Walking Dead Game Collection 2

"Deep Fault"

Title: Deep Fault
Characters: Clementine, Omid, Christa
Summary: Despite their efforts, eleven-year-old Clementine still believes the deaths of Ben, Kenny and Lee are caused by her, and Omid and Christa can clearly tell. After brushing off that she's "fine" for months, the couple finally witness her break and are exposed to the physical harm she's inflicted upon herself, and they are then left to comfort the child who has lost everything.
Author's Note: tw; self harm, blood
Requested By: Anonymous
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"I'm fine."

The two of them hated that phrase.

"Clementine," Omid said, reaching out to the child. She was looking away, arms crossed, tense and hostile given their questions. "We know that something's wrong, and if that's the case, it's you."

He settled a hand on the child's shoulder, but the moment it made contact, she flinched away. "I'm fine. I'm telling the truth." Then, bristling at the sight of Christa's worried gaze, she started for her make-shift 'room'.

The two that remained in their 'living room' stared at each other, concern dripping from every pore, the worry of what was yet to come looming overhead.

The trio had taken refuge in an abandoned highway gas station/restaurant pit stop. It wasn't in the best shape — which was to be expected — but had walls, doors, and some food. It was more than they could've asked for, so they seized the opportunity and claimed it as their own.

But the longer they stayed, the longer they felt as though something was up with Clementine. Something worse than they initially thought.

It started with her eating less. Then, it turned into sleeping less; roaming the lot at odd hours of the night and asking for more supervising shifts. It developed into her taking more risks — unnecessary ones that resulted in more harm than gain — and communicating less. Way less.

That night was a prime example.

Omid turned to Christa, eyes weak and defeated. He lifted his arms and slapped them back to his sides, frustrated. "I don't know what else to do."

Christa sighed through her nose, arms crossed and resting atop her swollen belly. Feeling her feet grow tired, she set a hand on his shoulder and guided him toward their kitchen. "There isn't anything more we can do."

Omid scoffed, as though offended, and stood in front of her as she eased herself into her seat. "So, what, we just do nothing?"

"We can't do anything if she doesn't let us." Christa offered back, somewhat irritated by his forcefulness. "We can't force her to talk."

"So, we just give up?"

"No." Christa said, brows furrowed and frustrated. "We ease off."

Omid studied the woman, noting the bags under her eyes and the way she stuck her swollen feet out in front of her. She was tired, and sore, and her body was ready to give out thanks to the additional weight of their child.

She was exhausted — her body language practically screamed it — and Omid could do nothing for her either.

Feeling frustrated with himself, he turned and marched to the front of the store, glancing out one of their half-boarded windows, studying the barren highway.

How was he supposed to be a father to his biological child if he could barely father a child that had been under his care for what felt like years? If he couldn't ask her the simplest of questions — how she was doing — and get an answer, how was he to be a good father? A good husband? A good anything?