet through the infirmary doors. Several different people sit on the tables randomly arranged throughout it.

When I enter through the front door, the chaotic room goes silent, all eyes locked on me as I trudge through the echoing hall.

Making my way into the back room, I hesitate before sticking my fingers through the slightly cracked door. With a soft creak, I'm able to open it and look inside.

Rick sits by the bedside, bloodied and battered, holding the hand of his nearly lifeless son. His head tilted downward, staring at the sheets.

My first instinct is to avoid the elephant in the room. The common denominator that the man and I have. The only tie that somewhat holds us together.

"Has Denise checked you out?" I ask the man. He looks up from his son, to me, with tired, baggy eyes.

Amidst the blood and dirt splattered all over his skin, a few trails of clean, dry skin peak out, that were previously cleansed by his repetitive tears.

"No." He starts. "No, not yet."

Silences consumes the still room once again. Nothing moves, except for the boy's pale chest, as it slowly rises and falls.

My guilty, anxious eyes go anywhere but towards the bed. What I can see from the corner of my eye is more than enough. The thick, white bandage draped over the delicate, peaceful skin of his sleeping face.

"Did you want come in? Or—"

I failed to realize how awkward it must be—me standing in the doorway. My head peeking through a small gap in the door.

"No," I start. "No, I'm good right here."

"Why don't you come on in?" He mutters. Rick then pulls his eyes away from his son, looking at me. His exhaustion evident with the movement of his laggy eyes.

My bottom lip twitches, but yet nothing comes out of my mouth. I slide my body through the open door, stepping into the room. I subconsciously take a deep breath, before allowing the door to close behind me. Still standing, I stay with my back pressed to the door.

"You're not looking at him." He states in his exasperated, gruff accent. "Why aren't you looking at him?"

"I can't."

"Why not?" His throaty voice mutters.

"I'm scared."

"Why?"

"Because it's all my fault." My small, quiet voice sounds out.

"It isn't." He places a hand on his knee, his other hand still containing Carl's. "You know it isn't."

Maybe I do have some unrequited fear of Rick Grimes. Maybe I walked into this room thinking that the man would instantly blame me for what happened. Or maybe even come at me about how I left the prison. But the guilt inside me continues to go unpunished.

"He knows it isn't your fault." His father says to me. "That's all that really matters, here."

"You d—" I start. An overwhelming rush of emotions floods into my brain, all at once. My lower lip quivers, my eyes beginning to sting. "You don't know that."

The man stares at me from across the bed, as I stand taller than his seated position. Parted, confused lips, waiting for more of my words.

"I was the one who taught Ron how to load it." I start, sucking in a quick breath. "Carl—he didn't want to." A high-pitched whimper coming out with my words. "I'm the one who took Ron down. If I would've just wait—"

"Look at me. You didn't have a choice, Megan." My name rolling off of Rick's tongue in a foreign, fatherly way. "What you did—what you had to do—it saved me. And for that, I'll always be grateful to you."

Last nights events run fresh through my mind. The shock of seeing an entire family taken down in front of me was nothing compared to the bodily panic I faced the moment I saw a bloody Carl dropping onto the pavement.

His helpless, limp body bouncing back and forth as his father carried him through a sea of the dead, just to get his own son to safety.

The piles of walkers, all trying to get at the dying people we had no choice but to leave behind in order to get Carl to safety.

"I just—" I choke out. "I—"

"Come see him." The man stands up, gently placing Carl's pale hand back on top of the sheets. He extends an arm out to me, as he inches closer. "You don't have to be afraid."

"I can't." I choke out, another tear shooting down the wetness of my face. My hands find the doorknob behind me.

"I'm sorry." I say, turning on my heel and running through the door, lifting a hand to my mouth.

My footsteps thud against the wooden floor in the infirmary hall, echoing through the walls of the tight space.

"I'm so sorry."

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4415 words

A/N

THANK YOU SM FOR READING!!

also...guys...

I've officially decided on an ending to e.e. BUT DONT WORRY IT ISNT SOON

but I've been working on gifs and visuals and an epilogue that I'm really excited for !! It's an ending I've never seen in a fic before and im so excited!! you guys are going to h8 me though <3

we're around 2/3 of the way done with EE and I'm so emotional???

i wish it could last forever :(

BUT I LOVE YOU ALL AND THANK YOU FOR READING !!!!

^^ original A/N

not me bringing up the end when it's nowhere near over XD

☆vote 4 Carl's recovery ☆