"𝐜𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞„

forty one, dancing is a dangerous game

Despite this, she kept twirling it between her fingers, maybe trying to convince herself that it wasn't that big. It wasn't that drastic. But the feeling did not ease and when they hit a pothole, she clasped her hand to her mouth to prevent any unwanted bile to resurface.

She looked and felt terrible - layers of bags caked her under eyes and red scorched her eyelids. Her skin was a concerning shade of white, her bones frail and rickety. She was not physically unwell - but her mind pulsed through her body like her brain was her only existing organ. Almost dying at Carl's hands had taken a toll on her entire body, and it confirmed the one thing she'd been too afraid to admit: he was the only person in the world who could properly hurt her.

The wagon came to a screeching halt, causing Jane's head to ache and ring. She squeezed her eyes shut as the pain washed over, and when she opened them again, people were already filing out of the back doors.

"C'mon," Daryl gestured, not daring to touch her but getting closer than anybody else would. No one really knew what to do - she didn't cry, not around people, anyway. She'd said nothing, done nothing since it happened. Her main goal was to just disappear, but certain figures made that extremely difficult. On-top of everything, she'd handed out scowls to just about anyone that looked in her general direction.

Rick seemed optimistic Carl would get better, but he wasn't the one who was strangled. In truth, she wasn't really on good terms with anybody, currently - which made Carl not being there all the more noticeable.

Hundreds of yards of field surrounded them in every direction, with nothing else to be seen other than a peculiar looking tree. It was further up the hill, so the image wasn't so clear - but she swore some sort of coloured glass was hanging from it. She held the shotgun up to her chest, protecting herself from anyone who wanted to step too close. They advanced up the hill, under orders of Rick that she hadn't bothered listening to. I miss my Walkman.

The lot of them gathered up in a street-adjacent line, advancing up the hill behind Rick. He only looked back once, and to her own surprise, it was just to glance at her, and only her, before turning back to the sun again. He didn't smile, or frown. It was almost like he just wanted to make sure she was still actually there - that she still existed.

Out of nowhere, she started to sing under her breath, a skill she'd never fawned, and was not particularly good at - but no one could hear, so she continued on: reciting an old song that she didn't know she knew the words to. Her dad used to play it, on late night drives through the city. It wasn't an often thing, it happened maybe once or twice, but the song seemed to be sewn to her sleeve and she wasn't sure where it'd came from.

It actually helped, distracting a little from thinking about Carl. Irrational. That was what Rick called her, and she knew he was right.

can't you come back?

This line repeated over and over, and on her fifth rendition she realised the lyrics seemed to be theoretically sawing her in half, spilling her brains to the grass and coughing out her feelings where they were to mix with mud. She and the others had made it halfway up the hill, and she hadn't even noticed. Her breath thickened as the other side of the war appeared behind grass, less far than she'd imagined they'd be. That meant her death would come sooner than she'd thought. So, they kept climbing fatefully up the cascade of green, and with each step her breath got heavier and heavier.