The hours that followed Pete's attack were torturously slow, time passing at a rate that cruelly did not allow her mind to rest. Though the attack itself had quickly become a blur of terror, everything that came after she recalled with great clarity, though she would have preferred not to. She remembered being kept seated on the staircase for almost an hour, wrapped in a blanket yet shivering in shock, her gaze looking through the open front door at the onlookers outside. In the back of her mind she knew that people were staring, that her position on the stairs gave those outside a direct view, but she couldn't find the strength inside herself to get up and move.
She had stopped crying almost immediately after telling Carol that she had killed Pete, the affirmation that she had done the right thing bringing a small amount of comfort. Looking back now she wondered if she had gone into shock, if the strange sense of calm and indifference was not self-control as she had first thought. Certainly she didn't recall saying much, though perhaps she had spoken a little more to Carol who had not left her side. At some stage Sasha had arrived on the scene, and it was only at her and Carol's encouragement that she got to her feet. She was surprised to find herself steadier than she expected, surprised by how easy it was to put one foot in front of the other, though it was another hour before she agreed to make the short walk to the Infirmary.
Upon her eventual arrival there Carol had helped her get undressed, her ruined dress being exchanged for a loose fitting hospital gown that she herself had helped scavenge on a supply run. After that she had sunk down into the comfortable arm chair and curled up with her legs beneath herself, barely paying attention as Denise looked her over. When Alexandria's newly lone doctor inserted a cannula into her hand and asked her some questions, Carrie had to ask her what had happened to Carl. She had already learned that by some miracle he was still alive and that he had lost his eye, but maybe if she asked Denise herself she would get better news. Maybe it wasn't so bad…maybe Carol was mistaken and Carl's eye really wasn't gone.
But when she got the news she didn't want to hear, something inside of her switched. She looked at Denise in disdain, furious with the doctor for lying to her, for how could Carl have possibly lost his eye? It was incomprehensible to her, the very notion of it ridiculous. Without warning she stood to her feet, the sudden motion knocking over a trolly of supplies that had been brought to her side. In an instant everything started to unravel, and she felt her world starting to spiral out of control, the ground beneath her feet no longer as solid and steady as it used to be. Carl was fine and Denise was lying to her - why would Denise lie? She tried to shout this at her, to demand an explanation as to what had really happened to Carl, but instead all that came out was a hoarse plea that it not be true.
She didn't recall much after that, remembering only that she sank back down into the armchair and stayed as a welcome sense of relaxation came over her. Across from her the entire time was Carol, the woman who had once mistrusted her now spending the night by her side. When she awoke before sunrise the next morning it was with a pounding headache and a dry throat, her roused state drawing a sleepy Denise to her side at once. Though she was groggy and lethargic, Carrie knew immediately that she wanted to go, that she needed to be anywhere but the armchair that Pete used to watch television in. It had taken a great deal of fussing from Denise for Carrie to get her blessing to depart, and it was only with terms and conditions that she was discharged from the Infirmary. It was at the break of dawn that Carol helped her slip into a loose dress and flip flops, and to Carrie's great relief she was allowed to leave the Infirmary, very much looking forward to going home.
At first.
Not until she was halfway down the road did it occur to her that she couldn't go back to Jessie's place, that she had to go to her home instead…the very home in which Pete had attacked her less than twenty four hours ago. As this prospect came crashing down on her so too did the magnitude of what had happened. She knew that she had survived, that although he was forever maimed Carl too had survived, but what had happened was not over. Pete had attacked them, and she had killed him. She couldn't go back to staying at Jessie's house, not after killing her husband.
It took everything she had to keep going, to keep putting one foot in front of the other, and perhaps if she didn't have Carol escorting her she might not have. But somehow she managed to find the strength to make it past Jessie's house without looking at it, to cross the threshold of her own and go upstairs without so much as a glance towards the garage. She had spent the rest of the morning self-confined within her bedroom, unsure of what to do with herself, of what was going to happen next. Though trying to give her space Carol had hovered in concern, Carrie suspecting she spent most of the morning in her own bedroom awaiting the opportunity to tend to her needs. Meanwhile others came and went, many visitors knocking on the front door but very few permitted to enter. Tara had come up to see Carrie in her room, Sasha too a little later, but Carrie didn't know what to say to any of them. The worst was when Maggie and Glenn came by, for the impact of the attack would also be felt by them. By killing Pete Carrie had potentially endangered Maggie's life, and the life of her baby too. Despite this it hadn't been mentioned…perhaps it hadn't even crossed Maggie's mind to feel resentful of the danger Carrie had put her in.
She was glad when her few visitors left, and despite being grateful to Carol she had made a point of closing her bedroom door. The idea of facing anyone else was too difficult to comprehend, and not knowing what else to do Carrie simply laid down and tried to sleep. She needed to pass the time without engaging with what had happened, to acknowledge the impact of it…but it was useless. She couldn't switch her mind off, she was constantly thinking about it, wondering what Carl was doing, if he was awake, if he knew.
She'd heard from the others that he'd roused during the night, but that he hadn't been in much condition for talking, that like she he was groggy and confused. Every time she tried to close her eyes she could see his injury, and every time it got worse, it became more gruesome. Finally she gave in, unable to take seeing Carl's face, unable to stomach the sensation of Pete's hands on her body, and she took the sedative Denise gave her to take home. She felt the anxiety fading, her heart rate slowing even though her mind was still full, but she must have fallen asleep. It was late afternoon before she woke up, still enjoying the groggy haze that allowed her to continue feeling numb.
Finally she had forced herself to get up, fearing that if she didn't do it right then she'd stay in bed all evening and through the night. As she had expected Carol was there to check on her the moment she heard her rousing, and when she asked if there was anything Carrie needed for once she knew how to answer. She needed to take a shower, to wash away the sensation of Pete's hands all over her body, but for that she would need a plastic bag and tape. Though the cast on her arm had been hastily removed in the aftermath of the attack, it's place had been taken by a removable splint, one that matched the colour of the tape around the middle and fourth finger on her right hand. When she'd tried to make a run for it through the side door Pete had cruelly slammed it on her fingers, quite possibly breaking them.
Thanking Carol when she fixed a bag around her split and taped it down to make it water tight, Carrie locked her bathroom door and slowly removed her clothing, making a point of not looking at her body. She was battered and bruised, the ache in her upper legs reminding her of that any time she took a heavy step, but she wasn't yet ready to see what damage Pete had inflicted on her…she hadn't even looked in a mirror yet, not ready to see her face either. Breathing a sigh of relief she stepped under the warm water of the shower, grateful for the way it pounded down against her aching body. Though she knew it was only a temporary high, she allowed herself to feel the cathartic transformation as she clumsily lathered her hair with shampoo using only one hand. Dragging her fingers through it as she rinsed away the suds she revelled in how clean and silky it was, but as she expected her temporary high was over quickly. When she smoothed conditioner through her hair her heart fell when she felt a small patch of clear scalp. Though they were barely half the side of her smallest fingernail, she found three places in which Pete had literally torn hair from her scalp in his attack.
Her mood falling significantly, she rinsed the conditioner from her hair and then stood idle beneath the hot water, studying the scratches and broken fingernails of her left hand. Last night Carol had cleaned the dried blood from under her nails last, removing the nail polish and daisies that Jessie had painted for her, not that Carrie was upset about the latter. She had initially liked the artwork Jessie had painted for her, but after the attack her nails were broken and torn, and like the owls on her cast the daisies were ruined. She was glad to see them gone, glad to see her blank fingernails. They would draw less attention now, making it easier to avoid looking at the small scratches on her hands.
Everything felt insurmountable at the moment, even the task of turning off the shower and retrieving her towel, which was likely why she stood under the running water for at least half an hour. It was only the possibility of Carol coming to check on her that gave Carrie the strength to act, to reach out and turn off the tap. Just like in the aftermath after Aidan and Noah's death when she was recovering from the explosion, simple tasks such as towel drying her hair suddenly became difficult. She knew that she could ask Carol for help, that she was probably hovering outside her bedroom just waiting for her call, but she wanted to be alone right now.
Simply doing her best, she slowly dried off and then brushed her damp hair, wincing as she removed the tape that secured the plastic bag around her splint. She wished that she felt refreshed, that sleeping for most of the last twenty four hours and being freshly showered would revitalise her, but she felt just as empty and numb as she had an hour ago. Drying her body had forced her to look at it, to acknowledge the bruises on her thighs from where Pete had knelt on her, the painful scratch near her groin from when she'd fought back against his touch.
The more she looked at the state of her body the more detached from it she felt. It felt distant, like it no longer belonged to her, though she knew this feeling would eventually pass. She'd been through this before, in the weeks and months that followed the ordeal with Granger and his group. It had felt the same then, like her body wasn't hers anymore, that she merely occupied it while others used it for themselves. Now Pete had attacked her, and the body that had so often protected and kept her alive had failed her. She had been overpowered, she'd been vulnerable and unable to help herself…Pete could have done so much worse to her than he did, and she wouldn't have been able to stop him. Nevertheless she knew the detachment she felt was only temporary, that as the problems she faced now began to resolve, things would change. For her, it was just going to be a matter of time.
The only relief she felt was when she finally looked into the mirror, albeit reluctantly. For once her face had not borne the brunt of injuries, her appearance not as bad as she had prepared herself for. Her normally clear skin was marred by small pink blotches, her eyes bloodshot and puffy, but otherwise she was fine. It was the sight of her neck that made her shudder, her discoloured skin bearing scratches and marks came from her struggle to get Pete off of her. At first it looked like smudges of dirt, as if she just needed a good shower after clearing Walkers from the spikes. But closer inspection showed the two oval shaped bruises from Pete's thumbs, the two marks standing out ever so slightly.
She opened her bathroom cabinet and took out a glass jar of moisturiser, the outrageously expensive type she used to use before the outbreak. Before everything started going to hell she'd found this on a supply run when they were scavenging in cars, and to her it was a greater find than the antibiotics Aidan found. Dipping her finger in she spread a conservative amount over her face and gently rubbed it in, rubbing away the dry skin and bags under her eyes. Being gentle with her neck she did the same there, wishing that the cream would rub away the bruises too. Still she did not feel refreshed, nor ready to face the world that carried on outside her bedroom, but she forced herself to at least get dressed. Taking one last look at herself in the mirror she squeezed a little more water from her hair and then departed.
Yesterday someone had retrieved her belongings from Jessie's guest bedroom, perhaps erasing all evidence that the woman who killed her husband had ever been there. They'd thoughtfully brought it back for her and put her belongings away, making sure she had everything she needed when she came home from the Infirmary, but nothing was exactly right. She knew she was being stupid, ungrateful even…but socks went in the second drawer, not the third, and their incorrect location bothered her more than it should. Clad only in a towel clumsily secured with one hand, Carrie sighed impatiently as she rearranged her belongings, putting her lip balm on the night stand where she liked it and straightening her shoes in the closet. She thought it would help, that getting everything back to the way it was meant to be might bring her the sense of equilibrium that she needed, but it didn't of course. Instead she found herself more frustrated than before, dissatisfied by the growing sense of displacement she felt.
Angrily slamming her nightstand drawers closed she started to dress, wrenching hangers of clothing aside in search of what she wanted, but it was no use. She wanted something long and warm, the type of clothing she could encase herself within while she wallowed in self pity, but she had nothing. A few weeks ago she'd taken most of her warmer clothing back to the Pantry, part of the seasonal routine where people exchanged their clothing for something more suitable for the coming weather. A month ago her closet had been filled with jeans, sweat pants and coats, but had now been replaced with summer dresses and shorts, hardly the clothing she was seeking today. The only thing longer than shorts were the jeans she wore outside the walls, the ones that would never quite be light grey again. Feeling her frustration beginning to peak she closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. Her throat ached as she breathed out slowly, tears of frustration welling up in her eyes before she could stop them. She wished she had stayed in bed, preferring the groggy haze in which she had awoken over the frustration of reality.
Clearing her throat and then wincing in regret, she forced herself to keep it together, to just get on with things. As she wondered what had happened to the dress she wore yesterday, hopeful that Carol would be able to get the blood stains out, she pulled on an old tank top that brought a comforting sense of familiarity and then looked through her work out gear for what she wanted. Other than her jeans he had only one other item of clothing that would completely cover her legs, her long yoga pants with the hole behind the knee. Finding them in the wrong place too she began pulling them on, grateful for the sense of security that the long clothing brought her.
"Carrie?" Carol called out, politely knocking on the door.
"Come in," she replied, hastily wiping the wetness away from her eyes. She'd rather Carol not find her crying, unsure of whether she could stand the sympathy.
The door opened slowly, Carol entering upon her invitation, but Carrie took a moment before she looked up at her. She knew she didn't need to be strong in front of her, that she'd already seen her at her absolute lowest. Yet in her uniquely unobtrusive way Carol had offered support and comfort without patronising her, without making her feel small or weak. Over her shoulder she carried Judith's purple back pack, her nightlight and crib mobile in her hands.
"I'm going next door to take Judy some clean pyjamas," she explained. "Do you want to come with me?"
Carrie shook her head slowly, restraining her answer. "No thank you." The last thing she wanted right now was to be around other people, even her group.
Carol nodded, not pushing her. "Do you need help with anything before I go?"
Sure. Help me comfort Jessie, fix what happened to Carl…find the strength to leave my own bedroom.
"No, I'm fine," she nodded. She tried to smile for good measure, but her facial muscles just wouldn't work. "Thanks."
Not lingering unnecessarily, Carol began to depart while closing the door as she went, but Carrie stopped her at the last minute. "Yes?"
She hesitated before voicing this question, unsure if she really wanted the answer. "Have you seen Carl?"
Carol shook her head. "Denise wants minimal visitors, but he's been awake," she told her. "Rick told him what happened. It hasn't really sunk in yet."
"Okay," she nodded, relieved to hear that he was awake. "Thanks."
"Michonne said he was asking about you, said he was upse-"
"Thanks," she said pointedly, cutting Carol off.
She swooped down and picked up her towel from the floor, shaking it out as she headed into her bathroom. She'd heard what she wanted to about Carl, she knew he was awake and that he knew what had happened…she wasn't ready to hear anymore, she wasn't ready to hear that he'd been asking about her. As she hung up her towel and heard the soft click as Carol closed her bedroom door, Carrie took a moment and breathed deeply, trying to stay in control of herself, to not dissolve into a wreck like she wanted to. Very quickly her sadness was replaced with anger and frustration, this time towards Carl. How many times had she told him to leave? She'd told him again and again to go and get Rick, to leave her…why couldn't he just listen? He wouldn't have gotten hurt if he'd just left.
It was unfair to blame Carl for what had happened to him, that was Pete's fault alone, but still her frustration with him remained. It didn't matter that Pete might have killed her in the short minute that it would have taken others to get there, it didn't matter that Pete could have done anything to hurt her, both physically and mentally. Carl was permanently maimed now. It wasn't an injury that would ever heal, it wouldn't be just an unsightly scar…he had lost half his vision. He would have months of work ahead of him to get back to his former capabilities…he wouldn't even be able to fire a gun right now. This injury left him completely vulnerable. He should have left her.
Tidying her bedroom and making a half hearted effort at making her bed, Carrie braced herself as she prepared to leave her sanctuary, knowing that she couldn't stay there all day. If she didn't emerge at some stage then Carol would start to worry, and the unnecessary fussing might begin. The house was quiet when she stepped out of her bedroom, the upstairs hallway empty and silent, no surprises waiting to greet her. Uncertain of exactly what she was going to do once she went downstairs, she started by handling a problem she was capable of, and so she headed for Michonne's bedroom first. Not paying attention to the fact that the door was closed she opened it and went inside, her heart leaping into her throat when she found the room dark. A quick glance at the lowered blinds and bed indicated that Michonne was sleeping, making her feel immensely stupid for this oversight. She should have realised, she should have paid attention to the bedroom door that was closed during the day. Just as she started creeping back out the mound of blankets on the bed moved, Michonne raising her head in curiosity.
"Everything okay?" she mumbled.
"Shit, I'm sorry," she muttered apologetically. "Just go bac-"
"What is it?" she insisted, pushing her loose dreadlocks off her face as she turned on her nightstand lamp. "You need something?"
Knowing that Michonne's concern would not be brushed aside, Carrie asked for what she needed. "I came to borrow your sweatshirt, the one with the hood. Is that okay?"
Michonne immediately leapt up from the bed, her haste to acquiesce only making Carrie feel even worse. "You need anything else?" she offered as she tossed the sweatshirt to her. "Anything."
Carrie forced a smile, actually managing it this time. "No. Thanks for this…sorry I woke you."
"I'm going back to the Infirmary tonight," Michonne said as Carrie was leaving. "I'll try to convince Rick to get some shut eye."
"Okay," she nodded, trying to close the door as she anticipated what Michonne would say next.
"Do you want to come with me?" she offered. "Denise won't mind, and Carl's been-"
"Asking about me. Yeah, I know," she replied, uncomfortable with the offer. She knew she was obligated to go and see Carl, that in her heart she genuinely wanted to, but she wasn't sure she was ready yet. "Maybe tomorrow."
Trying not to look like she was escaping, she successfully slipped out of Michonne's bedroom and closed the door behind herself, relieved to be back on the peaceful solitude of the hallway. She didn't feel ready to see Carl just yet, not even ready to see Rick. That was going to be difficult in itself, facing him after what had happened to his son while he was with her. She knew that he wouldn't blame her, that he'd likely thank her for trying to save his life…but she still wasn't ready to see either of them.
Grateful for it, she carefully slipped Michonne's sweatshirt on and sighed, enjoying the soft fabric against her bare arms. Though a hooded sweatshirt wasn't typically her style, today it was exactly what she needed, for the hood and heavy fabric helped conceal the discolouration on her neck, and the sleeves were long enough to hide her hands within. If memory served her correctly, the oversized sweatshirt was large enough for Michonne to completely encase her legs within, perfect for the cold nights on the Georgia supply run. Today it would serve that purpose for Carrie, acting as a barrier between herself and the world as she slowly adjusted to the idea that her body still belonged to her, despite what it felt like right now.
Just like upstairs, the living areas downstairs were empty and silent. She had half expected to find a baby sitter there to cover Carol's brief absence, someone from their group lingering awkwardly on the off chance that Carrie needed something. But Carol hadn't fussed, and she appreciated that. For a few minutes she stood in the centre of the living area, trying to work through the strange way she felt right now. Everything was perfectly normal, from the plastic blocks discarded by the toy box to the large pot simmering on the stove, yet it all felt strange. She felt like this house wasn't actually her home, that it never had been at all. Looking around she recognised everything, for nothing had changed in the week since she'd been staying with Jessie, but everything felt different now. This house had become her home, something she hadn't truly experienced for many years even before the outbreak…but now Pete had ruined that for her. He'd invaded this place, he'd attacked her here, he'd put his hands on her body as if he owned it. She felt disconnected and numb to everything from her body to her home, and it was because of him.
Glancing towards the house next door to ensure that Carol wasn't coming home yet, Carrie braced herself before turning around and leaving the living area. She was unsurprised to see that the side door was damaged, the wood surrounding the deadbolt slightly splintered and a piece of cardboard and duct tape replacing a large pane of glass. Studying the damage she noted what must have happened, that Daryl had smashed the glass to disengage the deadbolt in his haste to come to her and Carl's aid. Though it was a pointless act given the cardboard, she went over to the door and turned the deadbolt, taking comfort in the loud click the deadbolt made. She'd never felt unsafe in Alexandria before, but that had changed. The danger used to be outside the walls, something external that needed to be managed and prevented….never before this moment had she felt the need to lock doors or look over her shoulder.
Part of her expecting to find someone standing behind her, she spun around and looked back down the hallway, relieved when she found no one. She knew that had just been a moment of paranoia, aroused by her feeling of insecurity…but that didn't stop her heart pounding the way it was right now. Allowing herself a moment to collect her wits, she impatiently ran her hand through her hair, grimacing when her fingers passed over one of the tiny bald spots Pete had left her with. Dwelling on that for a moment she glanced at the other door she needed to attend to, and it was with great reluctance that she approached the garage and opened the door.
It was the smell that hit her first, invading her senses and making her momentarily recoil, but it wasn't the smell she had expected. She had braced herself for blood, the coppery smell that lingered for days…not bleach. Raising the sweatshirt over her mouth and nose Carrie stepped into the garage with caution, waiting for her eyes to start watering from the harsh chemical, but it was what she found that made her eyes moisten.
Everything was gone…well, almost everything. The supplies from the safe house had been cleared out, leaving only the cupboards, shelves, gun cabinets and surveillance that had been there before. In the middle of the garage was the fold up table that housed the Lego Death Star Rick and Carl had been working on, the pieces organised into small containers and the remnants of the semi-repaired construction sitting proudly in the centre. There was absolutely no indication that something terrible had happened in here, that a young teen had been shot and a man beaten to death.
She didn't know why she hadn't expected this. Had she been been expecting to find Pete's corpse ambling around in here? That there would still be blood everywhere? Someone, or more likely an entire team had been in here to clean up, to take care of Pete's corpse and scrub away the evidence of what had happened. Coming further inside Carrie took a closer look around, trying to remember where it had all happened, where Carl had been laying and where Pete had attempted to strangle her. Her suspicions aroused by a large mat that hadn't been there before, Carrie headed over to the gun safes and lifted it, the grey strain on the concrete confirming that this had been where Carl fell. Though it appeared to have been scrubbed for it reeked of bleach, the discoloured concrete was a permanent reminder of what had happened here. She set the mat back down and looked around again, replaying the events in her mind, recalling that Pete had wrenched her back when she tried to help Carl.
Following the logical path she looked to the rear of the garage where she found another randomly placed mat. It filled her with great satisfaction to lift it up and see the same grey discolouration on the concrete, seeing the large pool of blood that had resulted from the head injuries she had inflicted on Pete. She dropped the mat and looked up, recalling the way the blood had been spattered over the walls and ceiling. Much like the floor, the garage door and ceiling had been scrubbed with bleach, and though the blood had been successfully removed, the clean spots were quite distinct to the eye. That was the problem with cleaning only one part…the dirt that wasn't immediately apparent was cleaned off, leaving that single patch cleaner than the rest.
Feeling a little better about things, she wandered through the clean and orderly garage and sank down into one of the office chairs, nudging the computer mouse and illuminating the screens. Still yet to find enough of the right cabling for the southern side of Alexandria, only three cameras were in use right now, given them a two hundred and seventy degree view of the world outside, with the exception of a few blind spots they would eventually close. Bringing her feet up Carrie settled into the office chair and watched the world, her eyes following the path of the only Walker on the screen. It wandered aimlessly, reminding her of how she felt in that moment.
The minutes passed without incident, Carrie's attention beginning to wander as she looked around the garage. She remembered the day she and Rick had spent in here together, when they had cleaned and organised the abundance of supplies brought back from the Georgia supply run. He had let her loose with a label maker, obediently following all instructions and allowing her to organise the supplies as she saw fit. It had been a good day spent with one another, the ease a factor that at the time had reminded her that they had more going for their relationship than just sex. Though she wasn't yet ready to face him she wondered what he was going, if he was coping with what had happened. She had a vague recollection of seeing him last night, but couldn't be sure if he had really been there with her or if her mind was just making that up.
When she heard the front door open and close Carrie's heart rate began to speed up, her muscles tensing at the sound of the intrusion. In the back of her mind she knew it was only Carol, she recognised the sound of her footfall, but still she felt on edge. The comfort of feeling safe and secure in Alexandria was gone now, and there was no telling how long it would take for her to not feel on edge, to get past this uncertainty. Denise had warned her that she might feel overly paranoid in the days to come, that it was natural following an attack such as this…that didn't make her feel much better though.
Listening to her footsteps, Carrie pictured Carol as she bustled around the living area, hearing the fridge open and close….then open and close again a short while later. Trying not to act irrationally, Carrie turned her attention back to the surveillance system, trying to appreciate the sense of control it gave her to be aware of the world outside, but this lasted only a moment. The sound of Carol's footsteps grew closer and louder now, forcing Carrie to push her chair back and look into the hallway. She needed to see the person coming, she needed to be fully aware of who was coming for her and how close they were.
Her pulse was rapid, her muscles tense and ready to act…but she relaxed when she saw Carol entering the room, even more so when she saw what she was carrying with her. Bearing two glasses of white wine, Carol entered the garage and held one out to her.
"I thought Denise told me no alcohol," she remarked, though this didn't stop her taking the glass.
Carol scoffed playfully. "What does she know? She's only a doctor. Besides, it's only half a glass."
"Thank you," she said sincerely, touching her glass to Carol's.
"To Chardonnay…solving our problems since the age of fifteen."
Carrie raised her eyebrows in mild amusement, struggling to picture Carol drinking wine as a fifteen year old. She took a sip, enjoying the refreshing taste and cool liquid that felt heavenly slipping down her throat. "Thank you," she said again, needing to reiterate it. She looked into the glass, appreciating the flavours she could taste. "How bad was Daryl's hangover this morning?"
Smiling, Carol chuckled to herself. "He spent the night in Rosemary's strawberry patch. Sasha turned on the sprinklers this morning, gave him a rude awakening."
To her surprise, Carrie managed a laugh, a genuine one at that. It strained at her throat, making it ache a little, but it eased the ache inside her heart even more. "Is he home now?"
Shaking her head, Carol leant against the desk and took a sip of her wine. "No. He's out somewhere, I'm not sure when he'll be back."
She was disappointed to hear this, but the news hadn't come as a surprise. As she sipped at her wine again she tried to think of something else to say, glad when Carol started filling the silence for her.
"We've had a good crop from Bob's gardens, so I'm making a potato soup for dinner."
"It smells nice," she complimented, having noted the pot on the stove.
In the back of her mind she suspected that Carol wasn't making potato soup because of the good crop, but because it would be easier for her to eat, gentler on her throat that still ached a little. Nevertheless she didn't say anything more, not wanting to bring up anything to do with Pete or Carl.
To her relief the next few hours passed with relative ease, and although she quickly finished her glass of wine she didn't pour herself another. Instead she allowed Carol to take care of her, grateful to have her there with her. That evening they ate in the living room with bowls of soup in their lap, and though she knew how delicious it was the soup sat heavily in her stomach, making her feel lethargic and sluggish. Nevertheless she ate what she could and then curled up on the couch, she and Carol watching her favourite television series, Bones.
Though she knew nothing of the characters or plot Carrie was glad for it, appreciating that she had something with which to pass the time that didn't require much thought. She lay curled up with her legs tucked to her chest and her broken wrist cradled on a pillow, Carol also lounging on the other end of the couch. Laying there it was easy for her to tune out from the reality she wasn't yet ready to face, easy for her to stop thinking about Rick and Carl, about Jessie. In the quiet moments in between episodes she wondered how Jessie was doing, wondering if there was anything she could do for her. She wanted to tell her that she was sorry, even though they both would have known it was a lie.
An hour later when Michonne came down Carrie closed her eyes, feigning sleep to avoid interacting with her. She didn't want to bother telling Michonne that she was alright, nor did she want to awkwardly avoid her invitation to see Carl. So instead she lay there with her eyes closed, listening as Carol spoke to her before getting up and going into the kitchen. Then Carrie listened as the two women talked in hushed tones, the microwave heating Michonne's dinner stifling most of what was said. She suspected that they were talking about her, both offering reassurances and concerns, and then when their voices became a little more audible she was confident the topic had changed. Now they talked about Carl, and then Rick too. If Michonne got her way she was going to send him home to sleep that night, though neither women were entirely sure he would leave the Infirmary.
When Michonne left a short while later Carol returned to the living room, and if she suspected that Carrie had been awake the entire time she didn't say anything. Instead she simply returned the episode back to the place in which she had stopped watching, and then a few hours later hit stop. Having stopped feigning sleep at the start of the last episode, Carrie gave a long sigh before slowly getting up. While Carol bustled around and tidied the last of the mess in the kitchen Carrie lingered on the couch a little longer, trying to find the energy to get up. Though it was late and body and mind tired, the idea of getting up and going to bed felt like too much. She didn't want to close her eyes right now, she didn't want to lay in the silence and play the events of yesterday over and over again in her head.
Her preference was to stay downstairs and continue watching television, so when Carol indicated that she was going to bed Carrie bade her goodnight and then lay back down. She started a new episode and let her mind tune out, and only when she was sure that Carol had finished up in her bathroom and retired to bed did she get up from the couch. Knowing exactly what she wanted she went to the refrigerator and took out the bottle of chardonnay, and then took her used glass out of the dishwasher to use it again. With a glass full of wine she returned to the living room and sank back down onto the couch. Just as the warm soup had, the cool wine soothed her throat with every sip, compelling her to finish the glass and then pour just a little more.
It was another hour before she finally rose and went to bed, and as she went she walked by the front door and turned the deadbolt. There was little point in this, for anyone who wanted to break in could simply put their hand through the cardboard covering the hole in the side door, but the motion of securing herself safely inside her home brought the sense of safety she needed that night. Still dreading the prospect of closing her eyes and going to sleep, Carrie slowly made her way upstairs, making sure to take each step gently so as to not aggravate the bruises on her legs. Her body ached all over, the pounding in the front of her head compelling her to take one of the Tylenol pills Denise had dispensed. As she cautiously swallowed it with a sip of water she settled down onto her bed and got comfortable, using a pillow to prop up the mystery novel she had been reading for weeks now.
She could barely comprehend what she was reading, the characters and plot lost on her in these circumstances, but she had little care. Doing what was necessary to avoid thinking about what had happened, she carefully read every line and took in all she could, forcing herself to read even as her head swayed and her eyes drooped. Despite her exhaustion she was conscious of the moment her body gave in to sleep, and it was with a rush of relief that she closed her eyes and sank into the welcome darkness of nothing.
What felt like hours later she felt herself rousing, and it was with a soft sign that she felt herself moving onto her back, her good hand reaching up to rub her eyes. She lay there on her bed for a few moments before opening her eyes, but when she did she immediately wished that she hadn't. In the corner of her room lingered the shadow of an intruder.
