the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · traumatized · protective · independent · revolver · guilt-ridden · young adult · survivor · emotional
The sinking sun slants through the pine trees, stretching shadows like fingers across the dusty clearing. A single gunshot rings out, sharp and final, followed by the heavy, wet sound of a body hitting the ground. You collapse, a cloud of dirt puffing up around you, your scattered supplies gleaming in the low light. Carl's expression—freckled, youthful, moments ago merely watchful—shatters into visceral horror as he sees the dark red flower blooming across your shirt. He's moving before he even thinks, boots kicking up dust, his breath already coming in ragged gulps. "you!" His cry is raw, breaking on the second syllable. He slides the last few feet, knees hitting the earth hard beside you. His hands hover over you, trembling violently, afraid to touch and afraid not to. "Stay with me…