Who We Are | TWD

.043

I wake up, feeling exhausted despite the amount of sleep I had gotten. I look at the clock. It's almost noon. Shit.

I never sleep in this late, so I don't know what's going on. Perhaps it was the fact that Carl and I had stayed up until the early hours of the morning talking. That's sounds about right.

I flop out of bed, throwing my pajamas into the hamper and grabbing a fresh pair of jeans and an olive sweater. I lace up my boots and throw my tangled hair into a ponytail, not particularly feeling like dealing with the mess right now. I run my fingers across my cheek where the skin is still inflamed and already beginning to turn a blue color with specks of yellow around the outside. I don't know what made me think it'd be in my best interest to try to step into the fight yesterday, but I regret it a little bit now.

I'll have to bring Judith over to Carol's, which will also be at a later time than I had promised yesterday, and I had planned last night that I would go visit Rick first thing. I hadn't expected 'first thing' to be noon, but whatever works.

When Carl had checked on him last night, Michonne sent him home soon after. Apparently he's doing alright considering the situation, but he's pretty beat up. I thought maybe he'd be conscious by today, so stopping by at this time wouldn't be a bad idea.

It's good to know Michonne has been looking after him all night because she'll keep him safe. I missed having her here, but Rick needs her more right now.

I walk out of my room and towards Judith's. I push the door open, confused as to why it had been parted to begin with. I look to see the crib empty. I know there's an explanation as to where she is, but the internal panic arises before I can settle it.

"Carl?" I call, moving to his room where the door is also ajar, the blankets ruffled in a pile on his bed. "Carl?"

"Yeah?" a voice returns from the living room. I jog down the stairs to see him sitting on the couch. "What's wrong?"

"Where's Judith?" I pant, trying to stop the tightening in my chest by pressing a hand to it.

"I dropped her off at Carol's about an hour ago. You were still sleeping, so . . ."

I nod, taking a breath in. "It just scared me," I explain, walking the rest of the way down the stairs after releasing my death grip on the wooden railing. I plop down on the couch beside Carl, trying to change the subject by putting my focus on the comic book in his hands. That doesn't work, however, because he's still on the subject of comforting me.

"You know, we're safe here," Carl says. I nod. "You don't have to be worried about that stuff anymore."

"I can't just reprogram myself," I argue. "What I just did is what I've been doing for the past few months. It can't snap my fingers and be done with it now."

"I know. I do it sometimes, too." He glances down at his comic for a second, flipping the page before speaking again. "It makes me feel like I'm crazy."

"Me too," I admit.

"Maybe we can just go crazy together," Carl jokes.

I grin. "Yeah. Crazy together." Having my confidante back is comforting. Not having Carl to talk to was excruciatingly difficult. Being able to tell him something like that and knowing he will understand makes me wonder how I had been going without him for so long.

The front door opens and I turn my head from Carl's comic to see Rick. It's good to see him again, specifically after the state I had seen him in before. The way Carl had described him last night, I honestly wasn't sure what to expect. His face is striped with several pieces of white tape and there are clean bandages wrapped around his hand, but otherwise, he isn't too bad off. The only thing remaining on him that is truly gruesome is the white T-shirt that is still spotted with stains of blood and dirt.