Carl,
For so long I've wondered what to write to you. How to explain how I failed you and our family. What I know now, Carl, is that you had too much faith in me. You were the sheriff since the Green farm, not me. You always bounced back to believing the best in people, not me. Our friend told me once, "This is a nightmare and nightmares end." Nightmares do end, Carl. I know because I exist beyond the nightmare in another place.
But I cannot live here, Carl. The nightmare doesn't end for me. They want me to be grateful. They tell me the story over and over about being found near death. How they repaired my body, brought me to this place and have asked for nothing in return. Nothing, ha. They ask of me the one thing I cannot, I will not give them. I will never belong with them Carl, never. I'm not proud of what I've done. But at least they know me now. They know I am their worst nightmare.
I love you, Carl.
Dad
Rick Grimes lifted his calloused fingertip from the cinderblock wall. The skin felt raw from the tracing the imagined composition onto the wall. At one time, they had offered him a notebook and pen. He took it. And when the evening attendant came with his meal he stabbed her with the pen. He'd thought it would cause a scene. The poor woman would scream in pain which would alarm the guards. Then, he'd use the distracting event to get his cell door open subdue the guards, go up the stairwell at the south of the hall, subdue the guard at the exit door of the stairwell and escape. He made it as far as the stairwell that time, but the guards were seasoned at his escape attempts and threw tear gas grenades into the stairwell temporarily blinding him and overpowering his faculties. After the pen attack, his captors truly realized there was nothing they could provide him that he wouldn't turn into a weapon. They stripped his room of everything except his orange jumpsuit.
As the months wore into years, prison reformist would debate the warden to allow Rick Grimes some humanitarian comfort. They couldn't bear the thought of life in prison without a book to read or a blanket. Rick Grimes needed counseling and connection, not isolation! But the warden would remind the reformist of his prisoner's convicted crimes, the once frequent escape attempts from prison after sentencing, and always finish with the pen attack to remind the reformers of what happens when one shows Rick Grimes any charity at all.
"The best thing you can do for Rick Grimes is to go on living your life. Play music, eat dinner with your neighbors, take your children to reading time at the library. Show the terrorist that his obsession to end our way of life won't change who we are." The warden would share this last piece of advice with a sigh to project humility and pity. Then he'd add, "If you'd like, you can write letters to him so he knows your hopes for his rehabilitation."
The reformist would take the offered supplies and pen hopeful letters to the prisoner. Then they'd acquiesce and walk away whispering amongst themselves that they tried, as always. The warden knew that the reformers petition for Rick Grimes was fickle and only ever to assuage their own moral anxiety. They never brought their petition to the bodies in their community that could actually release Rick Grimes or reduce his sentence. No, they just needed the warden to put their mind at ease that Rick Grimes was where he belonged so that they could rest easy tonight in their warm beds believing they'd done all they could to restore moral honor and fairness in their community.
As Rick rubbed the sore pad of this pointer finger, the food slot of his cell door opened.
"Rick Grimes, you have mail. As ordered by the warden, I will read each to you."
"Fuck you," Rick mumbled to himself.
"Dear Rick Grimes, my name is Alice Winthrop. I read in the last annual report of the Warden that you are still in isolation. I want you to know that I and my colleagues think it is wrong to keep you isolated. We wish for the conditions of your imprisonment to change and we petition the warden for such. We have left with the warden books for you and a blanket crocheted by Teresa who couldn't make it here today. We hope these items will remind you that even in isolation there are people who care about you. Yours in Peace, Alice"
There was a pause as the guard unfolded the second letter.
"Dear Mr. Grimes, I've written to you before and hope the warden is giving you my letters. My name is Keith Truman and my son Lance died in the attack. I want you to know that after much prayer, I forgive you. I came here with a group asking the Warden to show you the mercy you didn't show Lance. In Peace, Keith"
The letters continued but Rick tuned it out and slumped into the corner of his cell. He hated these letters. He knew why the Warden did this. He wanted Rick to know who much of a piece of shit he was. It was sadistic and cheap. Rick would not bend to this manipulation and the Warden knew this, too. Both men understood that if Rick got hold of those books or Teresa's blanket he would do anything to get his cell door opened. Yes, people were injured and some died. But this place stood between him and the only thing he ever wanted, his family. And no amount of mercy or goodwill would ever rehabilitate him to accept his reality.
"Doctor, his eyelids are fluttering. I think he's trying to wake up."
Rick heard the commotion in the room before he opened his eyes. He tried to lift his hand but sensing the IV needle in his arm, left it resting. He moved his tongue around in his mouth to relieve the feeling of pasty saliva. He started to arch his back from where he rested to shift his positions. As he started to move his spine his side seized in pain. He double blinked and opened his eyes.
Rick was flooded with confusion, he was in a hospital room. A real hospital room with beeping monitors, electricity, a doctor in a white coat and a nurse in scrubs. Was he dreaming?
The nurse smiled, "welcome back to the land of the living."
The doctor asked, "do you know your name?"
Rick nodded. A headache was forming.
"Good. Can you tell me?"
"Rick Grimes," he croaked.
"Yes, that is what we have on file, Rick Grimes."
"Do you know how you got here?"
Rick shook his head no. Where was here? Was this Atlanta? Had it all been a fucking nightmare? Or was this some miracle hospital in D.C.? If this was D.C., where was Michonne?
The doctor could see the confusion clouding Rick's face. "Don't worry if you cannot remember, it will come back to you. I'm Dr. White and this is nurse Laura. You've been here for two weeks. We kept you deeply sedated the first week so that you could heal, this week we've been reducing the sedation to help you wake up. How do you feel?"
"Where am I?"
"You're at the hospital. Are you in any pain?"
"No," Rick lied.
"Can I get you some water," the nurse asked in a sugary voice.
Rick wanted to refuse but his stomach made a loud growl at the offer.
"Laura, why don't you get him some chicken broth instead."
"Sure thing, be right back."
"I'm sure you are famished. There is only so much glucose we can put in an IV, but we'll start slow with food just as precaution."
"I'd like to see my family."
The doctor's face went blank for just a moment like he didn't understand what Rick could mean. Then his face lit up with recognition.
"Yes, I'll have her paged for you."
With that, Rick fell back asleep.
Rick hated this memory. Why did he fall back asleep? He berated himself with this question thousands of times. He saw the tell on that doctor's face. He knew something was off to be in a hospital that felt like before and she was not by his side. He often woke up at night with false memories of ripping the IV out of his hand and running. Running and running down a hospital hall that never ends. No exit door ever appears. Sometimes he tries to open doors on the unending hall. Most are locked. Sometimes a hoard of walkers pour out of a door that opens. Sometimes it's the smiling face of Dr. White chiding him to get back to bed. His family never appears in these dreams; though they are who he's running toward. Rick often awoke in a cold, shivering sweat from this nightmare. A strangled yelp leaving his throat resembling the only name he cannot keep locked from his subconscious screams, Carl.
The prison guards knew Rick had this repeated nightmare too. He would thrash on the floor of his cell. His heels would smack the concrete so hard it would leave purple welts. The horror of this man howling for his son, convulsing in his sleep spooked the guards. Only once had an asshole of a guard, Jesse, tried to taunt Rick by cracking a joke about "Carl" and Rick lunged his arm out of the food slot, managed to grab Jesse's pant leg and began to claw and tear at him like a roamer. They probably fractured Rick's arm with their billy clubs to get him to let go, but Rick wouldn't show it. Jesse got a few stitches in his hamstring before he was fired.
"Rick?" The timid voice sounded familiar. Rick's eyes fluttered open to see Anne standing nervously at the foot of his bed.
"H-hi, Rick. We made it," Anne beamed. Rick scanned the room only seeing Nurse Laura with her.
"Where are they," Rick asked confused.
Anne's eyes fell. "They didn't make it Rick. There was an explosion. Remember? They didn't make it."
Nurse Laura looked away, tears rimming the bottom of her eyes. She twisted her face into a bright smile and interrupted.
"She's your guardian angel, Rick. If she hadn't have called us in? Well, you would have been one of the lost too. You had lost so much blood from that explosion. When you arrived, I even had to donate some of my own to keep you here with us."
Rick's thoughts were still sedated but he knew he was alone on that bridge. That memory felt certain. So how could his family not have made it? Made it where? Anxiety caused the muscles in Rick's body to start to clinch. He recognized the warm, achy feeling of a wound at his side. He slowly reached to touch the wound. Like swearing on a Bible, Rick placed his hand gently palm down and made direct eye contact with the women.
"I remember," he said flatly. Nurse Laura, eager to push past the unpleasant memories clapped her hands and began to turn away to update his chart. Rick looked at Anne directly then, his silent stare clearly conveyed what he thought of her salvation narrative.
Anne gasped like a fish out of water and blurted, "Nurse, when will Rick be able to be released?"
"Well, he hasn't had any solid food yet. Since some of his GI track experienced trauma in the accident, we'll need to make sure that is all working properly before he can be released to rest at home." Laura gave a quick wink to Anne.
"That's good news, isn't it Rick? You just have to eat well and you can get out of here."