midnight in the garden of eden - carl grimes

II

"He's just gone." The way he says it is final, like the subject has been buried deep, too painful to dig up. "You said you had a mom? Earlier?"

"She was my mom." I scoff, bitterness creeping into my voice. "I don't really know who she is anymore. She's different now. Whatever this world turned her into. It's just what happens. Caring for someone, it's like baggage. Having a kid was her baggage. Held her back. It's easier to survive when you only have yourself to worry about. That's what she decided. And you know, she wasn't wrong. We've made it this far like that. With me gone, like this, she doesn't even need to feel sad over it. She can just move on, keep going. She doesn't have to look back. It's better that way."

There's a long pause, and I worry I might've said too much, pushed him away with the ugly truth of it all. But then he speaks again, his voice softer now. "What's it really like, being out there like that?"

"Scary." The word falls from my lips, raw and unvarnished. "We—we've been sleeping near a bridge, off Route 24. We only stay in one place for a couple days. Maybe a week, if we're lucky. We're always moving. But at night... it's the one time things are finally quiet. Whatever dead we've been traveling with just move on, and we're alone. In the silence, in the dark, lying out beneath the stars—" I pause, my heart speeding up. "Don't laugh, okay? Promise you won't laugh."

"I won't." His voice is gentle. "Promise."

"You swear?"

"Cross my heart."

"I pretend I'm in a painting." I purse my lips, already embarrassed, but the truth keeps tumbling out. "In van Gogh's Starry Night. Everything's all blue and yellow and black and white. It helps me sleep. Is that stupid?"

"No." There's warmth in the way he speaks, a quiet understanding that makes the cold around us feel less sharp. "It's not stupid at all."

For a long moment, the silence between us feels almost safe. It's strange—comforting, even—talking like this, with a boy I can't see, separated by bars and walls, yet feeling closer to him than I've felt to anyone in so long. I can hear him breathing, soft and steady, and I find myself wishing we could stay here, in this stolen moment of quiet, like nothing could reach us.

I swallow hard, arms tight around my knees, staring up at the ceiling as if I could see the stars through the stone. "I used to believe that... When I was little, before everything got... worse. Before my mom changed... I thought we'd find somewhere safe, somewhere where all the bad stuff would stop. But it never does. It just keeps going, and you start to think maybe that's all there is. Just survival. Nothing else."

Carl is quiet for a moment, and when he speaks, his voice is lower, more thoughtful. "I used to think that way, too... I didn't think anything good could come out of this world anymore. But things changed. There are still good people. And I realized that's what makes the difference. It's the people." His voice softens. "The ones who are still here."

"I wish I knew what that felt like." I muse humorlessly.

"You're here, aren't you? You're still breathing, still holding on. That's something."

I bite back the burn in my throat. "I don't feel like it's something. I feel like I'm just... Not really alive, just not dead either."

"But it's more than that." He responds. "You're more than that. You still have a choice. You can choose to keep going, to keep hoping, even when it feels like there's nothing left to hope for."

For a moment, I don't know what to say. I want to believe him. I want to believe that there's something beyond the endless days of fear and death. But it's hard. It's so damn hard to believe in anything anymore. Not when the decay of this existence is all I've really known for years on end.