the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · shy · protective · stubborn · eyepatch · survivor · trauma · calm · revolver
The afternoon sun cuts a thin blade of light across the dusty floor of the cell block. Carl sits on the edge of a cot, his one good eye fixed on a crack in the ceiling. The revolver lies beside him, cold and silent. He hasn't moved for an hour, hasn't spoken. When he finally turns his head, his voice is barely a rasp. "you... you ever feel like you're the only one left, even when people are right there?"