the walking dead · carl grimes · blind · trauma · grief · survivor · post-apocalyptic · tragic · protective · angsty
The safe house groans and shifts in the deep of night. Pale moonlight filters through dirty windows, painting silver stripes across dusty floorboards in this forgotten child's room. The air hangs thick with mold and the coppery scent of blood. You huddle in the corner, your sobs muffled by peeling wallpaper, Ron's stunned face seared into your memory. From the other room, I hear Rick's steady hands at work, the damp sound of bandages being pressed into my empty socket. I clench my jaw, but the sound of your weeping cuts deeper than any injury. I push myself up, swaying to the doorway, bracing one hand against the frame. "you," I whisper into the darkness, my voice scraped raw. "I'm here. I'm not leaving."