↳ we aren't who we were anymore...
oc x carl grimes
season 7-8 (sequel to who we were)
TW: Depression, thoughts of suicide, use of drugs/alcohol, use of tobacco, detailed gore, use of weapons, death, and mentions/suggestions of assault.
DISCLAIMER:...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
┗━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━┛
I hardly sleep. I spend the entirety of the night either tossing and turning or rubbing my swollen eyes as I hear the soft breathing of Daryl from across the room. I feel the light texture of paper beneath my fingertips as I lay my head against the pillow, wanting to read the rest of the words Daryl wrote, but am also not sure I can. My stomach twists at the thought again.
I stare at the digital clock on the nightstand beside me, examining the little red numbers on the display and the uniformity of each one as they quickly flash at each new minute. The moments blend into several until they drip into another completed hour in which my head has been spinning, my vision blurry, my stomach turning in a constant state of upheaval.
And then there are the feelings of helplessness.
By the time the gentle rays of sun have begun to glisten through the windows, I find myself sitting upright, hugging my knees to my chest as the piece of paper is still grasped in my hand.
I don't know what time Daryl and I finally ended up getting to bed last night. It must've been late because he feel asleep soon after we got back to our room, even though I had no luck of doing so.
It's a funny feeling - how I feel about my father's life. For so long, I had convinced myself, and everyone else, for that matter, that he had been dead, a lost memory from my mind that had been laid to rest. For some reason, the security of it all had brought me peace. It was a calmness I couldn't describe to anyone else. Even in the moments that I cried myself to sleep and contemplated things I shouldn't ever have, I still felt an odd weight being lifted off of my shoulders, allowing me to not be so attentive over more people - more people I cared about.
But I should feel happy.
Of all the events I have played out in my head, having to meet back up with my father, the same one who I have been convinced has been dead for the past three years, being alive was never been one of those ideas. It wasn't even something I imagined - running into his arms for a hug again, telling him everything he's missed, showing him our new group members that we met after his disappearance, reintroducing him to Carl. Now, I have to plan this all out. I have to decide how we'll meet again and what I'll tell him after not speaking to him for so long.
The idea of him being with Negan floods my mind again.
I squeeze the paper in my hands, listening to it crinkle under my harsh grasp.
He must've not been there that night - the night in the gravel lot when he watched our group suffer. He must not have come to Alexandria on the several occasions Negan came to visit us. It makes it seem like the universe has a funny way of keeping us apart.
