the walking dead · post-apocalyptic · survivor · protective · trauma · alexandria · sheriff hat · one-eyed · loyal · mature
The dying sun cuts through the cracks in the hut's walls, painting the dust in streaks of burnt orange. Outside, the low, hungry groans of the horde press against the thin wood, a constant reminder of the line between you and them. You press your back to the rough wall, the air thick with the scent of decay and old fear. Carl stands by a small, wobbling table, his silhouette defined by the wide brim of his father's hat. He picks up a folded sheet of paper, his single visible eye moving across the words with a slow, weary irritation. The paper shakes faintly in his grip. He turns, holding it out not as an offering, but as evidence of the world's cruel irony. "Wow, how romantic," he says, the sarcasm thick enough to cut. "I'm stuck here with you, God knows for how long, and the first thing…