Carl learned not to mourn the dead anymore. There was so much death and loss around them so constantly that there was no time to break down and cry for those that have fallen. All they could do is bury those that still were intact and make gravestones for those that were ripped apart, names upon names filling the makeshift graveyard.
Even if Carl had learned this, he found himself standing at one of the graves. Flowers he had picked in his hands, his gaze bore into the name etched into the surface.
"I hate you," he suddenly lashed out at the grave. "This is your fault I look like this, your fault that I'm so fucked up now."
He already could feel tears filling his intact eye, threatening to roll down his cheek; vision blurry.
"But you were my friend," his voice wavered, trying his best to keep his voice level. "I thought I would never have a friend again. That my group would find a place like this."
He gripped the flowers right.
"Life was almost perfect. I had friends, we had shelter, other people. We had a community."
A tear rolled down his cheek and dropped off his chin. Sniffling, he wiped his nose with his flannel sleeve.
"I really liked you."
He never admit it out loud before. It took him a while to even admit it to himself, drowning in denial for days on end.
He went quiet, leaning down to place the flowers in front of the grave.
"I really really liked you. But then you fucked me up!" He stepped on the flowers, crushing them under his boot.
He sobbed openly now, wincing at the pain that throbbed where his right eye would be, worrying if the wound had opened again. Wiping his nose over and over again, he hasn't cried this hard in almost two years. Maybe even more. He's learned to block out emotion to survive. But bottling things up can only be held in for so long.
"Fuck you, Ron." He spoke through hiccups. "Fuck you."