Bad feelings are one part of what sucks about this world. Good feelings are the other. Because the good stuff is what can get taken from you, the rug that gets pulled out from under you. A warming feeling that, once it's gone, leaves you out in the...
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M E G A N
I always meant to go visit Carl.
Really—once I was able to find some sort of forgiveness for myself—I always wanted to stop by and make sure that he was okay.
But, I still haven't found it.
As more time passes, I feel that much more awful that I haven't checked in on him. So I just continue to avoid it.
It's even more despicable now that he's long-since been out of his bedrest, and has been actively working with Denise on his physical therapy. An eight-week period being pivotal in the aftermath of the gunshot. The boy bounces around Alexandria almost as if his injury never even happened.
His road to recovery is something that I helped Denise pave and plan out. Although, I'm never around much when the boy comes in for a session, or a change of bandages. And when I am around, boy is it awkward.
Denise tries to act like she doesn't know that something tense is going on between us. And—although she's never directly asked me—I can see that the woman tries desperately to mind her own business.
"Here." Her gentle voice sounds out. She sticks something in my vision, blocking my crossword puzzle.
Even with no patients and no motivation to study, I spend most of my lonesome time in the infirmary. I've been avoiding spending time in my empty house, as—when I'm in there—time seems to slow down.
"Homemade oat cake. Complex carbohydrates, omega-three's." She trails off.
The woman waves the plastic-wrapped food around a bit before I grab it and place it down on the side table next to me. After my short response, I swiftly return back to my crossword, as if she was never in front of me.
I never talk to Denise much. I never talk to anyone much, anymore.
She stays standing in front of me, her body still in my peripheral vision. The woman lingers, seemingly trying to work herself up to say something.
"You don't have to feel bad for me, Denise." I mutter in a monotone voice.
"I don't feel bad." She starts. "You just—remind me of someone."
