Disclaimer: I own nothing of The Walking Dead.
. . . . .
There's a poem by Edgar Allan Poe that's called "Alone."
I can't understand some of it, and of the parts I can understand, I can't relate to too much. But there's one section that's different. This section echoes back and forth in my head sometimes. Sometimes like now, this evening, as I stand on the catwalk with the slate of a sky spitting snow down, as I tell myself to go inside and get warm, but no, my legs won't move. This section of the poem, it goes like this:
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow — I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone —
And all I lov'd — I lov'd alone.
What Poe – when people talk about writers, they always use their last names – what Poe means, as far as I can tell, is that he isn't sad from the things that make other people sad. Like if a little girl begs you not to throw a knife at a rabbit because it would make her sad, but you do it anyway, because it wouldn't make you sad because you know the rabbit would be good food and all you know you should do is survive. Likewise, Poe isn't happy from the things that make other people happy. Like, see, Carol and Beth and some other people are right cooking probably the biggest meal we've had in months, attempting to celebrate what would have been Thanksgiving and maybe Christmas, too – that makes most of the people here happy. But not me. Nothing's changed inside of me; I'm as numb as I've been for weeks. Months. Things have happened, after all. So food and I don't get along too well. And, to top it off, my dad's gone off with Michonne to find – and my mother's –
I squeeze my hands around the chain-link of the catwalk.
And all I loved, I loved alone. That's pretty self-explanatory, I think. And at first, I couldn't really match those words up to who I am, but as the air got harsher and the ground turned to ice and the night darkened and darkened, that line kept coming back to me, wrapping around and around in my head, so finally I listened to it, again and again, until I figured out why it mattered.
I don't connect to the line because no one else loves the things I love – which is what I think is what the line actually means. There's so little left in the world, it's almost impossible to find something worth loving that no one else will snag onto as well. No, the reason my mind likes the line so much is because of the feeling. The sad, sad feeling of it. All I loved, I loved alone. I feel enough of love, or remember enough of it at least, that I know it's a good thing. A great thing, even. Beautiful and safe and, best of all, warm. But then you make it a lonely love, something so warm closed up by stone walls. Left out in the cold.
There's something in that idea that I can relate to very well. So today, even as the scent of cooking meat breaks out of the prison and swirls around me, I let my fingers and my face go numb and let that piece of poem circle around in my head. All I loved, I loved alone.
But time comes and goes and out of the quiet comes noise. And soon two boys are below the catwalk, peering up at me.
"Hey, Syd?"
His voice is so hesitant these days.
"Why don't you come play soccer with us?"
"No, thanks."
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
I'm staring straight ahead, but I can see the movement below. Carl separates from the new kid, and the new kid heads out to the field; Carl comes up the stairs to the catwalk. I drop my head as he gets up here.
"Carl . . ."
"Have you eaten today?"
No, Carl, I haven't eaten in two days. I clear my throat and jerk my head. "Go play soccer."
He's right by me. "I'm worried about you."
"Well, don't be."
"But –"
"Damn it, Carl, go play soccer." I finally look at him, and I make my eyes hard. His aren't hard at all. But through the hurt and confusion I see him make a decision and he backs away. Then he's gone, and I'm alone. All is right.
. . . . .
I can't stay out here and watch them kick the damn ball around. It's pointless and out of place against all the walkers pressing against the fence, wanting to tear them up. So I give in and go inside. The warm air stings my skin, drives down into my bones. It hurts but pain doesn't bother me anymore. Pain and I actually have the best relationship in my life right now.
Down some stairs, into Cell Block C. I have to think of it as C now, because there's also a D in use. Because of all the people that are suddenly our people. Strangers we found and strangers who once cheered, howled, for my dad to fight –
To my cell. Too much noise out here. Talking from the dining room, dishes clanging. Need to get to my cell.
"Sydney!"
Beth's in the door to the dining room. Her ponytail's coming undone, she has the baby in her arms, and she's walking fast towards me. "Will you please get Judith to sleep? I have to finish the soup and –"
"No – Beth –"
"Please? You're so good with her –" And now the baby's in my arms. I shift her around as gently as I can. "Just sing to her, you're a good singer."
"Beth!" I call as she hurries away. "Beth, I can't –"
Judith coughs and there's something warm and wet on my shoulder.
"Damn it!" I hiss. Judith then begins to cry, and Beth's here again, rescuing her from me.
"I'm sorry, she usually doesn't –"
"I told you I didn't want to take her!" And I spin on my heel and stalk into my cell. I yank the curtain closed behind me and say things no twelve-year-old should say, but I don't really care what twelve-year-olds should and shouldn't do these days, why the hell should I? It doesn't matter one damn bit.
I rip off my jacket. It's Beth's old denim one, which I might have once found funny. A little vomit got onto my overshirt, too, and I tear it off, leaving me just in my tank top. It seems fine.
But oh, my arms –
I'm still not used to looking at my arms, not as they are now. So I don't. I kick my jacket and my overshirt into the corner and pull my backpack from the top bunk. I've just started digging into it when light pours into my dark little corner of the world.
"Hey," says Beth as my spine goes rigid, "If you give me your jacket, I'll –"
"Christ sake!" I yank out the first piece of clothing I can get my hands on and tangle my arms around it. "You can't just walk in here like that!"
Beth's frozen.
Oh, God, no.
The thing I have wrapped around my arms is a pair of jeans. The strangest thing I could have grabbed. But I can't drop it, if I drop it, she'll see –
But she's already seen.
She edges forward. "Sydney –" she begins, soft, sweet, but no, no way.
"Would you just go?"
She meets my eyes. Hers are horrified.
"Would you just go – just go!"
She does, then. She turns around, fast enough that her ponytail whips to the other side of her head, and in the doorway she glances back so quickly the same thing happens again. And her eyes are still the same way.
My teeth clamp together, my jaw's become iron. I drop the jeans and fall on the bed, put my head in my hands, but then shoot up straight and wrap myself tight in my blankets, every inch of me, especially the bad parts. This is bad. Beth could have come in here and seen me naked and I wouldn't feel half as exposed I just did, half as violated –
She's seen it. My secret. The story of who I've become, etched right into my skin. Something cracks inside of me and I crumble, gasping, panicked.
But I don't hit rock bottom until a voice inside me whispers that there's no way she'll keep quiet about this.
