Sage ➸ Carl Grimes

2 ➸ blood

{ Heavy in Your Arms by Florence and the Machine }

S A G E

The blade dug deeper in the skin of my neck, mercilessly. The boy pursed his lips and he looked at me.

"Please!" I whimpered.

"You tried to kill me," he spoke. I bit back a gasp at his incredibly deep voice, that was throaty and raspy and complimented his hot breath. "You took this knife, and thought I wasn't going to notice you creeping up behind me. You thought you were gonna win, didn't you?"

"N-no..." I lied.

"Didn't you?" he repeated between a growl. I choked up a bit at the pressure being put down on my neck, and I squirmed under his strong body.

"I'm sorry..." I whispered.

"You're sorry. That's fucking funny," the boy laughed coldly.

His belt clinked with my own and he used his weight to pin me back. Empty cans that were once on top of the fridge began toppling on our heads, because everytime I went to break free, he held me back and everything rustled. The house was near dark, and only the left side of his face was lit up by the sun. He ran his tongue over his bottom lip and snickered at my weakness.

"Are you gonna k-kill me?" I stuttered, his hands deeply on my neck.

The young boy smirked, and his blue eyes glistened with humor.

"I don't know," he shrugged, as if it were a casual debate for him. "I mean, I guess I...could. But, do you want that?"

Instead of responding, I kept my mouth sealed shut. He waited beating moments for an answer, but it was never given to him. The boy shook his head and laughed mockingly, wiping sweat with his shoulder. His strong hands held my own knife against me.

"Are you not gonna talk?" he asked me furiously, and I kept my mouth closed.

"The girl has gone mute, hasn't she?" the boy chuckled, shaking his head again in disbelief.

The knife pressed against my throat began to draw gentle blood, and the pressure he was creating with his hands would have me dead within the hour. I closed my eyes, breathing.

Maybe you were meant to die. You left your parents, thinking you'd have the capability of surviving on your own. But here you are, with a young boy with lovely blue eyes, holding your own knife against your throat. What would your parents want you to do? Cripple up and die like a biter?

"You have really lovely eyes," the boy sneered. I blinked a few times and clenched my jaw. "It's too bad..."

His words were slow, mocking.

My arms and body were pinned back behind me, but my legs were not.

I took my lip between my teeth before jerking my knee upward. It harshly collided with the young boy's crotch, and he uttered a stretched groan, loosening the grip on my hands. The knife slipped from his hands and clattered on the ground, as he bent over and grabbed himself painfully.

I hurdled down and reached for my knife, grabbing it and scooting away.

"Son of a bitch," the boy muttered, bending over and wrapping his arms around his waist, groaning.

Using the tip of my shoe, I swung my foot back and rammed it upward, between his legs again. He sealed his eyes shut and fell to his knees.

"Fuck!" he cried in pain.