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Carol feels light-headed, her steps feather light, barely registering the uneven ground that spans infinitely beneath her feet. As more and more blood gushes from her body, she grows numb to the pain.
The white skin stretched so tautly across her bones and thick layers of muscle, nerves and sinews, is beginning to feel clammy and cold, and even without the curse of a mirror Carol can tell how nauseatingly pale she must look. It is easy to imagine all the blood draining from her system, crimson, thick and warm.
The longer she walks, blindly and without orientation except forward, forward, forward, happy memories begin to awaken in dusty corners of her mind. They yawn and stretch, and for a good long while, are obscured in shape and color, almost as if she was looking at them through a kaleidoscope. Instead of faces, she sees crystals and shards of tainted glass. Purple, blue and green replace the gentle rose of blushed cheeks and pliant lips, even the stretch of the sky and the fields of grass.
Carol keeps pushing her legs forward, the soles of her feet dragging against the dry ground. With each slow step into the unknown, the memories turn sharper in her mind. After a while, they begin to truly take form, the colors settling and faint voices whispering in the back of her head.
In the distance, she can hear a gurgling moan, the score to her demise. Of that, she is certain now. Even after all this time, she is still afraid to die. Terrified of what is to come after. Still, as she drags her unwilling body further and further away from the carnage she unleashed on the road, and from the home she so desperately needs to leave behind, Carol begins to accept her fate.
Fingers curls around her knife, slipping into place mechanically, much like they have done a hundred times before. As the cold metal kisses her quivering fingers, the memories finally win, drowning out the moans and the bite of the wind, blinding her to the endless stretch of fields and hills.
Falling asleep under a fort of pillows and blankets as her daddy read her a story. Looking 'his last' upon the scene of his former joys and his later sufferings, and wishing 'she' could see him now, abroad on the wild sea, facing peril and death with a dauntless heart, going to his doom with a grim smile on his lips. Her daddy's kind smile and warm eyes, a kiss goodnight on her forehead.
Swimming in the ocean for the very first time, salty waves licking bared and sun-kissed, freckled skin, tickling her belly and the inside of her thighs. Sunbeams dancing in her hair, the air so fresh and pure that she greedily gulped it down.
Licking the last remaining debris of her grandma's peach cobbler from the porcelain plate, pink and purple flowers adorning the edges, hugged by a golden trim.
Blushing a furious red the very first time a boy kisses her, messily and with shaking hands curled around her waist.
Smoothing her hands along the length of her wedding dress, feeling the delicate pattern of the lace beneath her fingertips, relishing in the feather light embrace of the pearly white fabric. Pinning a flower into the auburn curls of her hair as her eyes shone brightly with hope and joy in the silver mirror her mother held up.
Wiping away crystal clear tears as she cradles Sophia in her arms for the first time, red-faced and squealing, and still the most beautiful sight she has ever been given the privilege to lay eyes on.
Clapping as her lips stretch into a proud smile, watching as her little girl bows nervously on stage, the butterfly wings she has sewn until her fingers bled spreading from Sophia's back.
Sighing as she takes in the sight of a single white rose, a golden nugget secured in its center, listening to a bittersweet tale of loss and hope.
Warming her frozen hands against the licking flames curling in the dusty fireplace of an abandoned cottage, cherishing the luxury of warmth for the first time in weeks.
Giggling as Daryl’s cheeks are tinged in the slightest shade of red when she teases him, the sound of his scoffing laughter the only melody still left for her. It makes up for all the lost tunes and profound words that will never be played or sung again.
Watching the rain drum against blood-soaked concrete, washing away guts and brain matter, teardrop shaped pearls running down the milky glass of the window that shelters her from the harsh wind. Iron bars obscure her view, and still she feels safe and protected for the first time in a lifetime.
Closing her eyes as the wind laps at her cheeks, the vibrations of the bike humming beneath the grip of her thighs. Chilly fingers splay across black leather.
Feeling the ground disappear from beneath her feet as Daryl lifts her into his arms, a choked sob muffled against the side of her neck. Cradling his head as he swallows his tears of relief.
Mapping out the rough callouses on Daryl’s palms.
Memorizing every shade of blue in his eyes, even the freckles of silver and gray, the hidden traces of mossy green, the depth of an ocean and the sky and the forests of the world.
Imagining the chapped pink of his lips against her own, shy and tense, causing the embers in her belly to stir and a smile to brighten her face. Avoiding his penetrating gaze whenever the thought crosses her mind.
Her steps falter when memories begin to fade into dreams, and the line between what is real and what she can only paint in her imagination begins to blur with each step that sets her very nerves on fire.
Reading lost tales to her grandchildren as they watch her with bated breath and wide, familiar eyes. Within two minutes, or even less, he had forgotten all his troubles. Not because his troubles were one whitless heavy and bitter to him than a man's are to a man, but because a new and powerful interest bore them down and drove them out of his mind for the time.
Guiding Daryl’s trembling hands down the smooth planes of her back, over the dip of her waist and swell of her hips, allowing him to swallow her sigh. Rough thumbs drawing tender circles into her flesh with dedication and eagerness, bathed in hesitation.
Pinning her mother's silver brooch against Sophia's wedding dress, the ivory silk falling in delicate creases, the hem kissing the sand beneath their feet as the foam of the sea licks the crushed shells.
Curling herself into the warmth of Daryl’s embrace, her head falling into place in the crook of his neck. Drumming her fingers against his bare chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart matching her own as sleep claims her with fleeting ease.
Mapping out the pattern of Daryl’s scars with her lips, erasing haunting memories and replacing them with new ones – bright and colorful and soft like a rose's petal.
Memorizing his sighs and grunts and the muffled sound of her name when he moves inside of her, a lock and key as her hands sift through his hair.
Imagining a different sort of future, full of meadows and white fences and the bubbling laughter of babies, the smell of motor oil and peach cobbler, watching the sun set over a calm lake as the porch swing moves smoothly beneath her crossed legs.
The world shifts. And as cracks open in front of her, pitch-black and alluring, Carol realizes she is not quite ready to close her eyes to what lies ahead. For what she left behind keeps pushing her forward, straight into the unknown.
When the bullet hits him, Daryl does not see his life flashing by. Hell, he ain't even convinced he's dying. It is not so much the pain as the impact that seems to dissociate his mind from his body, unwinding the gray matter that holds his memories.
He's not sure his momma ever wore such bright pink lipstick, or if her hair had ever really been this long and shiny and smooth.
He wonders if Merle ever laughed like that in his entire life, clear and genuine with a smooth face and lips spread widely.
Did riding a bike ever truly feel as thrilling as it does in his mind? The merciless bite of the wind and the thrumming of his own blood in his ears as the world around him melts into a lazy stream of colors.
When did an ice cold bottle of beer ever taste this good? Water pearling along the bottle like diamonds around a pretty girl's neck.
There is no way Carol's eyes could be this blue, a color so stunningly close to perfection that it takes his breath away.
Why would Judith giggle like this, carefree and high-pitched, a bubbling sound that shoots straight through his heart. Chubby arms and fingers stretch out towards him, eager and without a damn care in the world.
It must be a cruel trick to make him believe Beth’s voice ever sounded quite this comforting. As annoying as it had been – cheerful and a reminder of everything that has always been out of reach for him – it reminded him of the prison after it fell, a thin thread keeping alive the one home he has ever really known.
He's pretty sure fucking spaghetti never tasted this amazing before the world went to shit, the flavor of canned tomatoes and stale wheat like heaven on his tongue.
He'd never deserve the warmth and softness of Carol's lips pressing into his sweat and grime covered forehead. Or the silkiness of her silver hair beneath his calloused fingers. Fuck, even the smooth glide of her hand in his or the twinkle in her eyes when she teased him with all the skill of a siren. He never deserved any of it.
No. He's not dying. Because none of that can be real. If the great beyond was really heading for him, ready to claim his sorry ass, then he'd only see what his life had really been.
The first deep gash between his shoulder blades, crimson and raw when he craned his neck to catch a glimpse of it with tear-blurred eyes in the stained mirror.
The stench of smoke as his momma burned away to nothing.
The sound of his old man cursing and moaning and coughing up bile, telling him what a useless piece o' shit he has always been.
The familiar pity in Merle's eyes as he brushed off every promise of a brighter future.
The first snarl of rotten teeth, snapping at him with a moan that went beneath the deepest layer of his marred skin.
The shudder of brain and blood splattering all over his face. Again. And again. Until it stops mattering.
The warmth of Merle's dead hand in his own.
The pale skin of Sophia's face, ashen and void of life. The sound of the gun that ended her miserable existence.
The sickening crunch of his brother's face turning into nothing but a cradle of mashed flesh, thick blood and dreadful memories.
The terror that races through his veins when Carol is erased from his life.
The haunting imagine of iron bars and wired fences, torn down and set aflame.
The weight of Beth in his arms, another life he could not save. Gray and yellow and straw. Drenched in crimson.
The familiar sensation of being utterly out of place behind the walls of Alexandria. White wood and pristine porches. Floral sweaters and pearl-adorned cardigans. Gooey cookies and warm sheets.
The moment it hit him that Carol was gone. Slipped away. Burned away, just like she once said. Lost along the way.
Carol's tears. Carol's scream. Carol's blood.
You'll be alright. He almost wants to laugh at the bastard's word ringing in his ears.
That would be a first.