thirty seven. mourning in white

thirty seven˚༺⋆♱⋆༻˚↳ mourning in white ↲

FOR REASONS UNBEKNOWNST TO ME, I always felt a soft melancholy on December 13th. A quiet kind—one that hummed through my skull like that faint ringing our minds sometimes forgot to silence.

I couldn't pinpoint which year it'd been when the excitement of blowing out my candles died out, the wicker snuffed as if it had been pressed by a metal bell. But I had a suspicion it started with the kitten Mom gifted me, a little white ribbon around its neck.

She was no more than two weeks, ears still folded against her head, eyelids half-closed in objection. A fragile little thing, missing the warmth of her mother's belly.

She'd been found all alone, tucked far into the maze of rusted iron in our vehicles engine compartment—likely seeking shelter from the blizzard. Mom had discovered her persistent cries whilst scraping the windshield before church.

It had been the perfect gift, really. I'd begged for a baby sister for the past two birthdays, but my mother only smiled at the request.

She was nineteen, going on twenty, when she fell pregnant with me. She used to tell stories of how their love came to be, and why their engagement came so quickly, but none of it was real.

I'd seen their few wedding pictures, and noted the slight push of her abdomen where I had begun festering beneath her white gown.

Janie Lynne Merrit knew nothing about her body at that age, yet alone how to create life. All she was sure of, was that Justin Samuel Hargrave—the older boy mentoring a pastor at her Sunday home—knew God in a way she could never understand.

That being, when he showed how to lay herself bare in the name of the Lord, she believed it to be true. Trusted him enough to let him pray against her unshielded skin in hopes of achieving a level of devotion unattainable on her own.

She didn't think it was wrong. Not until her monthly skipped, twice. Then, she knew God was punishing her for a wrongdoing she unknowingly committed.

I was her sin. A misfortune slowly swelling in her womb. Not wanted—but accepted. A black stain on her white purity, one that couldn't be removed no matter how hard she scrubbed.

And she could not keep me safe between her ribs forever.

A second child would only be another burden to carry. So, for the time being, the little kitten would have to suffice.

Days before my birthday, she nursed the tiny runt back to health with milk replacer, then scrubbed it clean of any fleas with blue dish soap. Her fur still smelled of the particular fragrance when she was handed off to me, my very own thing to love.

And love, I did.

Evangeline was the name I chose for her. I carried her around in a swaddle of my own baby blanket, rocking her like a fussy newborn throughout the house. She meowed violently, but it never occurred to me it may have been out of protest.

I played with her like I would one of my stuffed animals—far too forceful. But she was loved, and this was never in vain.

While her whiskers and chin were still wet, I fed her more, a promise to never let her belly go empty. She didn't ever cry about that, though. This was our secret; the milk carton in the fridge that seemed to empty twice as fast.

She died one week after my birthday. Her small corpse, limp at the foot of my bed. Mouth slightly parted, arms and legs extended as if she were peacefully dreaming.

I didn't know why. My mother couldn't find an answer, either. She told me the kitten likely never had a chance at growing big, but I thought about the swaddle, and how I would pick her up by her front limbs, and the cows milk that surely wasn't meant for her consumption.

Dad's voice was casually cold while suggesting I'd loved the animal to death. And though I would eventually grow to stop consuming his words, I hadn't started, yet.

His remark became the truth.

It seemed this was the way of my wrath. I would leave teeth marks on everything I loved.

Naturally, today felt heavier. Snowflakes fluttered throughout the air—the same way dust did in the sunlight. Only, these particles were heavier. Colder. Melted into the warmth of my open palm and silently became a part of me.

There was no way to be sure if it were the exact day or not. But the weather was close enough to what I had memorized from all the years before to let the dread to settle heavy on my shoulders like a second winter coat. Perhaps I would feel this way until the white glitter began melting from our unused road.

Carl uncomfortably shifted beside me, clearing his throat like he needed to get something off his chest. The movement altered the position of my head against his shoulder, causing me to entirely pull back and look him over.

He was dressed in proper winter attire. A canvas jacket, the ends of his flannel rolled over the sleeves. Blue wranglers worn down to the white threads on his pockets—his father's, by the looks of it, who he had recently surpassed in height. Brown western boots completed him, the tips still wet and covered in thick frost.

His hands were stiff, knuckles bright red. I'd woken only thirty minutes ago to a continual rough dragging sound. After opening my blinds, I saw him here, shoveling the sidewalk. Watched as he scraped the concrete bare, paying close attention to the weight he could easily throw off into the street.

I asked myself in that moment, with the cold seeping past the glass window: had he always been so strong? When did the muscle beneath his skin, even with all his layers, start looking so. . .

"Cyn," He started, the apple in his throat bobbing as if he were nervous.

I gave him a small smile in question. His fingers released from mine, and I reflexively pulled my unaccompanied hand back into my coat sleeve. It was below freezing, but beneath my thermal long sleeve and fleece lined corduroy jacket, warmth pulsed through my veins, spreading through me like the branches a willow.

His hand reached into his pocket, but my attention was drawn elsewhere. A perfect flake had just landed on the rim of his hat. I only got a second to appreciate the symmetry of it before it disappeared into the brown felt.

My gaze moved to the bandage against his eye. He was bothered once discovering I'd gone past the walls, but certainly not surprised. He'd healed adequately after the second round of antibiotics, as expected.

Of course he had. I'd paid a fair price for them.

A life.

That was the one thing I couldn't share about our outing, and there was a large chance I would never gain the courage to. He'd seethe at the idea of me exchanging someone's health for his own. This much I already knew about the boys riotousness.

But I was beginning to accept that I wasn't like him. I would pull the trigger again, and again, if it meant he would survive. His life meant more to me than a strangers, and it always would.

"I want you to have this." He spoke, his voice lowering in a gentle manner. "You told me once about the third snow and, I've been counting. Today marks three."

He held out a silver heart-shaped locket. It made small circles as if it were a pendulum answering an important question—yes, no, maybe. One of the sides twisted at me. It was engraved with a scroll-like floral pattern. Swirling branches, intricate petals, and feathered etching.

The third snowfall marked the thirteenth of December in Georgia for four years in a row during my childhood. It was entirely incomprehensible, and all the more uncanny. For two of those birthdays, I thought I was being blessed by something above. For the others, I began thinking of it more as a mark of my cursed becoming.

I told Carl those stories, once. How I'd woke to a world coated in white for my 9th, 10th, 11th, and 12th birthday. They'd been long lost in an unimportant conversation. Or, so I thought. He somehow seemed to pick up on every word of mine. Every quirk. It felt as if he knew more about me than I did myself, most of the time.

My fingers reached for the pendant, thumb brushing against the details.

"It was my mom's," He explained, "it had an old picture of me inside, but, I thought you could start from a clean slate. Maybe we could take one together."

A small hum of awe slipped from my throat. "I couldn't take this, Carl."

He brushed his hand along my collarbone, carefully bringing my hair behind my back. He then leaned into my neck and placed his lips against my pulse point. A surge ran through my abdomen as I thought about how fast it was likely beating against his mouth.

He brought himself to face me. "It's been collecting dust in my pack for a while now. Pretty much worthless. But, on you, it wouldn't be."

I placed my nail between the seam and let the thing bloom open. Two hearts, both empty.

"But—Rick. Don't you think it'll hurt to be reminded? And, Judith, she might want this someday. Don't you think?"

"I've already talked about it with him. We both agreed it doesn't have to be a symbol of loss, anymore." Carl revealed. "As for Judy. . .it's just too precious to lie in a box until she's old enough."

I folded my hands in my lap. "And what would it mean around my neck?"

He wrapped the jewelry around his fist, knuckles turning white. He focused on the world beyond the porch, breath no longer visible in the air. Mourning doves huddled against one another in a nearby snow-capped tree, their gentle coos half taken by the shroud of winter dust.

Though we sat beneath the awning, specks of snow had somehow found way into my hair, their contrast against my strands mimicking the starlit sky.

It might've been the only celestial remnants we'd come to see for a while, by reason of the storm above. The great expansion was swirled with grey, day and night, never truly fading into darkness.

"That you're something to me," He released the swirled chain, letting it dangle from his fingers. "Everything."

I blinked as minuscule bits of ice blew into my eyes. They stung against the weather. My body was hyper-aware of every sensation with Carl beside me. The burning in the tips of my exposed fingers, nails pressing half-moons past my jeans. Crystals seemingly building inside my lungs with each inhale, softening against the lining in my chest as the earth received my exhalation.

Fog broke past my lips, the swell of air closely mimicking the painful drag of a Marlboro.

"Carl. . ." I started.

He trembled at the sound of his name, but, it didn't seem like a movement of fear—or even a chill, for that matter. It was like he was holding onto something within that was attempting to claw its way up to the surface. He was pushing it down and praying it wouldn't find a voice of its own.

"I could repent for the rest of my life and still not deserve you one bit."  I finished.

"That's far from the truth." He shook his head, unclamping the necklace.

He looked me over carefully, and I gave him a quiet nod of approval to go forth with the action. Carl then gently turned me away from him. He brought the locket over my head, the silver pendant sliding down to lay flat against my jacket. I twisted my hair into a makeshift updo, holding still while his fingers grazed the back of my neck in an effort to hook the two ends together.

When he was done, I took hold of the heart and slid it carefully beneath my layers. The cold metal branded the skin of my sternum while he leaned his chin forward, into the hollowness of my shoulder. His breath warmed me completely.

"You saved me. Not just physically. My soul, too."

I suddenly thought of Evangeline, and how it seemed I could never properly care for anything. Not an animal, not my mother, Allie, or the patients that had died under my care. Certainly not one's body and soul. If I made the final decision to love this boy—he would live the rest of his days as a creature of innocence led to slaughter.

He would be the sacrificial lamb, and I, the blade against his neck. Love was an ending when I performed it. Not a beginning.

Though—I didn't know how to deny what I felt. Perhaps I would do the same as Carl, and beg of it not to find its very own voice. Let it live between us, but never name it. Keep it unprovoked, like a rattlesnake coiled at our feet.

Maybe then we could be happy.

Shortly after Carl returned to the step beside me, the front door opened, heat spreading out as if we had our backs to an oven. The boards shifted beneath us as someone took a step beyond the home.

"It's cold out here." The woman spoke.

I turned to face Michonne. She held Judith in her arms, the child bundled in many layers. She wore a knit hat with two little pom poms, and thick mittens that looked like paws.

Carl sharply inhaled at the sweet sight. A gentle laugh came from my chest as I watched her eyes widen at the colorless atmosphere.

"No!" She said, clapping her hands before pointing outward.

"Yeah," Michonne praised, leaning down to hand her off to Carl, "Snow."

Carl thanked Michonne, kissed Judith's puffy cheek, then came to a stand. A smile broke past my lips. We'd been waiting quite some time for the little girl to arrive. Now that she was here, we could begin.

Carl helped me up with his free hand, and we took the steps carefully, the snow crinkling beneath our boots as we trudged into the middle of the yard. Here, he sat Judith down carefully. Giggles wracked through her body as her feet sunk.

Once he was clear out of Judith's path, I pushed against him back, smiling as he became engulfed by the fluffy powder. Before I had a chance to move, he was grabbing my boot, dragging me down alongside him. I happily embraced the fall, then rolled to claim my own space.

"What are you two doing?" Michonne laughed, leaning over the railing to watch.

I lifted my head momentarily. The woman's arms were folded across her chest in a desperate attempt to stay warm.

"Showing Judith how to make snow angels." The boy responded contentedly.

Carl captured Judith's attention before he began dragging his limbs through the snow, the top of the outline a close parallel to Daryl's jacket. When he stood to reveal the entire figure, Judith let out a delighted squeal.

With my head against the frozen blanket, my eyes averted to the sky. Flakes came down head-on, and for a moment, it felt as if I were drifting through a sea of cosmos. Nowhere to be in particular, suspended between the heavens and earth.

My eyelids fluttered close at the continual tingle of the drift, and I followed Carls previous actions.

Drag. Pull. Drag.

Perhaps these wings would be the closest I would ever come to being divine.

I picked up on Michonne's sigh. "She's hardly even a year, you fools."

Judith fell back, making a quiet umph at the soft impact. I thought she had lost her balance at first, until she revealed her top two teeth with a gummy smile. She was copying Carl's tumble.

"See?" Carl asked Michonne, "She gets it."

She flopped her arms around in the snow before using her hands to stand upright once again. She pointed at the—oval?—imprint of her body left.

We all clapped and cheered.

Michonne squinted as she sat on the rocking chair. "She doesn't get anything except that you two are a real piece of work."

A laugh pressed from my throat, and I looked to Carl.

The night Jesus escaped from the cellar and entered our home, we'd found him sitting on the staircase, claiming he was waiting for someone to dress. Michonne and Rick came rushing out of one of the downstairs bedrooms with displaced clothing only seconds later.

We learned about Hilltop that next morning, and how a group called the saviors—led by a man named Negan—had extorted their safehaven. Rick and some others traveled there and struck a deal with the leader. Half of everything they had, and we would take care of Negan, just like we had with the W people.

Our group had just begun on a plan to strike them down. We would do it before they even knew of us. We were Hilltops secret, for now.

But—all of that had been shrouded by the revelation that Rick and Michonne were together, together.

However, that was too harsh of a taunt. So instead, Carl balled up a mound of snow with a smile strewn on his lips. He put a finger to his lips before throwing it straight into the wall above Michonne's head. It shattered into millions of pieces, the tiny ice crystals surrendering to gravity as she shrieked.

"Augh!" She sounded, wiping her sweater clean of debris.

Carl gave an amused laugh as he sandwiched more snow between his hands. "Would you like to rephrase that?"

Michonne held her hands out. "You two are delightful little angels."

He dropped the weapon of nature and smushed it back to where it came from beneath his palm. Judith was crouched beside us. Somehow, one of her mittens had fallen off. When she reached her tiny fingers into the snow, she retracted them quickly, screaming at the biting sensation.

Michonne rose from her seat, came down the steps, and scooped the very unhappy child back into her arms. She coxed the back of Judith's head while sending us a playful glare.

"There, there," She bounced Judith, looking us over to make sure we weren't against her taking the baby back. "We'll go inside and sit by the fire while they turn into icicles out here."

She softly smiled back at us before proceeding up the steps. "A storm is rolling in. Don't stay out too long."

The door closed.

Just as I began lowering myself back into the soft bed of snow, an object hit just above my ear, hard and fast. It disoriented me completely, giving me half a mind to reach for the blade still tucked beneath my warm pillow out of some old and dark habit.

Instead, my fingers moved to the numbed side of my face. My skin was wet and slick with the temperature of a corpse in a metal box at the morgue.

My head angrily snapped at Carl, my mouth agape.

"What the hell, Carl?"

His back was facing me. When he turned, he offered a simple hum in question. God—he was playing innocent. His jaw feathered as he waited for an explanation. Something about it infuriated me all the more.

If it weren't for the healing wound I knew lay beneath the surface of his bandage, I would send one back, and make sure to pack it extra tight before sending it into his face.

A laugh came from behind him, now. We both turned our attention to Enid, who was already working on another snowball. Her tongue swiped across her chapped bottom lip happily.

"Trouble in paradise?" She teased.

I sucked the inside of my cheek. "You bitch."

Carl looked my way, eye wide. It was apparent he wasn't familiar with female banter. When Enid held her stomach and chuckled at the comment, he loosened up, realizing the lighthearted nature of the comment.

"Gonna let all this snow go to waste?" She asked, throwing the second ball at our feet.

Carl held my gaze before smirking. "Hell no."

▬ ▬ ▬

Amongst the quieted atmosphere, our playful shouts were muffled. The sky was always thick in the Deep South, but not with heat—not this season. A frigid veil of sugar wrapped around us in a flurry, and we dwelled in the sweetness it offered, our shoes leaving proof of our presence.

It would only take a minute or two before another layer would erase the indents and cover our tracks completely. But, it couldn't quite wipe us away. We existed in the small abnormalities of bound snow. The piles scooped by hand, and the frozen orbs that had been thrown, but missed.

Enid and I could be found inside the whirling blizzard chasing after Carl, breaths shallow, lungs burning. He held his hat against his head as he steadily scaled up the main guard tower. I attempted to throw my last snowball, but I overshot, and the sphere disappeared over the wall. Enid's throw was better, but it only made it as far as the railing.

"Bullshit!" I called out, wiping my sleeve across my face as I pointed to the platform.

"That's such a cheat." Enid said. "You can't have a base."

"It's like trying to play tag in kindergarten when everyone goes on T." I added, my nose scrunching as I blinked the frost from my pupils.

The corners of Carl's mouth turned up, and he leaned into the wooden rail. "Two against one isn't fair, either."

"You're not scared, are you?" I lifted a brow, folding my arms.

He shrugged. "Course' not. I just don't like being teamed up against."

Enid scoffed. "Please, you're practically pissing your pants up there."

"No. . ." Carl began.

He didn't finish.

Something past the right side of the wall had grabbed his attention. His face was blank.

"Hey," I called up, my voice nearly taken by the wind, "what's the matter?"

No response. He was kneeling now, hands desperately sweeping the layer of snow from the concealed weapon box. When it was visible, he swung the lid open and hastily pulled out one of the pistols. A box of ammo was then ripped open by his teeth, the metal casings jingling in his fist as he loaded the chamber.

Enid and I exchanged a worried glance before scaling the tower ourselves, taking the icy footsteps on the ladder with care. When I was to the top, I leaned over the edge, offering my hand to the girl. She took it with appreciation.

I now looked past the wall, my sight catching on the object of Carl's fascination.

A dead one. Its body was stiff, and rigid. Snow clung to it like a cloak, but it moved—slowly. Though, come January, its blood would freeze over and leave the thing stilled.

That was what I remembered from last winter. The walkers just. . .froze, like concrete had been poured over their bodies. It had taken them a long while to thaw back into any kind of movement, but when they did, rot consumed them.

"That's Deanna." He spoke quietly.

I squinted. We never found her body during the cleanup. Most of the turned Alexandrians remained inside the walls, but, few had made it out before the repair. It suddenly made sense why her son, Spencer, had been going past the walls relentlessly.

He was searching for what remained of his mother.

Carl's eye found mine. "We have to go."

"You can't be serious." Enid looked between us. "If you go out there in this weather, you might not come back."

"But, we can't use the gun from here, Enid." I paused, knowing Carl knew this too. "It's too loud."

The girl beside us went silent for a while, but eventually, she found the right words. "I can't leave—not again."

The last time she'd climbed our wall, things had gone terribly wrong. Half the town had perished, including her closest friends, and she hadn't been there to try and stop it. The guilt she felt was unwavering, and constant.

Deanna was slowly making her way towards the tree-line, disappearing into the haze.

"But. . .I won't tell anyone, as long as you're back in twenty minutes." She spoke, moving back towards the ladder. "You can jump—the snow is definitely deep enough. I'll throw down my climbing gear when you return."

I gave the girl a soft smile as I dug in the weapon box. "Thank you. Really."

Carl offered a thanks to her as I pulled out a sharp knife, and a second gun. This one was already loaded with bullets. The box shouldn't have been unlocked like this. It was strictly for the watch post only. I guessed it'd been accessible since the walls had come down. I imagined someone standing guard here to defend the entrance from the oncoming dead.

She nodded at the both of us. "Don't do anything stupid."

We knew that was entirely unavoidable.

▬ ▬ ▬

The woods were now the winter's domain. Ice grew between each crevice, lining the greenery with a bitter ending. Winter had kissed autumn with a passion, and let it shrivel at its feet.

The heavens seemed to fall much less angelically outside. Swirls of sharp flakes ripped away at us, adding another layer to the already shin-deep snow. The knife had found its rightful place in my hand, fitting against my grasp in a manner which was much too normalized. My other arm shielded my face from the oncoming blizzard.

Something was different beyond the gates. Vengeful.

Nonetheless, Carl and I had purpose.

Find Deanna.

I couldn't help but imagine my own mother in these woods. Soulless, the shell of who she once was the only remnant of the life she lived. Oblivious the world, an ache in her gut the one thing leading her onward.

If Allie hadn't shot her—maybe all three of us would be bringers of death in this abyss.

With no plan in mind, we aimlessly wandered around the sides of the wall, trying to find where she'd slipped away. After reaching the vast area we'd spotted her in while standing on the watch tower before she'd become immersed by the blizzard, we let ourselves move further from the wall.

After about fifteen minutes of searching, I knew any evidence of her being near had already drifted away, obscured in a halo of grey and white. It tangled between the trees, drifts enfolding our bodies in a vexatious solitude.

"Carl," I reached out, my fingertips just inches from catching his jacket. "She's gone."

He turned, shaking his head at me. "If we just go a little further—"

His voice trailed off through the storm, suggesting something of a risk. If we went out any further, Enid's warnings may have become a reality. As much as I felt for Spencer and Deanna, there were some things that we had to give up on.

"No." I projected sternly, but soft. "Let her go."

"If we let Deanna go, Spencer will spend the rest of his life with his eyes turned to the woods." He looked to me, stepping through the mist so that I could properly see his face. "If it were you out here, I'd never stop looking."

Before he attempted to turn away from me, I took a hold of his arm. "But it's not. I'm right here, with you. That's why we have to go back."

His head lowered. It almost looked like defeat.

"When the storm clears, I'll come out here with you again." My voice was raised against the wind. "I promise."

Instead of words, he nodded.

He then pulled from my hold. I thought him to be angry with me, until his fingers laced with mine. The contact brought a sharp whistle past his lips.

I hummed in question.

He raised our hands between the gap distancing our bodies. "You have cold hands. You always do."

"You don't have to hold them, you know?"

He tucked our hands into the pocket of his coat. "I'd hold them until May, if you asked me to."

▬ ▬ ▬

We were halfway back when we heard it.

A crackle, like ice splitting apart beneath footfall. Something young and naive would discredit it. Like a doe, lifting its head, unbeknownst to the target on the back of its skull. Or, a perched bird ruffling its feathers whilst shotgun hides in the shrubs, the barrel angled perfectly at it.

But Carl and I knew better.

We pulled ourselves further into the tree line, weapons drawn. The steel exterior of our handguns remaining close to our chests like an artificial heart as we rushed for coverage.

It wasn't long before I spotted something of peculiar nature.

An old oak tree. Its insides were hollowed out, bits of rounded edge curling from the core of it. The split form of its spine drew us in and welcomed our backs against the internal bark, providing shelter from both the cold, and the voices which now emerged from between the layers of the storm.

I shifted my gaze from the opening. My eyes met Carl's, and we stayed this way, looking only at one another in fear that the approaching steps would feel our eyes.

Did the trees do this for me? Shield their vision when I moved past, afraid that I would sense their lingering presence?

How much did the wilderness know of us?

"Motherfuckers are holed up pretty good. Walls of steel." An unfamiliar man spoke, his tone sandpapery.

Someone else agreed with a grumble under his breath.

I could tell they stood near the other side of the trunk, seemingly taking a breath for a moment. Carl's finger slid near the trigger, lingering just above the small lever. I silently hoped my weapon was loaded with enough ammunition to take down however many lingered among us.

I could tell a different man was now speaking. "With a defense like theirs—they gotta' have shit for Negan."

This stranger, Negan, desperately needed some other hobby apart from sending his little bitches to do dirty work. Jesus had told us about what they'd done to one of Hilltop's youngest members, Rory. At only sixteen, they beat him to death, then later sent his reanimated corpse as a reminder what would happen to anyone who didn't comply.

Our group needed to get rid of him, immediately, or we'd be painting names on the west wall again. Rick's idea of infiltrating their compound in the dead of night suddenly seemed like the only way to go about these saviors. We couldn't repeat another W attack. If this meant we had to be the first to strike—so be it.

"John, radio the compound and give them our coordinates." Another told one of them. "If Negan gives the go-ahead, we could have this place locked down by tonight."

Three. I was sure now, I had counted three men.

In this little hollow place of secrecy, the sunlight was void from Carl's face, his iris appearing deep brown. Within his expanded pupil, he held a knowing look. It was the opposite of anticipation. Resignation glinted back, one that told me he didn't want to do what we both understood needed to be done.

He raised his hands, his pointer finger going in a circle to voicelessly show how we would move around the trunk and clip all of them. I nodded in compliance with his plan as a soft click sounded, a low hiss of static following.

"Bloodwire, this is Echo 80, come in."

Carl lifted his chin, calling the move. I thumbed the safety off, lifting the barrel as we slyly left the hidden space. Carl went right, and I, left. The snow against the forest floor hid our steps as we came around the large base of the tree.

There they were, backs turned to us. My finger slid over the trigger and aimed at the back of one of their heads. I pulled it without question, the body instantly dropping like a marionette with snipped strings. Carls shot followed like an echo. Blood spattered against white, the contrast entirely unholy.

The third was already running. Carl fired again, and the bullet split through the man's shoulder as if he'd begun unzipping out of his own skin. We rushed at him, the crimson droplet trail smushing beneath our boots. Adrenaline kept the stranger steady, allowing him to weave through the trees, but his breath was not. It was sharp, and cut—something that told me he wouldn't make it far.

This assumption was quickly proved correct. Just as I'd begun to break a sweat, his body dropped, halfway engulfed by the snow. The weight pressing into him was enough to keep his body down as we approached. Our steps crinkled into the untouched quilt of snow. The man almost made it look warm with the way he surrendered to it. His hot wound seeped freely, dark blood looking like misplaced sap.

"Negan," Carl started as he knelt, his hammer coming into contact with the saviors temple. "Tell me where he is—now."

The man somehow found strength to lift his head and spare a glance at Carl. "I'm Negan."

That was obviously bullshit. Carl knew it, too. We'd heard him and his dead comrades talk about getting into contact with their leader regarding Alexandria just a minute ago.

Carl stood. I thought he would come to my side, but he didn't. Instead, he brought his boot into the man's stomach. A pained wail spilled from his lips, but the savior didn't talk.

"Carl—stop." I spoke out, taking a step closer, "We'll spare you. Just tell us where he is."

The man laughed, instantly wincing from the movement. "Doll, you really think I'm dumb enough to believe that?"

"He missed your artery. You still have time to treat that wound. Apply pressure, and get back to wherever you've come from. Tell anybody who asks that your friends turned on you."

Carl turned to me, his eye squinted in hesitation.  He wasn't sure if the idea was sound. Anyone tied to Negan was a threat—and letting them go would likely make things worse.

But, what if killing wouldn't change anything at all? What if he did keep that promise, and save me the remorse of ending another life?

I continued. "All you have to do is tell us of Negan's whereabouts, and never speak of our community again. I'm giving you a chance to do the right thing, and in exchange, I'll match that. Swear to God."

Carl followed my words carefully, eventually nodding in agreement.

The stranger placed a palm into his bleeding shoulder, teeth gritting in discomfort. "Fuck. You."

Maybe I hadn't convinced the savior, but Carl was sold on the idea.

"Come on, man." He urged. "Two lives are enough—there's no need to claim another."

The man let out a long, forceful exhalation. Then—to both of our surprise—told us of his compound. It was about a day's drive East. I-64 was the fastest route, and they'd recently cleared off the right lane completely. This meant we wouldn't have to worry about a blockage.

He spoke about Riverbend exit, and how it was a straight shot from there. The paved streets would eventually turn to stone and dust, and meadow would stretch for miles. We would know we made it when the large satellite dish attached to their station came into view.

When he finished, I leveled the barrel to his head, and fired.

God meant nothing to me anymore.

· • —– ٠ ✤ ٠ —– • · 6,127 words • 8:01 pm

somewhere deep into the forest, a girl named jackie taylor has fallen asleep outside...

i better not hear a SINGLE negative peep about lori grimes DO YALL HEAR ME 🫵☹️? i have the most insane maternal instincts over this woman i literally feel like ill throw up everytime i see a photo of her. i 100% cry over her death the most out of any other character bc of the brutality and timing. ppl love to call her an awful mom but rick was HARDLY ever with carl and nobody mentions that

🌀🌀😵‍💫 you like lori grimes 😵‍💫🌀🌀

sincerely yours,𝓜 ᥫ᭡.

TIME FOR A POLL!!wait hold on lemme just....