ALL THE LOVELY BAD ONES | CARL GRIMES

three. lack of color

What was I? What did he think I was? I felt like something very stupid and slow around him. Incapable of even speaking, let alone being a useful member of society.

What would a useful member of society do? How could I earn my place here? Besides the mindless chores?

I remembered the handgun my brother had snuck to me. It had two rounds left. While I had been instructed on how to kill Walkers with a knife, I had never actually hit anything with the gun as the opportunity for me to use it had never presented itself.

I decided to take it with me. I wasn't sure if that was even allowed, but Sasha was on fence duty, someone I trusted and knew, who I felt confident bringing the weapon along with my questions about it to. She might even let me shoot it. Maybe. And the Walkers would make good targets since all they did was press themselves against the fences and growl.

But I changed my course after seeing Rick and Daryl overlooking the yard, making me suddenly feel like it was a really stupid idea, and instead I went straight to the water barrels. Nobody hardly came this direction and it had a nice view of the forest. I perched myself on top of one of the containers. I pulled my gun out of the waistband of my jeans, looking it over.

I knew how to clean it and put in new magazines, thanks to my big brother. He was good with guns. I hoped he had a quick death on the wrong side of one. Not eaten alive or anything.

Or perhaps he was still alive. Not something I often let myself hope for, knowing at this point it was very unlikely. Still. A little part of me dared to think it was possible. Like he might just show up at the fences one day and I'd have a big brother again.

I was reminded once more of how Jody would take me outside of Woodbury from time to time, against my father's wishes. It was cool, having an older sibling that snuck you out, made you feel like an equal. He showed me how to kill the undead during those times. How you come at them from the back with a knife, quick and quiet. We never used the gun, it was too loud, but we kept it with us just in case. Jody said noise attracts hordes and once you get caught in one, it's game over.

"It's the worst way to die." Jody had said. "They just tear you to bits while you scream."

I shut my eyes tight, overwhelmed by the sudden thought of my brother. I'm usually okay, go through life fine, and then out of nowhere I'll think of my mother or my father or my brother, sometimes even my stupid old cat, and I'll feel like I've been hit by a train. Every single emotion as fresh as the day I lost each of them. It was hard, being the last one left of your family, but not uncommon these days.

At times, memories of them flit through my mind like elusive shadows, barely registering in the depths of my consciousness. They drift by with such nonchalance, as if they were inconsequential whispers of ghost stories seldom told.

But on this particular occasion, their presence loomed large, casting a heavy pall over my thoughts, refusing to be relegated to the periphery of my mind.

So I sit for a while, feeling absolutely sorry for myself. Twiddling the gun back and forth, contemplating becoming one less mouth to feed. Not something unusual for me to consider. The urge to be dead barely fazed me at this point.

"You're not allowed to have a gun."

I jumped slightly and looked at the direction of my caller.

Carl Grimes stood there, knee cocked and hands on his hips. An exact replica of his dad, except this boy had his signature 'I run the show' scowl plastered on his face.

Were all of our conversations going to have to start with him accusing me of something?

"You have a gun." I pointed out. The heat of the day seemed to intensify under his gaze, the sun bearing down on us like a relentless judge, and I resisted the urge to wipe the perspiration from my brow, like maybe it would be a sign of weakness to care about how I looked. He stepped closer and I could see the faint sheen of sweat on his own skin, the way his hair clung to his forehead in damp curls beneath the shadowed brim of his hat.