𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐢𝐬
𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛
╚═══════════════╝
H E R
I slammed the book shut and threw it onto the white canvas of the light blanket resting beside me on my bunk. I ran my nail bitten fingers through my hair, catching all the knots and leaving the bedraggled curls to rest.
Letting out a breath from between my teeth, I hauled my body, heavy with tire, to its feet. I had not slept well lately. My midnight encounter with Carl might have been the culprit.
God, did it leave some kind of strange affect on me.
While the conversation had been a total disaster in my opinion, but my impertinent optimism was hopeful I could find redemption by speaking to him once more and being normal. But at the same time, I wanted to leave it be; not lead myself to further embarrassment and call it quits on any more Carl Grimes communication attempts. It was not worth losing my dignity over. Then again, my curiosity got the better of me.
I stayed up, wondering if I should venture onto the veranda in hopes of maybe seeing him. And eventually I did, but he was never there. Either he started going at different times or stopped going completely.
The latter made sense, considering he never made an appearance at meals after that.
He had a funny way of making himself disappear.
So after a Carl-less breakfast, I made my way outside. Feeling slightly free, no weight on my shoulders knowing Carl was in his cell, moping, and I wouldn't be running into him.
The sun was low hanging and languid in the sky, a molten orb that seemed to melt the very air around it, drenching the earth in a heavy, oppressive heat. The humidity of it was thick, cloying. Clinging to my skin like damp velvet. I could feel it seeping into my bones, reminding me of the unrelenting Alabaman spring seasons of my youth, when time itself seemed to slow to a crawl beneath the weight of the heat. Promising a miserable approach of summer. Made me almost miss winter.
It was going to be another long day.
It made me wonder what Carl did between the hours of dawn and dusk.
I couldn't place my feelings about the boy. He left me utterly confused yet somehow wanting more, like one of those mystery series I used to read. Except with a book, you can skip to the end and get your answers. But with this Carl Grimes man-boy-thing, all I got was that sharp stare that hid a tangled cobweb of his background. Who was he? What was he? He moved and talked with such sharp precision it's like he was hardly human. Some kind of child-weapon.
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.
"That's because I actually know how to use one."
I didn't reply because he was correct, whether he knew it or not.
He held out a waiting hand and I unwillingly handed him my gun.
The boy expertly opened the magazine, emptying it into the palm of his hand all in one swift movement. And then get this, he actually handed it back to me empty.
"Alright, let me see your stance."
"My what?" I stood up, looking at him credibly.
"Your stance. How you stand when you shoot." Carl did that thing again where he looked at me like I was dumb which I pointedly ignored.
I had always figured Jody had not been the most reliable teacher. I had never once heard of a stance.
There was no reason to stall, so I made a weak attempt at lifting my gun and pretending I knew what I was doing.
It was, as you can imagine, not convincing.
He sighed. "You're doing it all wrong." He kicked my feet further apart and raised my arms higher up, level with my shoulders.
I cocked my head to the side, confused.
God, why did he make me feel so stupid? Just his presence alone brought out the gawkiest, awkward side of me. Since when did I struggle to find words? Or form coherent sentences?
"Well, you just..." He stopped, figuring he couldn't explain it so he would have to show me. He pulled out his own gun. Looking concentrated as he positioned his legs and lifted his arms as if it all came naturally to him. "See?"
I mimicked him but I guess I looked as terrible as it felt because he chuckled slightly. Not an 'Oh that's funny' chuckle, more of an 'You have got to be kidding me' one.
"No, no. Like this," He reached his arms around me, repositioning my own, pressing his warm hands against the exposed skin. "You've got to keep your arms level and- Why are you putting your arms down?"
He's looking at you. Why is he looking at you? Wait, did he just ask a question? He did. What did he ask? Answer. Just answer. Say something. It took me a full five seconds to process and form a response. Pathetic.
"Because you're talking to me." I had to tilt my head away slightly since he was leaning over my shoulder and his face was precariously close to mine.
Absolute genius. Pure poetry pours from your mouth.
Dumbass.
I wondered why this improvised gun training lesson was necessary or why he bothered.
Without much thought to how he might take such a pointed question, I asked with a complete lack of dexterity: "Why are you trying to teach me?"
"You want to protect yourself, don't you?" He asked like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "These fences won't always be here."
I began lowering the gun, about to inform him that a knife was a much simpler weapon that I was more accustomed to. "I-I don't-"
"-Keep them up." He lifted my arms, annoyance clear on his face. "Put your feet shoulder length apart... No, not that far... There."
He stepped back, looking over my 'stance' like an artist would his painting.
"Much better." The boy nodded. "Now, the thing about shooting is- Hey, I said don't put your arms down."
"Well, you're talking to me and my gun gets heavy after awhile."
"You're going to have to get used to it."
Right then, that was a good time to ask whether he meant him talking to me or that guns get heavy. But I kind of hoped he was referring to both.
x-x-x-x-x-x
Carl went to breakfast that next morning. Except he had more confidence in his walk and his head lifted up, gazing around, all curious and avidly alert.
When his eyes landed on me, he quickly looked away. His face fell back into a scowl.
Beth approached him, perhaps to ask if he was returned to his cell to eat or sitting with the council. He turned his glare to her. I sighed and turned back to my bowl.
Back to square one, I supposed.
"Is this seat taken?"
Now that surprised me. Enough that I couldn't respond, just look up at him and try my best not to gawk or something equally as in embarrassing.
"No," Patrick covered for me. "You could sit there if you'd like."
Carl pulled out the chair beside me and plopped down. Maybe he wasn't scowling, it could've been just his neutral facial expression? I mean, he was still kind of scowling now. I tried not to overthink it. As if anything Carl did had an affect on me? No way.
We were all pretty much in shock that Carl even acknowledged us, let alone sat at our table. And with him he brought a fearful silence and I remembered that neither Lizzie, Mika nor Patrick had ever spoke to him before.
And yet here he sat. Like sitting with us was an everyday occurrence, like he was the perfect picture of friendly.
Maybe that's why Lizzie was throwing me confused glances like 'What happened to him?'
I could only shrug, continue to eat my oatmeal and hope deep down I had nothing to do with it. While part of me was naturally intrigued by the mystery of him, most of me knew it was best to keep a distance between us.
Mika was smiling at him, her cheeks a rosy shade of red and I realized that she might just have a crush on the older boy. She didn't even try to conceal her staring.
"Mika, come on, I left my jacket in our cell and I don't want to get it by myself." Lizzie said.
"But-"
"Mika, now." Why she needed Mika to come with her was beyond me but I had a feeling Lizzie was trying to save her sister from embarrassment.
Wish Lizzie had done the same for me. But it was too late. Carl had interacted with me enough to think I was some babbling imbecile.
More awkward silence ensued in the few moments after they left. I felt like I was obliged to say something. But Patrick, as always, was three steps ahead.
"Young sir, it's pleasure to meet you. I'm Patrick." He stuck out his hand to shake.
Carl just looked up at him, ignoring his hand. "Carl." He said simply.
So, okay, he was not being the perfect picture of friendly but he was sitting with us.
He still held his brusque demeanor, eyes narrowing in on us with an air of judgement, as if thought trying to determine our worthiness in the acquaintance department. But there was something else there too, almost akin to effort on his part.
"I know. Everyone knows who you are, young sir. This is my dear friend, Eleanor." Patrick then gestured to me, covering up his attempt at a failed handshake.
Since I had already technically met Carl, something Patrick did not know and I did not plan to tell him, I gave the boy a half-hearted wave since this appeared to be our first formal meeting.
Idiot. Who waves anymore? Should have done a curt head nod. That's what you've seen Daryl do. And he's a badass.
"Dear friend, Eleanor." Carl repeated, almost teasingly, his eyes never leaving mine. So he was teasing me now.
Who was this kid and what did he do with Grumpy Grimes?
Patrick diverted the attention back to himself. "And the two younger girls were Elizabeth and Mika."
"Lizzie and Mika." I corrected, since Lizzie wasn't here to do it herself.
"Are they your sisters?" Carl asked me.
I shook my head. "No. I don't have any siblings."
"What about your brother?" Patrick questioned. "Joseph-David?"
I turned to Patrick, trying to remain impassive. He knew about my brother. Why was he bringing him up? "I don't have any living siblings." I said stiffly, I pushed down the lump in my throat, swallowing back the heavy emotions that came attached to his name. "And he just went by Jody, remember?"
Nobody ever called my brother by his full name except for Patrick.
"Of course, of course." He appeased. "I just prefer the sound of full birth names. Jody is too feminine, anyways."
"No, it's not." I insisted. "Jody is a boy's name."
Patrick shook his head. "On the contrary—"
"—What?" Carl didn't seem to be following our conversation.
"Eleanor's brother, Jody, disappeared a few months ago."
I sat back, unhappy with the route this conversation had taken. Pressing my lips together, making my annoyance very clear. I didn't want a repeat of my inner meltdown at the water barrels. Bringing up my family was not any easy topic, wouldn't be for anyone who was without them. Setting my gaze on Patrick, I lifted an eyebrow, making it clear I had no desire to speak on the subject and leaving it entirely to him.
With a sigh, as if burdened by carrying too much knowledge, Patrick turned to explain further to Carl. "When Woodbury attacked the prison-"
I noticed Carl tensing slightly, his grip on his spoon tightening. His eyes darkened. Must be a touchy subject.
"-Eleanor's brother, Jody, was one of the soldiers. They didn't find his body on the road with the others like her dad was."
"So he could still be alive?" Carl asked, he turned to me. There was something in his eyes. Was he worried? No, that wasn't quite it. "How old was he? Like a grown up? Not a... teen, right?"
Patrick and I would speak of Jody on occasion. Usually, it was a topic that I considered a private matter. Except today we had an audience of one:
A boy who was beginning to look uncomfortable.
"You think anyone could survive, out there, like that?" Patrick asked, his question not truly pointed at either of us. "Joseph-David was rather tough, so perhaps he could. Unless he was killed during the fight in the prison... Maybe in this very room." He leaned back a bit, scouring the cement walls around us.
"He wasn't. They would have told us so." I insisted, feeling that itch in my throat, my chest all hot. "He's just gone."
Carl was deathly quiet and stoic, I was sure this wasn't the cheerful first peer interaction he had been expecting when he sat down.
Patrick narrowed his eyes at me quizzically. "Well, you said it yourself that you don't have any living siblings. Do you believe him to be dead?"
"I don't know." Then I stood, unable to bear this conversation any further, scooping up my empty bowl. "Enjoy your breakfast, boys."
"Eleanor." Patrick called to my retreating back as I dropped my dish into the washtub, his voice apologetic.
I did, for a second, look over my shoulder before moving through the door and saw Carl Grimes's blue eyes looking back at me. A strange expression on his face that I couldn't really place.
Without pause, I continued on. I made a beeline for my cell, each step a deliberate stride toward the sanctuary of my bunk.
I pushed aside the floral sheet, stepping inside. My humble abode. I had not done much in terms of decorating, save for some trinkets Tyreese, Sasha's elder brother, had brought back from supply runs, books borrowed from the library neatly arranged in a side-turned milk crate which doubled as a nightstand, and assorted hand-me-downs courtesy of Beth.
I collapsed onto the mattress, the heavy quilt that covered it a welcome comfort. There was security in the familiar, always had been. The quilt had followed me all the way from Montgomery, Alabama, a gift from my father's mother, who died before I was born. I traced the pink threading, the patterned squares of pastel shades. Homesick.
And I remembered the small piece of paper burning a hole in the bottom of my pack. Sometimes I'd take it out and look at it, which was not often.
It was all I had left of my family. A small three by five photograph.
What was I? A child with only a photograph as proof she had a family in the first place, proof that they existed at all. Pitiful. Pathetic.
With careful reverence, I unearthed the photograph nestled beneath a jacket I had yet to unpack, its edges softened by time and wear.
Returning to my bunk, I allowed my gaze to wander over the faces captured within it, each familiar feature etched into my memory with a poignant clarity. The Tanners. We. Us. A once consistent in my life. Gone.
"Eleanor, wanna come outside with us?" Lizzie appeared at the door of my cell, cladded in a blue button down coat.
I hurriedly shoved the photograph beneath my pillow.
"Sure." I jumped to my feet, tugging my now unpacked jacket over my gray t-shirt and followed the two girls into the courtyard.
x-x-x-x-x-x
I decided I liked Hershel.
I had never really had a grandfather before. My father's dad had suffered from Alzheimer's the whole eight years he was alive the same time as me and he died in a care home. My mother's dad left when she was in her teens, a midlife crisis I suppose, and she never heard from him again. I had always seen movies and read books with sage old men who offer advice and humor, I'd always wanted one for my own.
So, whenever Beth sat with her father for meals, I would sit along with her. Which gave Mika an excuse to sit with him as well.
"He looks like Santa." The younger girl once admitted when Lizzie confronted us on why we sat with him sometimes, as she thought it was strange. As odd as Lizzie was, I guess sitting with an elderly man was just too much for her. Which left her alone with Patrick, which caused for much annoyance on her part.
"What? Trying to get on The Nice List? Grow up, Mika. Santa is not even real. He never was." Lizzie had chided, rolling her eyes.
Mika puckered out her bottom lip. "I know that. If Santa were real then we'd be home and Mom would be with us."
"You sound stupid. That doesn't make sense. What doesn't Santa being real have to do with Mom being alive?" God, Lizzie could be so mean to poor little Mika. But sisters fight. I knew that. I tried not to get between them when they got like this.
"Because that was my Christmas wish." Mika whispered sadly in response. "And I wanted it so bad. And if Santa were real then it would have come true." Then she started crying. I had to look away then. I hated seeing people sad, seeing people cry. Especially when it was a person who deserved to be happy. After a quiet moment, Lizzie apologized and said they could sing their mother's 'Bed-Time-Song' which only made Mika's sobs escalate.
"I'll even sit with stupid Santa if it'll make you feel better." Lizzie finally offered and it seemed to help a little.
So, we all sat with Santa—I mean, Hershel.
We didn't call him Hershel, though, we called him Mr. Hershel.
Honestly, I think Lizzie's snappy attitude and Mika's shyness made me look a lot sweeter and more extroverted than I truly was because one morning Hershel greeted me with: "Well, if it isn't our little Pollyanna."
Which confused me. "But I'm Eleanor." Which he knew.
"Yes, I know." He confirmed with a laugh. "Haven't you read Pollyanna?"
I shook my head.
"I'm sure they have a copy in the library. A cute little story. You remind me of the girl in it." And then he went about his way, hobbling on his crutch.
Curiosity and boredom lulled me to the library to search for this novel, figuring if Hershel recommended it then it was worth the read. Especially if I could relate to the main character in someway.
The library was this lovely dusty and dark room, towered high with clutters of books and papers and magazines. Even a couple of useless, boxy computers were stuffed into a corner, reminders of technology that was no help to us now.
I trailed my fingers along the book spines, unsure which section I would find what I was seeking would be in as all the information I had was the title. No author, no genre.
Too focused on searching for the book, I didn't see that I was coming upon someone in their own book search, my boot knocking into theirs. I stepped back in a shock, head snapping up. "Sorry, sorry—"
It was Carl.
"Oh, hello there." I was not sure why I greeted him in such a way, but I was sure no matter what I said to him he would have still stared at me with that strange look on his face. Like I was this peculiar, little creature that he didn't quite no how to deal with. In the dull lighting, his eyes were not their usual shade of blue, in fact they almost looked like they lacked any color at all.
He did not say anything back, just stood there unmoving. Like he wanted this to be awkward. I glanced down at the book in his hands.
"What's that you're reading?" I asked, like perhaps I could have a conversation with him.
Silently, he turned it over so I might read the cover. His eyes not leaving my face. The boy's choice of reading material happened to be 'Go Down Together: The True, Untold Story of Bonnie and Clyde.'
It felt almost like such a personal moment, being included in what he enjoyed during his past time. He was so incredibly elusive, finding him here like this was so out of the ordinary. I wondered where he hid away to, aside from his cell of course, like where in the prison he lurked.
He reminded me of a shark, unseen in murky water, popping up fin first at random times, giving you a quick glimpse before disappearing back into the depths. Making you question if you even actually saw anything at all.
"Is it any good?"
"No." He actually answered. "I thought there would be more pictures." And then he slid it onto the shelf, taking a step back, about to slip below the surface, to not be seen again.
"Wait," I stopped him, not wanting him to go just yet. Feeling a little entranced, always curious. "Could you help me? There's this book I'm looking for."
He hesitated a moment before slowly replying: "What book?"
"Pollyanna."
"Sounds like a little kid thing." His voice almost accusing.
I shrugged. "It might be. Hershel recommended it... I just wanted to see if-"
But then he sighed and turned away, beginning to cross the library. Defeated, I bit my lip. A little embarrassed. Another failed conversation with him. And right when I thought things might be starting to settle.
Just when I was about to accept my disappointment, Carl turned once more, this time beckoning me to follow. Something small fluttered in my chest and I tried not to let it show on my face. I immediately moved forward after him.
"Here," He gestured. Of course. The children's section. Albeit, it was strange that a men's prison had one for no explicable reason. However, it was only a few shelves and seemed to consist only of classic material. Before I could go about my search, Carl took it upon himself to look them over, whispering the titles aloud to himself as he went. "...Peter Pan, Peter Rabbit—Jesus Christ, how many Peter books can there be?—Oh, Pollyanna." Then he removed the novel from its spot and handed it to me.
"Thanks." We both looked over the cover, a simple blue hard cover with silver inlaid lettering and a foil sycamore tree. It was a pretty little thing. I noticed the author was also named Eleanor.
"Why would Hershel recommend that?"
"He said I reminded him of the girl in it." Then I flipped it open, finding the plot overview inscribed on the inner cover, Carl leaning over my shoulder slightly to take a look as well.
'Young Pollyanna believes life's most difficult problems can always be surmounted by her constant pragmatism, she keeps an optimistic outlook despite being orphaned—'
I immediately snapped it shut. "I don't think I'll read it though." And then I had to force myself to smile so I wouldn't do something humiliating, like crumble up and cry.
But Carl just looked at me with that same expression on his face, like he didn't quite know what to do with me. "Alright." Was all he said.
This time, when he stepped back to leave, I let him.
And then he was gone. Back under the surface he went.
x-x-x-x-x-x
There were very different kinds of clicking in Cell Block C.
One was the clicking of Lego bricks. Patrick was leaning against the wall, playing with the toys, pushing his glasses up his nose whenever they were to slip. Completely engrossed with building what looked to be a car.
The other, however, was the clicking of guns as Carl cleaned them, and practice taking then apart and putting them back together again.
This must have been the longest time he had willingly let himself be seen, overly occupied with the chore, I knew soon he would go back to one of his hiding places and not resurface until the next morning's breakfast most likely.
In the dim glow of the flickering lantern, Beth's silhouette cast a comforting presence, cradling Judith in her arms as she hummed a gentle lullaby. The soft melody danced through the air, weaving its way into the fabric of the quiet evening as I nestled on the bottom step with a book. Only broken by a cry from the infant and Beth's attempts at soothing her.
"Is she okay?" I asked, looking up once the sobbing had gone on for an extended amount of time.
Beth sighed, moving to stand and sway Judith. "She's always been a little colicky."
"Colic?" I repeated, horrified. My uncle had a large stable growing up and he had once lost a horse to an unfortunate case of colic. Their intestines get all tangled up inside them and they die. It was an awful thing.
I didn't even have to speak on this for Beth immediately picked up on my worry. "It's not like with horses." She assured me. "Baby colic is just when they're super fussy for no real reason."
"She misses her mom." Carl's voice suddenly cut into our conversation. Both Beth and I's heads snapped his way but he was thoroughly absorbed with his methodical task as he sharply pushed a magazine into place, though there was a crease between his eyebrows that hadn't been there before. "That's why she cries all the time."
I met my gaze to Beth's who only silently pressed her lips together, ducked her head, and continued rocking Judith who eventually began to calm, slumping against the girl's shoulder.
Trying to be discreet as I did so, I stole a look at Carl. His expression was inscrutable, as always, his permanent state of being was entirely aloof. Then with a jerk of his jaw, his cold blue eyes met mine. Letting me know I'd been caught. I immediately dropped my own eyes to my feet, pretending to be very busy with the laces on my boots—His boots, to be fair.
Footsteps were heard and in entered Rick, who smiled at his daughter in Beth's arms. His eyes glazed over me, giving me a slight nod in greeting which I replied with a small smile before he turned to Patrick. "Hey, Patrick."
"Hey, Mr. Grimes." Patrick replied politely. He held up his Lego creation somewhat shyly. "Thanks for grabbing these."
"Well, I though Carl might want 'em."
I glanced over at Carl, expecting him to perk up at the sound of his name. But he was focused on the guns. He didn't have time for such childish things as Legos.
Patrick shifted uncomfortably. "They were just sitting there. I, uh, figured it'd been a while." He sighed. "I'm not ashamed they're for ages four to twelve."
Rick smiled, patting the boy's shoulder. "You shouldn't be." He then turned to the table Carl stood at, his smile didn't last. "Hey,"
"Hey." Carl replied, not even glancing at his father. Too occupied with the weapon in his hands.
"Carl," Rick said, and Carl tilted his head aside to show he heard. But Rick wanted the boy's full attention. "Carl."
He finally looked away from the guns and to his father, his movements proving that he was slightly annoyed at Rick's interrupting him.
"I need your help with somethin'." The man enquired.
Carl grappled for his gun, preparing to take it with him.
"Don't," Rick said, there was something in his eyes. Like Carl not bringing his gun was the most important thing in the world. Carl's eyes narrowed questioningly. "It'll just get in the way."
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A/N: OH NO NOW WE KNOW WHO HER BROTHER IS HEUHEUHEU
if u don't vote and comment ur ugly and that's the tea
edit: why would i say that^^ ?? lol like tf yall are all BEAUTIFUL CINNAMON ROLLS even if u ghost read but it is true that hotties and baddies vote and comment i don't make the rules!!