"𝐜𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞„

forty eight, somebody else

THERE WAS ONCE A time when Jane Peletier might have counted the scars on Carl Grimes' back as art. She might have gently brushed back his hair from his eye, or taken care of him in any way that he might see fit. She used to think of peace, when she thought of that boy, but now, all she could remember was the smell of burning bodies and the sounds of chamber clicks. She saw war, when she saw his face.

And she did see it, every night. When he would take the form he once did: kind, gentle, nurturing. But sometimes, all that would come back to her was his face the last time she saw it. All this time wasted believing he was the one true golden soul: a flower risen from frozen ground, a caterpillar that had gained wings in air filled with ash.

She reminisced their time spent dwelling in meadows, but then she would remember what almost always happened next: blood spills, glaring teeth and sharp jaws. Often times, she'd have dreams about flower stems that seemed to flow naturally into streams of red that stained wooden porches and concrete roads alike. Afterwards, she'd wake wondering if she'd been born a baby at all, or rather an embodiment of her mothers pain that had just happened to slightly resemble a human.

Despite what she'd thought, it did get a little easier. She grew her hair long and brushed it out everyday. She collected skirts of all fabrics, ones that went down to her ankles or her calves and swung from her hips. She wore heeled boots, embroidered with illustrations of delicate pansies and rose bushes. She forced her nose into seas of literature, she watched movies with Henry every Sunday. She danced. Strummed. Laughed.

But none of it would suffice any good reason to push Carl Grimes, or any of the bad things that had happened, outside her mind. Three years after she'd spoken a word to him, yet it felt like yesterday he had yelled and scathed and looked so horrifically mad. She could remember it like it was so.

LIGHT SHONE FROM EACH and every window and as he started to hear faint whispers of music, he received an itching feeling that this was not one of his actually good ideas. He should always listen to Daryl, he'd always known so, but never obeyed the rule. And every time he'd made a new, grave mistake, he'd found himself wishing he'd just taken the old man's advice instead.

He snaked his right hand up to brush his hair behind his ear, but was quick to recall that there was no hair to brush back: it had been mercilessly chopped off as soon as he arrived here. He was left with a decent amount; he wasn't bald or anything, it had just been a shock to feel it break off between his fingers after so long.

"Damnit Daryl," he sighs under his breath. He'd come to do just about everything with Daryl. I mean, he'd spent about three years with the guy alone. Who'd have thought. Yet, here he was without him.

The hilltop was bigger than it had been when Carl had last visited. There were certainly more people, that was for sure, and the farms out front were thriving well. They expanded the land by a whole lot, but if you think about it, hilltop isn't big if you're considering actual living space.

He could see it, the life his dad wanted for everyone. He used to think that as long as Negan was locked up, everything would be fixed, but he realised a long time ago that there was upkeep to manage. Everyone needed him, to be the leader. They needed him to guide them, to make plans, to unite communities. Carl could've stepped up and taken his dad's role, but he chose not to - and only now is he realising that he regretted that. He didn't regret going out to look for his dad, but it's been three years.....he'd never ever give up hope, but at some point, he had started to doubt if it was all worth it. Jane. Leaving everything behind, including Judith. Michonne. The ones he loved.