↳ 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:...
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"What? You need to go lie down, Emmie. You shouldn't even be out here alone." Carl reaches a hand to my cheek and strokes the soft skin with his finger. I wish I could smile, but I don't have the energy as I stand here in the street, hardly able to keep myself upright. For a crippling moment, I think that I might just teeter over altogether and crumble to the ground. The only thing keeping me standing is Carl and it feels pathetic.
"I'm fine. There wasn't a bullet; I just got skimmed like back at the prison," I explain, my voice meek. "It took a chunk out of my side, though, and my stitches are still tight."
"Who fixed you up?" Carl asks, furrowing his eyebrows as his hands drift down to my arms and grip them tightly.
"Carol," I reply. "She brought me to one of the back rooms and stitched me up real quickly. I should be fine - it was just a bad bleeder." For a second, I think back to when I had been kneeling on the ground in front of Negan, which was not too long ago, convincing myself that I would be dead within minutes. That doesn't seem to support my claim. But then again, the reason I feel so weak is probably partially from the amount of blood I had lost. The best thing to do right now would be to go back to the house and eat some more saltines and drink some sugary juice to boost my blood sugar.
"You're lucky she's here. It could've been bad if she wasn't," Carl says.
"Yeah, but I'm sure Rosita could've helped me out. You know how good her sutures are." It's true. All of her stitches are clean and neat, something that I am now thinking I would like to be taught by her. I've noticed recently how often I've needed to use that skill. It's a more uncomfortable thought than I'd like it to be.
Carl pauses, staring at me after the words come from my mouth. My lips turn down in a frown, confusion filling me. "What is it?"
"Rosita was shot during the initial fight. I saw Tara walking her away before the Saviors got in," he says calmly, as if it were all simple, but there's nothing about my reaction is either of those things.
"What?" my squeaky voice asks, but it doesn't even feel like it belongs to me, but rather a foreigner who has taken over my body and is saying things for me. My bottom lip trembles as I try to process everything that's going on. The immediate fear is almost crippling and I wish that I could just drop to the ground and have it be done with. Then again, I need to stay on my feet or it could be very bad.
"Is she . . ." I can't even finish my sentence before it feels like someone is grabbing my throat so the rest isn't allowed to come out.
"As far as I know, Tara got her out," he replies. Carl tries to discreetly latch onto my forearms a little more tightly, but it's not as unnoticeable as he thinks it is; he's just doing it so I don't have a chance to run like he knows I want to.
