'A' to 'Z' Rarl

J → Jovial

Hiding is a speciality of mine. I take pride in wedging myself into cramped places where people simply can't happen upon me, and being the last to be found in our childish games of hide and seek that we play around town. But sometimes the talent wields other perks. Like now.

Avoiding people, slimming down the probability of being found, and being comfortable have all quickly become a talent of mine in the past week that I've been avoiding looking at Carl Grimes' face; at his bruised cheekbone and sad, desperate eyes.

I'd silently claimed the tool shed behind my house as mine years ago when I had first been welcomed to Alexandria. I take to it grudgingly, yet often - usually when my dad is pissy with me. But now I find it welcoming. The refuge from Carl is a blessing.

I don't think it's brave of me. In fact, I know it's cowardly, moping among rusty gardening tools and chipped flower pots, but I feel that it's my only option.

I recall the way his blue eyes glared as he'd shouted clear as day and I hunch in on myself in shame.

I wish he'd come talk to me and yell some more. It'd be better than this silent anger that hovers around him like an aura of hate and newfound distrust, as if he's silently disowning me as friend, excruciatingly slowly.

The hot tears sting at the corners of my eyes yet again, and I rub my already raw cheeks, as if it will urge the salty, wet anger to disband.

I'm pathetic.

I can't love him. Love is for good people who are honest, are there for the other, and don't attempt to beat each other to a pulp. Love is for grown up men and women, like my mom and dad.

I sour. That doesn't make sense. My dad is horrible to my mother. He doesn't deserve love; he deserves to die, to rot.

The tears are coming quickly now, and I almost don't hear the shabby tool shed door open, only processing it when strong arms slide over my stiff shoulders and Carl buries his face in the crook of my neck. I don't know how he found me, but I don't care.

He holds me as I weep, and I must look disgusting; covered in tears, snot, and looking up at him like a kicked puppy, but he stills holds me, hands carding through my hair as if we are in love. He holds me like I'm his only and he's mine, and I wish that was true. I wish I could be his lover, I want to be his company on lonely nights and the fire in his ocean eyes.

The idea brings more tears to my eyes, but I let him hug me, seeking comfort in the hatted boy's embrace.