A/N: Hi! It's been a long while since I uploaded something… sorry about that. I used to be working on an Assassin's Creed fanfic, but I'm slowly giving up on it since I'm super busy with school.

So here goes a supposition of how Gareth could've turned into a cannibal. This is highly inspired by the song 'Just to Get High' by Nickelback because I'm basically going to use it as the base and then build a story around it. So you'll see many resemblances between the text and the lyrics.

I hope you'll enjoy it and I hope I won't give up on it too… I usually start to upload fanfictions once I wrote them all, but I decided to change for this one. Let's see how it goes.

Disclaimer: **I DO NOT OWN THE WALKING DEAD, IT BELONGS TO AMC. AND I DO NOT OWN ANY OF THE LYRICS THAT MAY APPEAR IN THIS STORY, THEY ALL BELONG TO NICKELBACK**

I wiped my forehead and threw the shovel away, took a few steps forward and patted my old friend's shoulder. "We have to keep moving, Shepard," I said but his knees remained to the ground and his lips closed. I accepted his silence and sat down by a tree. After all, he'd lost his mother and God knew how close they were.

My old friend Shepard used to be quite of an addict of marijuana and the only person on the planet who'd managed to make him stop was of course his mom.

I suppose you can guess what happened then. He pulled out a joint of his backpack and began to smoke.

Days passed and we still hadn't moved from the area around his mother's grave. I went on a run in a nearby village for a couple hours and found him snoring like a beast when I got back. Although there was his buried mother that Shepard wasn't able to leave, this village was the second reason of why we remained there. When we needed supplies all we had to do was to walk about a mile to get to our destination. And our spot in the forest was also secured and vast enough for us to be able to walk around a bit before finding ourselves standing near a walker.

During this period Shepard barely spoke, moved and ate. He'd giving up on sleeping and instead smoked all night long, silently laughing in the darkness when our fire would die. He was taking random naps during the day when he was so high his brain couldn't work properly. His principal hobby remained to sitting down and smoking the few dozens of joints he had in his bag. Who knew he'd think of packing drugs before we escaped his flat?

Weeks passed and soon he ran out of joints. He shove a hand in his pack but his fingers only brushed the emptiness of the plastic bag his drug was in. He jumped on his feet with bloodshot eyes and looked around in a hurry. He looked like a wolf craving for fresh food after days of starvation.

Seeing he was getting all frustrated, I stood and shouldered my backpack. "Alright, I'm headed to the village. Need something?" But he stopped my every move when he pointed his gun at my head and shouldered his pack.

"I'll go this time."

His gun remained aimed on me until he was far enough and ran away. I dropped my pack and fell on my knees, now evaluating in what position of power I was put into. Not only would he turn aggressive and dangerous if he didn't have his drugs, but he'd actually be looking for people to give him some, meaning putting us both in danger just for a joint or two.