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The afternoon sun is warm on my cheeks as I look up to the sky. I close my eyes, soaking it all in for a moment. I'd be okay if the golden orb never went away.
My leg is throbbing in pain, but I don't seem to feel it as much when I have a distraction as beautiful as the world around me right now. Everything feels more at ease - almost peaceful in an odd way. There's still turmoil in my mind as far as how my friends are doing after the fall of the prison, but I have a piece of calmness finally with me. The beauty of today reminds me of being in the prison yard. For it being such a gloomy place in the start, we made it into a cozy home the best we could. Now, I can't help but miss it.
"There were people," I hear Rick whisper to Michonne. They're staying quiet as they walk and talk behind me and Carl, but I can still hear their words. I'm used to having to listen in since the adults tend to only talk to each other and leave us out. "They seemed dangerous. I had to kill one to get out." This makes me pop my eyes open wide out of shock, but I try to close them again so that they don't notice I was eavesdropping. They're treating us like children, but that doesn't really surprise me. We get treated like that a lot.
"You had to do it," Michonne replies, her tone sounding warm. "Don't feel bad." There's a few more exchanges of words I cannot hear before I grow bored, toss my lollipop stick onto the ground, and I turn to Carl, who's walking beside me.
"Have you ever killed anyone?" I ask. My voice is low and we're far enough in front of them for our conversation to go unheard, but I'm sure the slight shake of my voice is audible for Carl to hear.
Carl looks at me seriously, lips held in a tight line, before diverting his blue eyes back to the ground. "I have," he mutters finally, acting dejected about the matter.
So, the words I once heard years ago at the prison are true. Carl really has killed someone. I had doubted it at first, maybe because I didn't want it to be real. He didn't seem like the kind of person I used to know - like the one who would rather run as far away as he could than hurt someone. Then again, people have changed. I guess it's not far-fetched to think that people could grow up and be different. I've changed. It's not like I haven't seen the darkness lurk onto Carl's expressions, either. Even so, I had never wanted to ask him about the matter at the time because I didn't really know how to go about starting a conversation like that.
It takes a lot of pain to want to take someone's life.
"When?"
"Back at the prison." He pauses to look at the sky as if surveying his sentence before it comes out. Maybe the clouds have the answer as they dismally float by. "Before a few days ago. It was just a boy during the first raid. I thought he should be dead." The words are simple, like they're just black and white, but I know it's anything but that. I think about how horrible that would feel: stabbing a wound or pulling the trigger that caused someone to suck their last breath of air in.
That's when I realize I, too, have killed.
I haven't thought about it until now. It seems horrible and selfish, but I hadn't even considered what I was doing or anything that happened afterwards. I pulled the trigger and didn't skip a beat. Later, I didn't even ponder my doings while I fell asleep. I try not to put too much pressure on myself for not doing so, however. Maybe it was the entire planet was falling down around me that caused my thoughts to drift elsewhere.
All I was doing was trying to stop the enemy.
All I was trying to do was protect my friends.
What about the enemy's parents? I think. What if the enemy is a parent themselves? Then again, aren't we all enemies in someone else's story?
That person that Rick killed back there probably thought Rick was an enemy. He probably thought the only way to protect his friends and move on with his life was by killing Rick because he had entered his story and started to turn everything to shit. Meanwhile, Michonne, Carl and I are cheering him on for doing what was right in order to keep us safe. Do we even get to decide if we want to be an enemy or does someone else do that for us?
"Have you?" Carl asks, snapping me from my daze.
"I have." I pause, knowing he's going to want a further explanation, just as I did, but not knowing how to say it. How do I justify killing someone like that? Even in my own mind, I can't seem to do it, even though deep, deep down I know that it was my only choice. "I hadn't thought about it. I just . . . did. I just knew I had to."
"How many?" Carl asks the question like it's a game - like the person with the most kills will win a prize.
"Two." The number seems astronomical, especially considering the fact that just the other day that count had been left at zero. I feel like I should've left a piece of myself behind from before because I can't surely be the same person that I once was after mercilessly taking a life and not thinking twice about it until days later.
"I've killed five. Three of them were from the other day." If he killed one boy in the first raid of the prison a while ago and three the other day, then that leaves one death unexplained. I try to recount them in my mind, but I'm absolutely positive that he said five.
After a long moment, I remember it's his mom that the fifth kill is referring to and decide to not ask any questions about such things.
"Would you do it again? Kill, I mean?" I ask.
Carl looks to me, his blue eyes shining brightly, just like they always do. "I would. If I had to, I would. Would you?"
I nod slowly, having to consider it for a moment. Even after my internal dilemma, I decide that none of it really means anything. I'd do anything to protect the people I love if others want to choose to endanger us. That's why I reply with, "Yeah, I would."
If someone told me that I had to kill someone else to protect my own, I wouldn't think twice about it. If that's what has to be done, I'm going to follow through with it. That seems like the more correct answer than the one I had thought of before. Love runs deeper than anything else in my heart. I guess there's only one thing making me consider all of it on a larger scale.
"I'm just scared about it, you know? Like, I'm scared to become some animal whose first instinct is to kill," I mutter, swallowing away the sharp feeling of guilt at the back of my throat. Carl looks at me again, his eyebrows pinched together, but then his face softens and his emotions go still.
"Me too."
Once again, I don't feel so alone. I feel like there is someone to relate to so that I don't feel so alienated in this absurd world. I already feel odd enough without other things having to make my life more difficult. I want to feel normal, having normal conversations that normal teenagers would. At the same time, I don't think a conversation about comparing murder experiences would be an average teenage conversation, but I don't think that's why people drifted to each other in the old days. I think they found each other because they each held something relatable within their hearts that they had a chance to share with someone much like them. Carl's a lot like me, so here we are swapping the war stories of apocalyptic teenagers wishing they could be normal.
☾
After about an hour of walking and barely getting anywhere, which is no surprise between our exhaustion and various injuries, I'm ready to take a break for the day. What little walking we did was tiring and my head is beginning to dully throb from the onsets of hungry overcoming me. It's late afternoon, probably around dinner time, so it's no surprise that my nearly empty stomach is growling again.
"How's your leg?" Rick asks striding along beside me. His pace could be much quicker than mine, but he's kind enough to slow down and let me limp rather than overworking my healing injury.
"Fine," I lie. It's frightening how much easier such sentences have been coming from me lately. Even so, I'm guessing my limp is becoming more and more obvious with every step I take, so it's not entirely clear whether or not Rick has come to notice the struggle beyond my painless words. In fact, the pain is intolerable once more, yet numbing at the same time.
I don't know which is worse.
"We can stop and take a break." A break sounds unimaginable at the moment, and seemingly something that each of us in our small group could use. "Maybe we can set up camp for the evening and get an early start at it to-"
Rick attempts to finish his sentence, but is cut off by Carl pointing to a large wooden sign off the side of the tracks. "Look!"
The posts holding up the sign are old, perhaps on the way to rotting from water damage soon, and there's a piece of folded tin on top to shelter the contents the sign holds on its face.
SANCTUARY FOR ALL. COMMUNITY FOR ALL. THOSE WHO ARRIVE SURVIVE.
The big block letters are scrawled in a thick, brown paint just above a map that's been pinned to the wood with a simple tack. Everyone moves to the sign together without speaking a single word about it, our curiosity billowing over as if the words are calling our name. A star is painted on the map with the words: YOU ARE HERE. There's another star a little bit further away from it that is marked with the word: TERMINUS.
"It's a safe place," I whisper, trying to assess everything in front of me. I'm so taken aback that I have no words. For the first time since the prison fell, I have a minor feeling of hope. Not just the kind that unwillingly sits with you and refuses to leave your side, no matter how many negative thoughts you try to throw in its direction, but the kind that is backed by true emotion.
"It's a safe place!" I repeat, a small smile drifting onto my lips at the thought of it all returning to me.
"We have to follow the tracks to get there," Rick says, skepticism in his voice as his judgmental eyes scan the sign. Of course, he won't want to jump in immediately. I guess it's smart, considering the risks that could be involved.
"Do we go?" Michonne pipes in, genuine questioning filling her voice as she looks to Rick. When he doesn't answer immediately, I watch as she drags her pointer finger across one of the lines between our star and the one marking this Terminus place.
"We could. We don't have much as it is, but we need a roof over our heads. Maybe the others are there, too. Maybe they found safety." He isn't wrong about that. We have nothing and could run into a whole lot more of nothing soon if we're unlucky.
Michonne watches the map, her eyes unmoving from it. "Then, let's go," she says, making the executive decision. "It's not like we have anywhere else to be."
I let a small grin slip onto my face. We're going!
I have to do a lot to get my excitement to bubble down. Now isn't the time for such things. Then again, my utter disbelief makes it nearly impossible to do as much. I can't believe I have a chance at somewhere to belong again. Just days ago, any hope at a normal life felt sucked away from me. My most previous home had been left in ruins, I have no idea where my friends have all gone, and it feels like our new lives were about to return to the familiar memory of constant scavenging and skimping on the the things we need to live. Now, I feel like I have a small chance at this fragment of normality all over again. I don't think anywhere has a true sense of normality, but now, I have a feeling I can get back what little bit is left.
I lost my home at the prison nearly three days ago. My home in the white house on Clove Street ended just hours ago. Even a little blink of faith is all that I need to keep myself going after all the harm and danger I've endured recently.
Rick leads us off the tracks and into a patch of woods just to the side of them. We all follow along, a symphony of snapping branches filling the area as we begin our aimless trek. The thing is, to me, the trek seems like a mess of wandering, but knowing Rick, I can tell that he's on a mission. With that being said, I hope there aren't any walkers around. They'll be led straight to us at this rate and noise we're creating.
When we're far enough into the enclosure of trees, letting them encapsulate us into a web of safety, we set down our belongings as a declaration of where camp will be located for the night. Taking a break for the night seems even better now that we have goal to reach within the next few days - somewhere to head where hope lies.
"I think it's 'bout time I show you two how to care for yourselves," Rick sighs. "No matter where we go, or how safe you think it is, it won't ever be safe again." I know he's right about that, even if this Terminus place checks out like we're hoping it does.
I watch Rick stand, wiping his hands together to get rid of the remnants of dried dirt before walking underneath a nearby tree and grabbing a bundle of dry sticks. "First thing I think we should learn is how to build a fire." He brings the sticks over to us and begins to arrange them to form a neat tepee-shaped contraption on the ground.
"You're going to need three things to start a fire: tinder, kindling, and fuel." He counts the list of needs off on his fingers as he goes. "This is the kindling. It helps start the fire, but we need tinder or it'll be no good. Does anyone know what a good tinder would be?" I'm used to seeing the teacher side of Rick. He's known for his step-by-step tutorials on pretty much everything.
"Cotton balls?" I ask. He nods, proud of my answer. I guess I must've learned something from one of his previous lessons. I open my pack and hand him one that I had found a while earlier in one of the houses we raided. After receiving the cotton, he adds a few drops of hand sanitizer from the bag he was carrying on his own back. It makes sense to me because all that stuff is made of is alcohol. In a swift motion, he strikes a match against the box Michonne had given him. It ignites the match in flames. Carefully, he holds it to the cotton ball.
"Your tinder has to be dry and fluffy. You can use dead grass, or things that aren't found in nature, like this." He holds the smoldering cotton ball to the tepee of sticks. Slowly, along with small wisps of smoke, the sticks start to catch on fire and begin to burn.
"Then, you have to add more sticks," Carl says. It looks like he hasn't escaped his father's lectures, either. He bends over, picking up a few sticks where they're set in a messy array by his feet. He examines them to make sure they're dry before breaking them into smaller pieces and gently placing them on top of the growing fire. Rick and Michonne exchange a proud glance.
"You'll learn how to do a more primitive version soon enough, but I think this'll do nicely for now. You guys can gather some wood for the fire while I set the traps up." We nod in agreement to the plan. It seems perfectly fine to me. With that, Rick walks off through a scruff of briar bushes, leaving me alone with Carl and Michonne.
"Emmie, you keep feeding sticks into the fire before it gets too low. We'll need you to keep an eye on it until Carl and I come back with larger pieces of wood to keep it going for the rest of the night." This comes from Michonne as soon as Rick is out of sight, probably already scouting out the best place to set a few traps.
I nod along to her words, instinctively tucking my shirt behind my knife handle in the case that I would need to use it. When I do that small task, it makes me think of Carol, the woman who had taught me such things along with a list of many other tricks and trades to use when needed.
Michonne and Carl walk towards the edge of the quiet clearing to gather some wood, but don't leave my sight. The emptiness of the circle the trees form around me feels like a sanctuary in my mind. There aren't many trees close to us, but a few scraggly shrubs that are barren of leaves by this point of the year and stick up at odd, pointed angles. As I'm alone, I decide to use my time wisely. I form a ring around the fire using stones I find under the thick layer of fall leaves. Some of the stones I find are dry, but others are wet with leftover rain water that must've never evaporated from the depths of the forest. I make sure not to take any of the damp sticks. They'll saturate the fire for sure and that's the last thing we need.
After a bit of time passes, Carl and Michonne finally come back. I help Carl rearrange the wood they have gathered in bundles in their arms into a stack while Michonne places fresh pieces over the flames. They lick at the wood, creating a crackling sound that makes me feel warm inside.
When Rick comes back a few minutes later, everyone is craving dinner, but it's clear our supplies are much more limited than we would like them to be. A lot of what we had at the house was left behind, such as the vodka I was planning on using to clean my wound. "I say we eat most of what we've got. We only have one more night until we get to Terminus." I don't argue with the plan. I'm starving and it's been a while since I felt the truly ravaging pains of hunger and would rather they not return. I wasn't planning on feeling them again, but if I have to, I'd like to put them off a little longer if I have the ability to.
Michonne distributes some of the cans we have left, which isn't a lot. With that being said, I'll be agreeing to eating anything I'm given. In the end, I'm handed a can of baked beans. Rick helps me warm them over the fire, which is much better than eating them cold, something I've done countless times before and have somehow managed to keep the food down each time. I guess you get used to it after a while.
Once the beans are cooked in the fire, they're warm and flavorful, something that would be much better than their cold counterparts. I try to slowdown and take smaller bites instead of shoving as much in my mouth as I can, but between the excitement of a meal in front of me and what the next few days will bring at Terminus, I have a hard time doing so.
As night begins to fall, the orangey hues of the sky rippling with pinks and reds until melting away into an abyss of gradual darkness, Michonne comes towards me to check on my leg. Even with it being a while since anyone has taken a look at it, I can hardly wait for it to heal because I'm sick of the constant worry that everyone seems to have over it. The pain is also a nuisance in itself. My best bet is to hope that Terminus has a doctor. They probably will if it's the kind of place we're imagining it to be, which would help me greatly because it's obvious my wound is practically begging for proper medical care and I could use it very soon. I secretly pray for as much while my bandage is unraveled by Michonne's careful hands.
I can now tell that those are the hands of a mother. It makes sense now - why she's always so gentle and careful. It's because she had once cared for a piece of herself with her calming words and gestures. Once you acquire such demeanors, I don't think they ever leave your side. That's why she gives them away to the other people she cares about now.
When the cool air hits the newly exposed skin, I almost let out a sigh of relief. It feels nice - much better than being bundled under the thick material of a bandage where it's continuing to collect heat. Through the flickering, orange flames of the dancing fire, I take a glance at my wound for myself, almost not wanting to in fear of what it could reveal to me.
"What do you think?" I ask Michonne, knowing my own opinion will mean nothing in the end.
Michonne uses a piece of toilet paper from my pack to wipe away at a patch of dried blood that's been left in a fine crust against my skin. "It's clean, which is good. It should heal soon." That news is promising enough for me. With that, the bandage is pulled back over the injury and I almost beg for it to be taken off again, but know better. I don't think it's really the kind of injury that you have to give time to breathe. In reality, the real thing that prevents me from doing so is the chill that runs up my spine when a dull breeze blows past us.
Instead of moving back to where she was seated, Michonne stays where she is right by me. She slides an arm over my shoulder, pulling me close to her body where I can already feel the subtle rays of heat radiating off her skin. I lean my head against her shoulder, something she reacts kindly to. With a soft stroke, she wipes away a piece of dark hair that had fallen in front of my eyes, tucking it behind my ear. I smile as she does so, allowing myself to feel the love she's trying to show me. In the end, I'm as close to her as I can get while she holds her arms around me, softly massaging my back and shoulders with her hand.
Between the fire and the warmth from Michonne, I feel safe again, something that is hard to achieve anymore. We all begin to make small talk, muttering things to each other through the hazy darkness of early dusk. During times like this, we all want to feel like an average human, but there isn't much to talk about that makes us believe we are. We either discuss the past, a time too bitter, or the future, something far too unknown as of now. It's difficult to depend on a conversation including food to be a comfortable topic when you hardly have any, and we have no fun events of the day to go over since most of it was spent exerting ourselves and suffering. That leaves us talking about things like the animals and woods while we sneak glances at the dark, ominous forest in fear a walker will emerge at any moment. Nobody says as much, but we all know that's what we're thinking.
Rick opens a can of diced peaches, which we all pass around, taking a piece of the sweet fruit for ourselves, before he offers to take first watch. Carl tries to offer to take second, but Michonne has already called it before he can. I end up shifting, my head slowly drifting downwards until I'm laying in Michonne's lap, the same place I start to doze off, feeling comforted with the thought of a future with the people I love around me.
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A/N: I love this little group with my whole heart.