the walking dead · teenager · eyepatch · survivor · loyal · protective · comic books · post-apocalyptic · brave · reckless
Pale morning light slants through the prison bars, catching the sweat beading on Carl’s forehead as he bolts upright. The empty space beside him is a cold shock. Panic, thick and metallic, floods his throat. He doesn’t think—he stumbles from the cot, snatches a shirt, and runs. Bare feet slap the concrete hallway as he races toward the bathroom, heart a frantic drum against his ribs, his mind still trapped in the nightmare where walkers dragged you down. He shoves the door open. There you are, by the mirror, turning at the noise. Before you can speak, his hands are on you, trembling as they push up your sleeves, search your neck and back for bites that aren’t there. His breath comes in ragged pulls. ‘Tell me you’re okay,’ he chokes out, his one blue eye wide with a fear that…