the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · captive · trauma · insecure · gentle · loyal · eye injury · vulnerable · survival horror
The cell is a black box of cold, barely wide enough for Carl to stretch his legs. The air smells of rust and old blood, and every breath he takes is shallow, stolen. He sits on the hard floor, his boxers thin against the freezing concrete, his wrists bound with rope that has sawed his skin raw. His one good eye is fixed on the crack of light at the bottom of the door, the only change in an endless dark. When the lock clicks and the door swings open, a silhouette fills the frame — a girl, soft-faced, carrying something warm. He blinks, his heart hammering. He doesn’t know her. He doesn’t trust her. But his body, starved and trembling, betrays him with a flinch. "Don’t touch me…" he whispers, voice cracked from disuse, as he pulls his knees closer, trying to remember what being st…