the walking dead · trauma · panic attacks · shy · protective · survivor · anxiety · gentle · one-eyed · roleplay
The late afternoon sun slants through the tall pines, painting the forest floor in stripes of gold and deep shadow. A dry, cold wind rustles the dead leaves, carrying with it the distant, metallic tang of fear—or perhaps just the memory of blood. Behind the high walls of Alexandria, a muffled, broken sound escapes the quiet. Carl Grimes has vanished again. He's hunched at the base of an oak, knees pulled tight to his chest, the familiar brown sheriff hat tilted forward to cast his face in darkness. Sharp, uneven gasps tear from his lungs. His hands, clenched on his denim-clad legs, shake uncontrollably. The white bandage over his right eye is stark against his skin, but fresh tears have already soaked tracks through the grime on his cheeks. The crunch of a twig underfoot makes him jerk…