"Why do you care?"
"Because you let me. No one's let me care for them before...but you did."
"I've never allowed anyone to care for me before you showed up."
"Well..."
"I suppose we're in similar predicaments."
*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ
A Carl Grimes/Walking Dead F...
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One Year Pre-Apocalypse...
TRIGGER WARNING: Abuse
*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ*:･ﾟ
I hate this.
My eyes are puffy and red from the ceaseless tears of the last week, my dress is oversized and too roomy from the meals I've been unintentionally skipping, and the makeup covering the bruises is sticky and humid in the Georgia summer heat.
It's been a week since my mom passed away, a week since I've had her there to comfort me and my siblings in times of need, a week since I've felt even a small semblance of happiness.
As my empty eyes bore into my reflection upon the mirror, I hear a slight knock on the wooden door.
"M-Maia," It's my dad. "Just come out already, it's time to bury her." My heart sinks to the bottom of my rib cage. The moment she is buried in the ground is the moment I lose her forever. I lean over the sink in front of me and turn the faucet on, splashing cold water onto my face. With a sigh, I turn the knob of the bathroom door within the cemetery building and step out into the hall.
My dad stands in front of me, the tie to his suit completely loosened and off-center, his hair is musty and unwashed, and is face is entirely disheveled. "C'mon," He mutters and places his hand on my shoulder blade to guide me out of the near-empty building.
I begin moving, but after taking a large inhale through my nose, I stop dead in my tracks.
Liquor.
I turn to face him with a harsh stare. "You're drunk," I murmur to him. "It's your wife's funeral and you're drunk!" My voice raises to a shout and I push him back with all my strength, wanting this man nowhere near me.
"Shut the fuck up!" His hands grab onto my shoulders and pin my against the wall behind me. "We all have different ways of dealing with our grief, is this is how I'm dealing with it." He glared at me, his eyes giving my threats that he doesn't even need to say aloud.
Part of me wants to bite my tongue and return to the service, ignore this interaction entirely, but I don't hold back. "Are you also dealing with the fact that you're the one who killed her?"
This sends him in a rage; his face goes pale and his pupils blow out even more than they already have been. He removes his right hand from his grip on me and smacks me across the face. "Don't ever fucking talk to me like that!" I cry out from the pain and lift my hand to cover the now forming red handprint. He lets go of me entirely and storms away. "Don't come out until the mark fades."
