thirty five
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↳ the black muddy river ↲

I USED TO FEAR THE SUN, almost as much as I feared what lay in the dark. I knew it brought forward something I did not want; another day.

I had lost who I was among the thick branches, and viridescent evergreens coating the remnants of what once was so dearly, my home — Georgia. After each layer of skin had either been shed or ripped from me, I was left raw and obliterated. Exposed to totality as none different than those dead of which walked among my homeland. I was the same. A kindred spirit, with the monsters. Our souls clung to whatever subconscious left in our bodies, begging to be set free. Wanting mercy for the pain we had endured each day.

That was what brought me to the everlasting fear. The aureated golden warmth trickling through the skyline, filling the airspace with light. The oncoming hours. It spoke to me, and it whispered silent nothings. The quiet breeze in the morning — it told me that loneliness would follow until the day my heart would succumb in my chest. Internally, I was already aware. The wind did not need to say so. My essence was corrupt. I brought forth an everlasting force of death, magnetizing itself to anyone who neared me. The sun planting itself just above reach; it said that I would never find peace in my lifetime — not even in the heavens, for the chance that there was one. I did not deserve it, but instead had earned my place down here, set to rot in the sins of eternity. Each day was a recurring reminder in this regard.

In this mundane world, I felt homesick without having to part from home. I began spending my hours missing what I had before it was even gone, just so that the pain of losing it would be much lessened. The only thing I found to ever grow to fear was myself. What I grew capable of, and whatever I was not capable of. The white and black between morality became so blurred that I had been roaming in a vast place of grey possibility for a long while. When one did not have something left to be deprived of, they simply stopped fighting. It was easier that way; to not try.

That was why it was so simple to take the extended hand which Brian had offered that scared girl I once was. Covered in blood and dirt, lost, and a starving pulsation inside of me. Brought in with the promise of food, water, and complete stability, I was his to keep. A trigger finger, when the time came that he would charge the prison. We both wanted something, and the other had given word to provide for that need.

But just as if I were the moon, I learned one must go through phases of emptiness to feel whole again. The transition started, after meeting him. Carl. My torn skin very slowly learned to mend on its own, rejuvenating what once had been. Roots began growing between the gaps of coarse bone along my spine. I had met a fighter, and he had shown me things. Hope. Intention. He gave me all the right reasons to want to continue living this sorrowful life. Because without him, there were not really many reasons which truly made me wish to stay here. I had been stripped of what was left, discarded into deep obliteration. Only when he reached out, had I managed to pull myself above the surface. In many ways, I started breathing again. My lungs – instead of being filled with dark murky water and blood, had emptied, and been left as a vessel for the oxygen I gasped so relentlessly for.

He was beside me for so long that I forgot how It felt to be detached from him. Only when that singular shot rippled through the air, had I been forced to remember. But, I didn't want to remember. I thought I'd rather descend back into the deep waters, than think about it; about anything. The boy. His eye, the blood. The quiet back room of the infirmary he laid in, and his unmoving body upon the bed.

Though, in the months I was pulled above surface, I had grown into a fear of drowning. This time, if I were to let myself slip away, I thought I may rot in the waters. For the reality was, that he may not be there to pull me up again. He may have given himself to the tide, as well. Breathed his last breath, and let himself wash away. I knew this, all too well. It was why I didn't allow myself to ponder the thought. Instead, I had been out on the streets since the very first break of dawn.

Don't think. That was how I was going to stay sane. Don't think. So, as I hauled the bodies of the dead up the street, towards the small graveyard set up on the northmost side of Alexandria, I didn't let myself stop to take a rest. Once I had carried one carcass towards the pile of other bodies, I was either digging a shallow hole for one of our own to rest, or moving it to the burn pile. The pile for the ones who weren't Alexandrians; who didn't belong here. Once I had done so, I was right back to finding a light haul to carry. Barely able to lift a frail walker in my state, I had to focus on finding smaller people. The bodies of women, and children.

Dispersed in the 'safehaven', I found many of those which I recognized. The children who lived a couple houses down from us — I found them not far from home. I remembered the siblings from the early morning school Carl had been asked to help with. They could usually be spotted running about the streets, or playing with their toys near the pond. Now, they would be nothing but a small glimmered reflection in the water. A memory. And in the hours I dragged, buried, and burned, I found them. The Andersons. All of them remained in the same place, though they had not been put down. They had been so indulged in that just their bones remained. There was nothing left to put down.

Reluctantly, I was going to leave them for someone else to clean. I wasn't the only one out here. There were others who would do it, just not me. It was much easier to bury the bodies of the ones you did not know well, rather than those of which you did.

Eventually, the blade I carried had dulled after double checking that the dead stayed dead. On the way back home to retrieve the knife which once belonged to Beth, hidden under my pillow, I couldn't help but come to a halt in front of the Anderson's household. I wouldn't have, if it weren't for the position of the front entrance. It was wide open. The soft blow of wind moved the wooden rocking chair back and forth, a creak sound against the porch.

And then, something in me pushed forward. I made my way into the home, walking through the front hallway. It was filled with pictures of them. Ones from before. Pressed into a frame, the glass reflected images of their lives. I ran a gentle hand across one of the smooth glass surfaces, grasped it, and pulled it off. I did this for all of them, until all that remained on the wall were the small, bent, metal nails which dug into the structure.

It was no longer their residence, after. Only a hollow home, with memories buried beneath the floorboards.

Somewhere between the time that I had gone inside and wandered throughout the place, I found my way to the eldest boys room; possibly for some kind of closure it would offer me. How, I had seen his body drop and he was gone. The only thing left intact was not his skin, but the place of his dwelling. His bed, sheets ruffled. An indent on his pillow, as if it was still molded to the shape of him. Comics he had left scattered on the floor.

The truth of the matter was that I did not miss him. Still, my tear ducts burned and my throat squeezed together. I wasn't supposed to feel sorrow for the boy, though I did anyway. Ron was our friend. Corroded and fragmented, but still our friend.

At a quiet shift, I twisted and held up my dull blade so that it cast a barrier between the noise from behind and I. Emerging from the shadows, I saw that the noise held a weapon at me, as well. A crossbow. In an instant, the knife was disregarded, and dropped at my feet. Daryl slung the bow over his back, and I stepped closer. There was little space separating us when I halted. I took those few moments to look him over. I hadn't seen him since that last run. At least, not that I could remember. However, the image of my bleeding body weighed heavily on his consciousness. He hadn't seen me, since I was in the infirmary myself. He had just returned to Alexandria, after being gone, much too long. Three days, Carl had told me when previously reassuring my worries that Daryl and the others would return, after the herd surrounding the walls would pass. Three days he was absent, but it had felt like centuries for me. Now he was back, taking it upon himself to grab me into a hug, placing his arms over my shoulders.

Just for that little pocket of time, my aching chest dulled, and I felt okay.

▬ ▬ ▬

It was almost nightfall when I gained back some sense of reality. Remembering that I was here, and that I still existed. It was odd how I had begun slipping away from my own grasp — like so.

The warm droplets which clung to my cleaned skin had done it; brought me back, again. I ran a hand across the clouded mirror in front of me, watching the fog clear away and drip lines of clarity at my reflection. I hadn't looked at myself closely for a long while. I never had much motive to, after seeing myself in that small bathroom mirror after the prison had perished. I could remember the sickened feeling irking inside of me, when taking the glance. Nauseated self loathing. Since that moment, I hadn't wished to look any longer than I must. Quick glances here and there seemed to suffice.

I used to fight against any amount of change. Even if it were to my own body — to my own features. I was afraid of being so far gone that not even I remained, in everything that went to glory. I had never cut my hair since, because of this. As it grew past bearable length, I kept it the same, letting it brush against the protruding bones of my hip. On the other hand, some childish part of me believed my mothers spirit to be attached to the delicate ends of it, since she had been the last to take scissors to it. I was carrying old parts of me, even when forced to develop.

Not too long ago, on the day that I started bleeding between my legs, I could remember crying. Not because I was scared, or that I hurt. I had cried because I hated the happenings.

Change. After being thoroughly introduced to the concept, I slowly accepted it more, and more.

It led me to the very point I was at, looking in the mirror. Staring, and taking in every bit of the denial I previously created on my own image. Instead, I let myself be tranquilly aware of differences. I did not fear them. I welcomed the sharpening of my features, and the few inches my bones had stretched. The groves sacralizing my collar bones, and the layer of health my body was able to accept from the time I walked through the gates of Alexandria, and now.

Content enough with the reflection, I opened the door. A thick layer of warmth bloomed from the showers steam, and it followed me into the hallway, the cold only rising bumps against my arm once I had reached my room. Shivering, I changed into fresh undergarments quickly, then took a large shirt from my drawers and pulled it over my head. My body then magnetized itself to the mattress, and I felt too drained to care that I was resting my head at the foot of the bed.

My eyelids were faltering and had almost shut, when a weighted droplet ran down from the water nozzle and splattered on the metal drain. That small 'ping' caused my head to turn towards my slightly open door, and glance in the direction of the bathroom. With my chest rising and steadily falling, I stared blankly into the hallway, until the wave of tiredness swept away.

I realized I was staring straight at his room.

But even with sleep, I couldn't divert myself from the empty living space of his. Being straight across the hall from my room, I found it staring back at me often. Every passing day that it remained empty, it grew darker, and duller. I watched as Carl slipped from the walls, and his scent had disappeared from the air surrounding. Michonne cleaned his room in hopes that it would welcome him back when he woke, but instead, it didn't look like his anymore. Only an empty room, with a torn brown hat hung on the shelf. He was gone from the house.

That was when I learned what I was truly afraid of: A world where Carl did not exist.

He was breathing, this I was aware of. The bullet had barely passed underneath his brain, meaning the shot did not bring death. I had been going to the infirmary every morning to rid Denise of the pressure in keeping his eye clean, and exchanging his bandages for fresh ones. All the same, it felt like he wasn't really here. Not Carl. It was only his body. He was somewhere else, this time. I knew what comas were like. The dreams, and the state of vague awareness. He was not in the infirmary. Just. . . somewhere else. The thought of not knowing where, was what killed me.

Not being able to search for a person who was lost, was something I found very agonizing. I spent most of the hours of sunlight finding simple ways to keep myself occupied. I would come back from the infirmary, and retrieve Judith from her crib. I cared for her when it was not even asked of me. Nobody seemed to question it; they knew.

The child had been more fussy herself. I thought that maybe she missed him, too. Sometimes she would manage a short babble of her brother, but I would pretend to not hear. Carl had been trying to get her to say his name since we were on the road, and she only started forming the words once he was absent. I wanted him to hear her. To smile, and give that soft loving look he always managed to give the baby. Still, things didn't work out that way.

Other times, I went to Denise's and let her teach me everything she could. Since Pete had died, she lacked the extra medical help. When I appeared at her front door, she seemed almost relieved at my offer. She sat with me for hours and helped me through the pile of textbooks she had previously compiled for herself, nearly on a day-to-day basis. In exchange, I taught her about gun basics. How to load, aim, and fire. I was also sure to burn the importance of gun safety into her consciousness, above all.

It was somewhere on the third day that Carl had not yet awoken, when I found myself in the gazebo built near the pond. It took me a few paces before I was able to remember why the old brown leather journal I had found back in Atlanta was in my hands. Upon the pages, I had been scribbling down some words in cursive, filling the blank lines with whatever my mind desired. Lately, writing allowed me to pause. I wrote about life before. All the gritty stuff that had been stockpiled into a locked away place, for the longest amount of time. The good things, also. My sister and my mom. A couple of my old friends. Tybee island; the beach with shallow chilly waves, and an endless supply of scattered stars against the night sky. I wrote about him, too. Carl, and all attached. The black muddy river my consciousness trudged through. The words I wrote helped. They made the water run clear, even if for only a little while.

Someone came and entered the wooden structure, taking a silent seat opposed to my side. I was attached to my words, bringing the pen ink to gather my thoughts in the journal. I hadn't looked up, until they finally spoke.

"What are you writing about?" A quiet monotone, incurious voice asked.

I knew who it was, I didn't have to break my eyes from the paper. The only showing sign that I was paying any attention was the pen which stopped mid sentence.

"Stuff." I replied to Enid.

She seemed to swallow down a lump in her throat. Her presence had been absent for quite some time, and only now I acknowledged she was back. Any other day, I would have felt extremely grateful that my friend was back, and alive. However, our losses were so piled that her return barley filled the large void left within me, and the entire community.

She played with her necklace of twine and random shiny metal objects. "Are you okay? I heard about Carl."

I finally looked up, tapping the tip of the pen against the paper. "Are you? Ron's dead, and you're asking me about Carl?"

My words sounded harsher than I meant them to. Without paper, I couldn't think before the ink ran from my tongue. I hadn't tried to sound this way, but I came across it, anyhow.

The girl didn't seem to think much of it either way.

"Sorry for coming." She told me. "It's just, you know, I don't really have anyone. Ron's dead, Mikey won't leave his house anymore."

I felt a twinge of envy. She had managed to depart from Alexandria, and leave before she saw any of it. The W's attack — the people bleeding out as an aftermath. Then, the walls toppling, and the dead taking over the streets. She came back, and the walls were already being repaired. The bodies were buried or burned by then. She hadn't seen a glimpse of hell.

"I get it." I said, putting my journal down. "There's not many people around anymore."

▬ ▬ ▬

I gently grabbed the edge of Carl's white wrap bandage, unraveling it. Without the gauze covering, I could see the full extent of his injury. His normal skin complexion was still surrounding it — the void. Once you got to the edge, the deep red crater was rough, and still glistened with bits of fresh blood. It resembled the stones that could be cracked open, and reveal a cavity lined with uneven crystals. That was what he was, now. Something unconventionally lovely.

I pushed the brown wisps of hair away from his forehead, as soft as possible. After simply staring for a few minutes near his bedside with my chin rested on the mattress and my knees dug into the hardwood floor, I placed a new sheet of gauze across what once held a cored center of aegean blue. Then I kept it in place with a fresh bandage, and I climbed myself onto the empty bed space beside his unmoving body.

Usually I had been quickly changing the bandages, and leaving before I thought any further about it. But on day five, I found myself not wanting to leave the room. It was so empty, back home. His room taunted me, each time I passed. I had been sleeping on the couch in the living room to avoid it. Eventually though, the whole house felt stiff and dark. Lonely. After day three, my appetite was faltering. Anything I ate seemed to try and fight it's way back up. My head raged in a thumping pain, constantly.

It felt better near him. It didn't hurt as much.

I barely recognized the oncoming heavy feeling to be that of sleep, until it had already numbed me with it's soft song. I must have slept for hours, because when I finally woke, the sky was stripped colorless and the infirmary was a muted gray. It was the sound of footsteps that had brought me out of my dreamless slumber in this hour. Boots, against the wooden floorboards. I lifted myself up, and looked at the figure who stood in the doorframe. The blurriness cleared from my vision; It was Rick.

"Sorry." I said quietly. "I'll leave."

As I began getting up, Rick put his hand out with a small smile. "It's okay; I didn't mean to wake you."

I brought myself sideways to sit on the edge of the bed. Rick let himself in, and took a seat on the chair beside the window that radiated a bitter coldness tonight. He looked to the trash bin beside his son, most likely noticing the old bandages I had discarded into it.

"Thank you, Cyn. For taking care of him."

My throat felt dry, and weak. "You don't have to thank me."

"But I am, anyway." His head tilted slightly as he ran a hand across the uneven stubble growing from his face. "I know it's hard to see him like this. You're strong."

I slowly breathed out the remaining sleep stirring inside of me. "We have to be."

"Not everyone is." He told me. "Not like you are."

I pressed the sole of my boot into the floor, rubbing the tip into the ground.

"You saved him. I shut down; walked through the door. But you, you stayed. You saved his life. You were stronger than I was."

Folding my knees to my chest, I turned my head towards Carl, then his father. "Hardly."

Rick's lips fell straight again. Silence crept through the door, and suffocated our words. It danced around the three of us, weaving in and out each breath Carl took.

"Do you know why I took you with us, back at the prison?" He finally asked.

"No." I replied.

Although, I had spent hours upon hours trying to answer his exact question. Why? Rick had pointed his muzzle at me, when finding me pushing past the prison rubble. Carl's finger was on the trigger, but he had already put his gun back into his holster, and pulled his son away from me. He spared me. Not only that, but he asked me the three questions. Offered to let me survive with them.

Rick toggled with his watch in the moonlit room — turning the gears, and forcing the wrist of time to shift.

"Why?" I pushed on.

Watching the hand find it's course again, he glanced up at me, and leaned into his arms. "I saw my boy in you. Something about you two, it was the same. Almost like you were molded from the same mound of clay."

Hearing him say something so faithfully caused my face to soften. My heart took a slow, and I could feel it pulsing in my chest against my entire body. My lips were grazed with a smile as he came to a stand.

"I'm turning in for the night. You need anything?" He asked.

"No." I shook my head. "But, would it be okay if I stayed?"

He ran his hand, caressing Carl's forehead, before walking forward. "I won't tell Denise."

I placed my legs back onto the mattress, and laid against the stiff unused pillow.

"Oh, and Cyn?" Rick placed his hand on the doorknob, turning back to me. "Denise left you some dinner. Eat it."

The door closed behind him.

It was the sixth day, when I woke to fingertips tenderly brushing against my face. They ran through the front strands of my hair, and tucked the back the thin pieces behind my ear. My eyes fluttered open and took in the rays of light shining through the window, illuminating the room. The infirmary. I had fallen asleep here, last night.

"Morning." A voice whispered.

My eyes flicked up. They met with blue, and then the opposing bandage. There he was, smiling at me again; just like it had never left his lips in the first place. I lifted myself up, and his hand fell from my head. I had to stare, and blink away my oblivion for a moment, before deciding that the boy who sat up against the bed frame was truly real. That he was awake — and he was still here. I instantly leaned into him, and wrapped my arms around his torso. It was him. I was sure, after feeling that simple warmth radiating off of his skin. Carl was always warm.

"Why the hell didn't you wake me up?"

I felt his head bury itself in my shoulder. "You looked so peaceful, I didn't want to."

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • ·
4,280 words • 7:40pm

hi! twd tv series pretty much goes, "oh, carl got shot in the eye but he's fine", so i'm deciding to show you a little bit of the time in between, + aftermath. healing from a traumatic injury such as carl's won't happen overnight; you'll learn so in the upcoming chapters. hope you enjoyed — get ready for the
sh!tshow.

thanks for being here !!

sincerely yours,
nika.