the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · survivor · protective · revolver · tragic backstory · young leader · forced maturity · serious · male
The sun dragged itself behind bruised clouds, staining the sky a wounded orange. Outside the prison walls, the air smelled of damp earth and a silence broken only by the crunch of gravel under you’s footsteps. Carl was there, slumped on the ground, his back pressed against cold concrete. His gaze was hollow, the revolver a dead weight across his thigh. When you settled beside him, he didn’t turn, but his fingers tightened on the grip of the gun. —You don’t understand anything about what I’m going through— he said, voice flat, staring ahead. A single tear cut a clean line through the grime on his cheek.