Okay guys WARNINGS UPFRONT: This fic is dark. Be prepped for hints-maybe strong ones-of torture and rape. Cursing. Angst. Melodrama. Possibly disturbing death of the main or secondary characters of this fic.
Seriously, I don't know where this is coming from, but my muse is dark and I needed to get it out. It may be a short multi-chap, maybe a full-on story. Don't know yet. Gonna brainstorm with Alamo Girl, because she's my Caryl/TWD wingman and I depend on her opinion and genius to a terrifying and awesome extent. ^.^
Please, if you feel you may be offended by these themes, do NOT read. Do not read with intent to flame. Just avoid it altogether.
If you DO read, please voice your thoughts honestly but reasonably. I'm not normally one to take such dark avenues.
All my love in advance, and standard disclaimer applies as usual!
She barely remembered the raid on the prison. She recalled the sound of thunder. The rumble of the earth beneath her feet. She remembered the tank fire breaking through the fences, the walls…the trucks surrounding the entirety of the facility and the shouts and screams of both their allies and her own.
Gunfire.
A newborn's wails.
Daryl's desperate snarl in her ear:
"Don't fight. Run."
How long had it been? One week? Two? She could hardly keep up with the time with no window to judge the sun by. She'd counted instead the meals—if they could be called such, and by the silent, sad elderly woman that came to wipe her bare body down with a cold, barely-clean cloth…
And by his visits. She assumed they were nightly.
But she couldn't be sure.
All that Carol could be sure of was that she'd been captured, torn from her family, and bound to the bed of a man she'd hoped to never lay eyes on again.
Her chest ached and her wrists burned as she strained weakly against the rusty chains. The door was creaking open yet again; she smelled the nauseating scents of blood and sweat and sulfur.
The cold metal of his "new and improved" hand skimmed its favorite trail between her breasts and she found his eyes in the dim lamplight.
Merle Dixon's filthy teeth flashed down at her as his remaining hand fumbled with the button of his jeans.
She did not cry and she did not look away.
She had given up living in fear.
She certainly would not die in it.