Who We Were | TWD²

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    I don't know when the downward spiral begins. I don't know when my balance becomes unsteady or when I'm slowly beginning to fall backwards with Carl's arms reaching out to grab me. I feel them eventually, like a net weaved around me in an attempt to capture me before I hit the floor. I know it works because the next moment I have my arms held around his torso and am trying to cling on as if my life depends on it.

    And I can't completely convince myself that my life doesn't depend on it. With my heart pounding heavier than I can ever remember it going before, it feels like I won't be able to survive the next few minutes without it failing and my being withering away into nothing. I vaguely feel myself digging what little nails I have at the ends of my fingers into Carl's waist as my breathing quickens. I don't mean to hurt him, but I'm guessing I probably am. Sadly, that's not my main concern with everything else that's going on around me.

    There's a grunting in front of me that I barely register. I know it belongs to Daryl, especially as soon as I hear Rick rushing to his aid, or rather to the aid of my father and Dwight before he tears them to shreds. "Carl, get her out of here, now!" Rick orders in a stern voice. I can hardly make out the words over Daryl's labored breathing and the way Carl's shirt fabric is lightly muffling my right ear, but somehow, I can hear just enough to find myself using Carl to pull myself up and begin to rush to the exit. Instead of being forced to leave, I find myself begging to get out of the cold cellar as quickly as I can because, suddenly, it's far from freezing as the tinges of heat and fear rise into my cheeks.

    "Emmie-" I hear a voice. I know it belongs to my father before Rick sharply cuts him off and tells him to sit back down, but I hear it just the same. I can't even bring myself to take a small peek over my shoulder because even that concept seems unfathomable. Even if I tried, I'm not sure if I could because Carl is standing right behind me with his hand held tightly on my arm as he tries his best to direct me up the stairs.

    "They say they want to help us," I hear Rosita's nearly calm voice mutter just as we reach the top of the steps. I feel something inside of me break as my hand reaches for the door handle and allows me to push it open. For some reason, I expect the door to help hold my weight a little bit better, but instead, it does the opposite and I'm sent hurling to the cement ground beneath me. This must catch Carl off guard, too, because he doesn't have time to keep a tighter grip on me, so his contact with my arm fails. Within a split second of being splayed on the concrete, I'm aware that my elbows will be at least slightly bruised by tomorrow morning. If it weren't for Carl's flannel still protecting my skin, I know that they'd be easily scraped bloody.

    "Emmie, it's okay," I hear Carl's voice say to me, but I ignore it. My fingernails dig into the concrete as I try to pull myself forward. I feel a burning sensation there, guess that they're probably bleeding, and then shrug off my backpack during the same motion in which I am jumping to my feet and taking off.