You have your physical bruises and you have your metaphysical bruises, the kind that hurt you on the inside. But the same concept applies for both. You don't really notice it until you push on it, or you hit against something and then pain hits you hard, so hard you stop breathing for a moment and you blink hard to clear your mind. You wince and it's altogether an unpleasant experience. I think my heart might be bruised, from the losses that plague me more often than not. But bruises heal, just slowly, and you're never quite the same afterward.

My misery drives me to sleep. Because time passes that way. I just want the time to pass. When I wake up, enough time has passed for the sun to have moved across the sky to shine on my face through the window. I swallow, moistening my dry throat. My tailbone aches from sleeping in the sitting up position. Little House on the Prairie sits closed a few feet away, from where I threw it down earlier. My knees are nearly pulled up to my chest and everything below my knees has fallen asleep. I stretch my arms and I get to my feet. Yes, I was asleep for a good while.

After a quick examination through the peephole on the office door, which was admittedly helpful, but strange for a prison admin building, I determine the coast is clear. Little House on the Prairie has been stored where it belongs, and I dash out of the office, making sure the door is properly closed. I stroll causally down the hallway for a while. I stop dead when I see a figure. A mixture of emotions hit me and my body wants to do a thousand things at once.

Carl. The unmistakable lanky figure and sheriff hat is a dead giveaway. I want to scream and lecture him about how he shouldn't run off and scare me half to death. But then I remember he's not my property, and I'm not his mother. I also want to give him a hug because I'm thrilled he's alive and at least appears safe. I grit my teeth and tell myself to be a good girl.

"Hey, Grimes," I call his way.

He turns around and nods at me, her starts walking in my direction. Control, Sam. Control.

"Hey, I've been looking for you." His expression doesn't give much away. He's pretty guarded at the moment, and even the brilliant blue of his eyes gives nothing away.

"That's a lie," I scoff, "You hadn't checked the office." I don't even have to identify which office, he knows.

"Ok, you caught me," he rolls his eyes, a slight smirk at just the corners of his mouth, putting his hands in the surrendering position. Then I realize he's holding his gun.

"When did you get your gun back?" I haven't been entrusted with something as significant as a gun for a long while.

Carl lowers his hand, his head ducks with it, his hand starts to fiddle with the safety, "Yesterday. I think my dad decided that since the outbreak it's not safe anymore. I'm only supposed to use it for emergencies though. He still doesn't trust me." His tone is serious and upset. Then he clears his throat with a little cough.

I have to change the subject, "So what are you really doing?"

He lifts his head again, and he slides the gun back into its holster, "Doing what my dad told me to. Watchin' over everyone." His Georgia accent doesn't slip out often. But when it does... Stop it, Sam, don't get sidetracked.

"Then where were you earlier? You missed breakfast ya know." There we go, it came out. What I've really been dying to know. I just hope I don't sound too desperate and clingy.

Carl shrugs, "Those kids need it more than I do." That's a lie.

"But you," I urge, my voice drops out, and I swear I sound no older than Mika, "where were you."

He can't meet my gaze again, and I know that he's snuck out, "I was doing my job. Hershel wanted to go out, I wasn't gonna let him go alone," he shakes his head. It lifts and I can see each bead of sweat on his forehead. Like a nervous tick, he wipes them away.

"Where's he now?" I cock my head curiously at Carl

Carl bites his lip, "I think he went to A Block."

My eyes stretch wide, "Why?" Please don't let Hershel be sick. We need him. He's helped Rick, he's helped me, he's helped all of us. Losing Hershel would be like losing your head.

"He had some herb remedy to help keep the sick around until we got real antibiotics. That's the whole reason he went out in the first place." Carl explains. His expression is tight and worried.

"Lizzie has it," the words spill out of my mouth like a waterfall before I can control them.

Carl swallows hard, his face looks worn and exhausted, he does not look like a fourteen year old boy. But an aged veteran who's seen so much death and suffering, "Glenn too. Half of the prison is in that cell block now."

I bite my lip, thinking about my words to Beth. How long I wonder, how long until I get it, until Beth gets it, until Judith gets it, until Carl gets it. There goes that bruise again, and I physically wince. He steps forward and his hand is burning warm against my forearm, though his touch is gentle.

"I'm fine," I shake my head. I pull away, "Isn't it nearly time to eat again?" the subject change feels forced, but I don't want to think about this anymore.

"Yeah," Carl nods and he walks ahead of me. He does the cough-like thing to clear his throat again and he heads to the room where everyone tends to congregate.

Tonight, dinner isn't much. Then again, that's to be expected, there are many to feed and the ill need as much sustenance as their bodies will let them take on. It's funny how when you most need nourishment, your body rejects it, like a rebellious teenager who wants to prove they don't need help to fight whatever battle they take on. We eat a mix of canned corn, green beans, and fresh peas. The peas taste the best, they aren't tainted with the preservatives that have helped us carry on for so long.

If I could, I'd like to thank the guy that invented preservatives, I'm sure he didn't know that their best use would be the zombie apocalypse, a future I'm positive he couldn't even fathom. But truthfully, he's a life saver. For when you run from monsters there's no time to grow crops and harvest them. The fact that we lay claim to that blessing now is a miracle. I eat slowly like I always do. It's easiest to enjoy and observe that way.

There's Beth, who shares her food with Judith. Judith's head shakes as she refuses to eat another spoonful. But Beth is more determined than that. Eventually, she coaxes enough into Judith that Beth is satisfied and eats the rest for herself. Beth eats carefully and slowly, she clearly grew up being self-conscious about how people saw her when she ate, tiny spoonful's and slow chewing, and never speaking while she eats.

Then there's Carl, who eats with relative speed, probably because he hasn't eaten today and he's a growing boy. There's a certain something to the way he eats though, almost a desperation, like this could be anything, just to keep going. When he finishes, he takes Judith from Beth and he stops being the agile, defiant survivor and his eyes are soft and every action is delicate and caring to his baby sister. He cradles her in his arms and she plays with one of his fingers because that's as much as she can grab. Judith always smiles at Carl, and he always smiles back. My throat catches at the warmth that glows between the two of them. It's just so cute.

There are the children, they sit on the ground. Not enough room for all of us to use the table. They are shoveling mouthfuls in as fast as they can. They can't get enough, and their unnaturally lean bodies show it. There are some as young as five or six and barely have a speck of baby fat on them. Whereas Carl and I are just past losing ours, the way it's supposed to be. It hurts me to think these kids will never grow up and have school to go to and learn and they'll never understand what little things like recess were. Or how life before wasn't just surviving until the next day. But that's reality now. And it hurts. Another bruise that lays claim to my soul.