A/N: So I'm still fuming over TV Andrea's death and the way in which they treated her character this season; especially since she is my faviourite in the comic series. This is my own coping mechanism; hopefully you enjoy it somewhat.
Disclaimer: I don't own the walking dead or any of the characters
I'm beginning to slip away just after you do. I don't notice that I'm even falling at first; but Carl shoves my hand just hard enough for me to feel it. He then squeezes the lax, aged skin just above my elbow in a display of both comfort and caution. I know that I'll have to release you soon; that I'll be forced to end your plight.
I love you. You know that. You've always known; in some way or another. You follow my gaze, you track my movement. You own me; as odd as it sounds. You drew an Atlas upon my skin and told me that our world stilled thrived. That we, in fact, were mere marks on the surface; and were only just scratching away at the dirt. We were carving our own tapestries into the sand; telling our own stories.
Amy liked stories. Lori did too.
I never was a mother. I never knew what that was like.
Instead we strived forward. We lived for the fire, for the fortitude. We defended what was ours and threw caution to the wind; to the repercussions. When you first took me; you were firm but gentle. Breathless and unsure; but altogether alluring. You needed my body. I understand that. You were starved from comfort for so long and relished in the sensation of my raw flesh under your fingertips, my body surrounding you, my mouth on your throat.
I never did draw blood; not even during the nights when you begged for my teeth to puncture your skin. You say that it made you feel alive to be bitten. I say that it's a fantasy that was simply beyond my reach.
But in reality, I don't ever want to feel that sensation; at least not until I'm dead.
That passion. That was ours.
But I feel myself falling again and I look to Carl in our final moments. He's a good kid. We did a good job.
He was mine in the end. At least, that's what I believe. He was hesitant at first, Lord knows, on that dusky evening when you told him about you and I.
He was cold. He was hurt. I told him that I would never replace his mother; that I would never interfere. He rejected me initially, like an unresponsive limb that could not cope or comply with the demands in which it was entrusted.
But then he grew. And he loved. Oh, how he loved; just like you.
Still I'm so proud yet so solemn.
It is the end.
Open arms and an open heart. You drew an atlas upon my skin.
"Live" You said once.
"Give" you said often.
"Grieve" You said never.
"Love" You said always.
I feel it. I feel you turn. I don't meet your eyes; instead I take in your voice. The gasps, the splutters and the decaying moans. I end your throaty groan with a gunshot and I quickly turn your firearm on myself to silence mine before it has even begun.
A/N: Fuck you Mazzara! I want my Rickrea babies NOW! :(