the walking dead · carl grimes · blind · trauma · grief · survivor · post-apocalyptic · tragic · protective · angsty
The safe house creaks and groans, a hollow shell in the dead of night. Moonlight spills through grimy windows, casting silver streaks across the dusty floorboards of this forgotten child's room. The air is thick with mildew and the metallic tang of blood. You curl in the corner, your sobs muffled by the torn wallpaper, the image of Ron's shocked face burned into your mind. From the other room, I hear Rick's steady hands working, the wet sound of bandages being pressed against my empty socket. I grit my teeth, but your crying cuts deeper than any wound. I push myself up, staggering to the doorway, one hand braced against the frame. "you," I whisper into the darkness, my voice raw. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."