You can't smile at death
Carl jolted awake, he could hear birds singing faintly outside. He lay and listened for a while.
Sometimes he didn't want to get up; another day, more surviving, more killing. He thought maybe if he just lay there the world would stop spinning, time would stop moving. Life would just stop being shit.
He looked at the bullet.
Looked at the gun.
He got up slowly, taking them both in his hands, cradling them for a while, before loading the gun.
He gripped it and sighed, today he'd live. Maybe tomorrow.
The morning saw him checking all the doors, tugging the handles twice before moving to search the house. He'd done a quick scout the night before to check it was clear of walkers or other people, now though he went through each room meticulously searching.
Years ago there had been a wealth of things to find, now though houses had been raped and pillaged, so many strangers had come and gone, their boots marking the carpets, their thieving hands leaving cupboards bare, leaving house empty. Still he checked every cupboard systematically, finding nothing but dust and emptiness.
Then it was the rooms. He'd been through so many rooms; bedrooms, studies, nurseries, frozen in dusty memories, trapped in this weird limbo, derelict shrines of people he didn't know, people he didn't care about. Clothes strewn on floors, beds unmade, panic like a musty smell in the air. The family photos in proud frames on dressing tables and mantelpiece's. Carl hated the photos. They were constant reminders of how things used to be, how they would never be again. Sometimes he smashed the frames. So angry, so sad, so jealous that they were happy forever and he couldn't find happiness for a second. Now though he gave them little more than a passing glance.
There was a dead baby.
Someone had shot it in the head.
He'd seen it before, young children tucked into their beds, a small hole between their eyes. A strange look of peace on their faces. Decay had taken over now though.
Carls stomach turned, he wretched once and closed the door. He thought of Judith. Little Ass Kicker. He fell against the door desperately trying not to think about it. He didn't want to think about anyone. The worry, the sadness. It all distracted him, made him weak.
He couldn't be weak.
Posters of women in various stages of undress collaged the inside of the wardrobe door of the next room. He blushed slightly at the images, looking away embarrassed.
Then he noticed the coat. Grey, worn, multi-pocketed. Perfect. He pulled it out slowly, feeling the material beneath his fingertips. He shrugged it on, moving his long hair out the way with a scowl. It fit him, fit him well. With a nod he closed the wardrobe door, shutting away the posters. He left the room.
He took each item out his bag; Three cans of beans, venison wrapped in a handkerchief, one can of peaches, one small bag of cereal which he ate for breakfast, and one book. He packed them away; the beans, the venison, the peaches, the book and added the coat, the rope from round the door handles, a candle, matches and his homemade black out curtains.
He picked up each knife individually, one in his pocket, one in its sheath, the other in his boot just in case. Then he placed the gun in its holster.
He stood at the front door, catching sight of himself in the hall mirror. It was small and decorative, patterns winding their way all around the edge of the mirror, a crack ran horizontally through the middle. He was certain they used to have one just like it at their house, one that mom had brought. He remembered the weight of it as he carried it into the house.
He didn't look real; lack of food had made him skinny, constant walking had made him lean, all the fighting had left scars, and death had left its shadow. He touched his reflection. He looked less human every day.
'Who are you?' He mumbled, and the reflection answered with the same question.
'I'm alive.' He and the reflection spoke together, and with a nod they parted ways. Him into the broken, messed up world, the reflection into the black of his memory.
The sun was high and hot, birds were singing happily and Carl was walking, every inch of his skin painted in the rotting blood of the walker he'd put down on the porch. His new coat was folded in his bag.
'Put the bag down, boy.' The voice came from behind him, he paused. He should have been more careful, he knew that.
He raised his hands slowly.
'That's it, nice and slow.' The bag hit the floor with a clunk.
'Turn around.' He did, his boots scraping the gravel beneath his feet.
The man was old, his back bent, his face twisted in fear, his weight shifting from one foot to the other nervously, but the hands that held the gun were still, still and trained on Carl.
'Drop the gun and the knife, boy.' He gestured slightly with the gun at the two weapons hanging round Carl's waist. The man's hair was long, long and white and brittle, caked in blood and other filth. It fell down onto his shoulder in a drab matt. The man's grey shirt was splattered with old blood. Carl made a promise to himself that he wouldn't add to it.
'Drop them.' He warned, gun raising slightly, punctuating his words with the threat of death. Carl let the gun fall to the earth. Then his knife.
'Step back.' He did, one then two. The man followed him, shuffling forward gun lowering slightly with every step. The man should have known.
It was fine when he knelt down, fine when he opened the bag. He was still looking, still had the gun on Carl, but the book distracted him, just for one moment, one pause, one heartbeat. But it was enough. All the grey hair, all the age. Had he learnt nothing? Carl shook his head as he grabbed a fistful of the man's long white hair, dug his fingernails into the matted grime and blood and yanked. The man panicked, trying to stay on his feet, trying to raise his gun, but it was pointless. Carl pushed his knife under his chin and up into his brain. The man gurgled his last words, and they poured out in big gushes of blood, warm and thick. It smelt tangy and dried quickly on his hands.
He should've known better, should have known that this was the way it worked.
'I had to, him or me, him or me,' Carl mumbled, explaining himself to thin air as he searched the body. One gun, not loaded. One small pocket knife and a photo of a young couple, folded in half. He kept the knife, placing it in his jeans pocket, wiping the blood off his hands, streaking the denim red. He kept the gun, placing it in his bag. He left the photo. He looked at the man, his face frozen in surprise, wrinkled skin stretched over bone. He looked a bit like Hershel, but Hershel was dead too. Long gone. So the likeness didn't matter anymore.
'I have to live, you or me. You should know.' Then he stood looking at him one final time, Carl nodded once, the man was dead, and he needed to cut his hair.
I miss smiling.
To have something to smile at. Miss the ache of it in my cheeks, miss the dimple and curve of it. I don't even know if can smile anymore. What is there to smile about?
How can you live with death and smile?
Where is the joy? Where is the laughter?
I loved the way my mom smiled, it was big. Reached right up and fell into her eyes, she sparkled happiness. Everyone used to say I had my mom's smile. It used to make me so proud.
I tried practice smiling in the mirror. I was in someone else's house, standing in their hallway looking at myself. I didn't recognize me. The smile was forced, more like a grimace, unnatural, unreal. Not my moms.
I was a ghost, a ghost of something I knew had been there once, I was certain of it. But I couldn't see it anymore, not even a trace. Only shadows.
The man I killed today, I wonder if he still smiled from time to time? I went at his face with a rock, tears mixing with the blood and bone. It was a mess, it got in my hair, on my clothes, all the way up my arms, traces of it all over me.
I can't smile like mom anymore. I miss it.
I miss the way my belly used to hurt from laughing. What is that? I don't think I can do that anymore either.
He'd just wanted food, but I needed it. Needed it more than him. I have to live, I have to. I don't know why, but I guess there doesn't have to be a reason, living is the reason.
He misjudged me, turned his back on me, showed me the balding patch on the back of his head. The first blow went right there, caving it in, like a dent. He fought with everything he had, he wanted to live to, but I wanted it more. I couldn't breathe, couldn't move. I just thought of mom, mom and her smile. Mom and her laughter. And how she wouldn't do that again. Ever.
I broke the mirror. Shattered it on the floor and cried. My smile, my one gift from my mother, all I had left of her. I couldn't do it anymore. Couldn't sparkle happiness. And no matter how much I try I can't get this blood off my hands.
Death walks like a shadow with me, I feel it.
And you can't smile at death.
