ALL THE LOVELY BAD ONES | CARL GRIMES

twenty eight. self inflicted

Stop. Don't think like that. Seriously. Stop. Stop. Stop.

I couldn't think on it and I definitely couldn't speak on it. Not to anyone. Not even Carl.

I suppose in a small way I was avoiding him. Well, not exactly him but the topic of that night. Neither of us brought it up, though. Although sometimes I caught it in his gaze—despite actively avoiding it—and there was this way his eye darkened, I would wonder what his mind wandered to when he allowed it.

But, like most things, it was now unspoken of. Why was it so easy to just go on like nothing happened? Wake up the next morning and go about our life like usual? Keep a safe two foot distance between us as if we hadn't already been as close as two humans could ever be?

Whatever.

It didn't matter.

(Maybe, he had forgotten about it. Or it just didn't matter to him. Like he didn't care.)

(Ouch. The idea of that kind of hurts.)

So I kept my mouth shut. And that was that.

x-x-x-x-x-x

Carl returned to his house in a little less than a month after the accident. No longer needing to be consistently monitored, finally off bed rest. Although, he was still pretty medicated. Sometimes heavily medicated: to help him sleep, not feel the constant pain he was in. He mostly muddled around a little foggy, but he was up and that's what mattered. That was progress.

He was still stiff and sore, but mentally aware and competent. Although he had not completely returned to himself. There was still that strange part about him. Something cold and hard I had seen glimpses of in the prison. It made his lone blue eye blaze, his demeanor unapproachable. But it wouldn't last for long and he'd soften up whenever I called him back to reality with his name.

We spent most of our days together as usual, I was not sure how to really spend my day away from him anyways. He was back to being an extension of my being, albeit he was more quiet and tired and easily aggravated and unhappy. Still my built-in companion.

And then there was nighttime. Sometimes, I slept fine, wouldn't awake until morning. Other times I couldn't stand the lonely dark. Thinking of how it was always those nights in the past that, somehow, Carl would feel the same way and appear at my window, despite the fact that it was an unspoken rule that we were not allowed in each other's rooms at night, one we have vehemently disobeyed over and over again.

There was just something comforting about having him breathing a foot away from me on the mattress.

Since Carl was not in any shape to be climbing my lattice, I ended up being the one doing the seeking. His bedroom window had a sturdy branch hung near that I managed to maneuver my way up to and scoot across, then step a nervous distance away until the toe of my boot made contact with the window sill.

I didn't do this every night but I did do it often.

I'd make my way across the floor to his bed where he'd be waiting. Awake. And I knew why. On particularly bad nights, he was afraid to face his nightmares alone.

Before, he'd sleep through until morning no matter the dream. But now, he'd wake up thrashing out, sweating, and crying. His chest heaving as he fought away the terrorizing dreams on his own, fingers pulling at the roots of his dark curls. Disoriented and muttering. I don't know what frightened him so. What made him call out for his mother, his father, Michonne, Judith, myself, in his sleep. He never told me what they were about, anymore. And I knew better than to ask.

My heart ached for him, his pain. How I wished I could pick up all his pieces and put them back in place, which is exactly why I feared our relationship in the first place. No matter, it was too late now. Here I was, trying so hard to hold him together, someone who was bursting silently at the seams and falling apart.