Rick stood staring out the window; he was unsuccessfully trying to force himself to relax. He desperately wanted to enjoy the fact that his family was finally all in one place, sleeping peacefully, but he wasn't sure if he was ever going to be okay with the way they were spread out all day. It was the first full day in Alexandria and he was exhausted from trying to keep track of everyone. He had spent too long on an intensified high alert. If someone was missing he was worried about them. Anyone out of his eyesight was potentially in danger. He just could not let go of that feeling, the feeling of having to know where everyone was all of the time.
He knew that he was tired of running, tired of living on the outside, but he also recognized that there was a part of him that felt restless and unsettled inside, like the outside was maybe where he belonged.
Once, back in the old world, when he had shot and killed someone during a domestic dispute that got out of control, he had desperately wanted to get home to Lori and Carl. He had been thinking that he would only, finally be okay when he was home with them and able to feel safe in their presence. That hadn't been the case though. He had walked in the door looking forward to Lori's embrace but had instead been made physically ill by their peaceful and calm demeanors. They were just sitting there, smiling at him, not knowing that he had taken a man's life earlier. They looked at him as though he was the same man that had left that morning when he was in fact an entirely new person, a killer. He couldn't relax, he couldn't sit down, he was nervous and anxious and mad at Lori for asking him over and over what was the matter. He didn't want to tell her what he had done, he wanted to protect her from it but he also wanted to unburden himself to someone. Who else could he do that with but the woman he loved?
After Carl had gone to bed, when he finally told her what had happened, he hadn't been able to stand the look in her eyes. She had tried to be supportive but she kept talking about the family of the man he had just killed and how they must be feeling, those poor children that were going to grow up without a father. As though he hadn't thought of that himself. As though he didn't feel the weight of his actions. He had saved another officer's life that day, not to mention the mother of those poor children, but she didn't understand that. She was crying for him and she was crying because of him. It was as though she was realizing for the first time that his job might one day come to this.
Rick had locked himself in the bathroom to get away from the look in her eyes, and then he had thrown up. He threw up everything he had in his gut and then kept on throwing up even after he had nothing left but dry, wracking, heaving sobs. He never talked to her about work after that night and now, with the benefit of hindsight, he wondered if it was the beginning of the end for them. She always complained that he didn't talk to her enough but she never did have the ability to understand the pain he felt because of the choices he had to make. Maybe that was partly his fault, he just couldn't talk about things, because he couldn't explain them right. He was scared to tell her how he felt because he didn't want to see that look in her eyes. He never wanted to feel the way he had felt that night again.
He never wanted to feel the way he did after he had shared his burden and laid his soul, raw and broken in her hands, searching for redemption, only to end up laying on the bathroom floor alone after wearing himself out, physically and mentally, sick in his body, his heart, and his soul.
He was lucky that King County was pretty tame compared to some jurisdictions. He hadn't had to go through it again. Maybe he would have after getting shot himself, but the world had ended. There were plenty of situations though where he was forced to make tough calls that always ended up making him physically ill. When he would start to feel that sick feeling in his gut he would remember the way he felt that night, anxious, sick, angry at himself and the world and he would just try and shut that shit down as fast as he could.
He had been required to go in for therapy, a session where an older woman wearing long dangling earrings with her hair piled up on her head had asked him about his feelings. He had told her about how he had been sick and she had explained it to him in cold clinical terms. She told him that it was the adrenaline that had made him sick and about his fight or flight instincts that had saved him and the other officer that day, they allowed him to stay steady in the moment and handle things as they came, but afterwards, after an incident his body was left to process what had happened, and what he had done. When the adrenaline was gone, no longer there to numb his thoughts and feelings, he was left with just himself and his decisions. He felt that way that way now, anxious, angry, and sick, unable to enjoy the quiet night.
He felt as though he wanted to wake everyone up and hide them in the closets or sneak them out and over the fences where he could keep them all in a barn and watch over them. He wanted to be able to close his eyes and just know where they were. He needed to be able to feel their presence to push away that sick feeling.
He looked out the window at the quiet, clean streets and saw his reflection. He was could tell he was being paranoid and maybe a little crazy. There they all were, sleeping on the living room floor of a house, protected by steel walls. Plus, he hadn't gotten a dangerous, sociopathic vibe off of anyone today. In fact he was the only one who had acted like a lunatic when he ran down the streets after Carl and Judith, totally panic stricken, fear coursing through his veins, so desperate that he had run into that woman's sculpture because he had literally been blind with fear. Again, the woman had soothed him just with her calm voice, her voice that wasn't beaten down with regret and guilt like Sasha's was. In fact her voice had a little smile to it that reminded him of voices he remembered from a long time ago, voices like the girls he knew in high school or women at the supermarket who asked about Carl and told him to have a nice day. Her voice hadn't sounded like Carol's voice. It hadn't become hard and didn't have any suspicion darkening it. Her voice didn't need him to save her life or make decisions that might get her killed. She had pointed him in the direction of Carl and Judith and then made him feel better despite his fear.
The woman made him feel like his old self for a minute, like the memory he had of being a normal man. She made him feel like the man who had left one morning to go to work, who had kissed his wife and son good-bye with a happy unburdened heart, the man who wasn't yet a killer. He wanted to be that man again.
As Rick stood, staring out the window he felt his heart racing and his palms were cold and sweaty at the same time. They had spent their first full day in Alexandria and while most of the group were accepting the place at face value Rick still felt out of place. He felt awkward and uncomfortable in his own skin, like he wanted to crawl out of it.
On the surface he was walking around talking to people, taking care of business, clean shaven, with his newly styled hair and clean clothes. Upstanding. Then, on the inside, he was still that man he had seen staring out of the mirror after his first shower, the unrecognizable face, bearded, guarded, concerned, and suspicious. Damaged.
He hadn't recognized himself in the mirror that day, he had never seen his face like that before. But while his face had been different, today he felt as though that man was the man he had become.
He thought that while everyone else saw the clean-shaven, clean cut man, if he was to look in the mirror he would see himself for who he really was: the wild man, the man not fit for the clean, civilized life inside these walls.
Once, back in the old world, when Lori had taken a class at the community college she told him about a book she was reading, when they still did things like talk about books. The story was about a man who kept a painting in his attic that showed the man's true self and while the man went about his daily life, everyone thought he was kind and generous, angelic, but the man was actually evil and was doing horrible things that no one knew about. Only the picture hidden in the attic showed the man, scarred and hardened. Rick wondered if he was that man now and he wondered how people would look at him if his true self was visible. He imagined a picture somewhere of himself, maybe at the farm or the prison, buried in the rubble or blowing off in the wind, tattered or partially burned, a picture that showed his face the way he really was on the inside. A monster.
Rick stood there at the window feeling the old sickness coming on. He wondered why he hadn't ever felt this way while on the run or at the prison. Did it mean that somewhere inside of himself he knew he was safe now and able to process his emotions? He didn't want to relax his guard or become complacent. He wanted keep his edge and not become weak. Whatever was happening to him, he didn't like the way he felt and he knew it was only going to get worse. He thought back to the old techniques that the therapist had suggested: deep breaths, counting backwards from 100, imagining himself in a place where he had been happy once. What bullshit.
Despite his anger and frustration, despite his total disbelief in a happy place, when he closed his eyes he heard laughter in his head, Carl and Michonne talking and joking with each other, while walking on the train tracks. Then he remembered a night, sleeping under the stars with his arm over Carl and Judith. Michonne had taken his hand and rolled toward him sometime during the night, she had wrapped his hand between both of hers and tucked them up by her face in her sleep. He could feel her breath and the skin of her lips on his fingers. Were those the only times he could remember being happy? Walking, starving, and barely surviving? Maybe, he thought, as his heart started to beat slower and his palms felt less sweaty. He might allow himself to be calm for a minute. Maybe he could remember how.
Rick heard the rustle of a blanket, he knew without looking that it was Michonne. It was as though he had willed her awake with his memory. He hadn't had a chance to talk with her all day, or be alone with her. He was aching to make a connection with her but that sick feeling he had made him a little nervous, he didn't want to see a look in her eyes, the look that might push him into that horrible place, leave him wasted and broken because it mirrored his soul. He felt her walking up to stand beside him. He was calmed by her presence but kept his gaze on the window.
"Deanna hasn't given me a job yet," Michonne said in a quiet voice.