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[ season two, episode seven ]
Morning broke through the canopy of trees above camp like a waterfall of molten lava. It trickled over the leaves, splashing across the flock of nylon tents, until everything in its wake had been doused in the piercingly bright light. Marley raised a hand in front of her eyes to block out the blinding rays of daybreak. It didn't help, unfortunately, so she resorted to narrowing her eyes into a crinkled squint ── hoping and praying she wouldn't be struck down with a migraine later.
Knowing her unfortunate luck, she probably would.
Everyone was sitting around, eating breakfast. It was quiet. Too quiet. The only sound resonating through the tree grove was forks scraping against the bottom of metal dishes.
Marley felt slightly nauseous.
She barely slept a wink last night ── too many thoughts flowing through her head being the main blame for that. The lies. The barn. Bonnie. Her parents. The fall of Atlanta City. Hell, she even recalled the unfamiliar faces on Beth's fridge. But that was how her mind worked. In mysterious ways. Taunting ways. Marley was in an unhealthy cycle of overthinking ── to the point that her neck was sore from a night of tossing and turning beneath the bed-sheets that came to feel suffocating.
But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't seem to escape her past.
And to think Hershel saw the dead as sick people . . . it worried Marley. He didn't see them the same way she did ── monsters. Things that tear you apart, limb from limb. Things that no longer had any logical thoughts whirring through their mind. Walkers were not ill. They could not come back. They were dead. She wanted Hershel to see the truth, to understand that his reality was not the the same ( not even remotely) as her own. It was twisted and warped by irrational fear and grief ── forming hope that his snarling family could come back, breathing.
They wouldn't. Ever.
"Uh, guys."
Marley looked up from the grass. She knitted the emerald shards between her fingers, tugging great clumps of earth out from the ground.
Glenn had stood up, taking the centre of the stage, wringing his hands together nervously. His gaze darted between the sleepy figures of his fellow campmates and the farmhouse ── where Marley could see Maggie Greene standing on the porch.
She had her arms folded over her chest. And she didn't look too pleased.
Christ, what was he up to now?
"So. . ." he began, clearing his throat vehemently. "The barn is full of walkers."
