Hello everyone. Sorry for the wait.
Christa: glad you're doing better (:
Robert: Holy shit, man. I hope you feel better and are able to check out of the hospital soon. Best wishes and good health, dude. I'm sorry you're in so much pain and I hope it gets better.
Alysha: CONGRATULATIONS GRADUATE! I'm so very proud of you! You made it through high school without going on a homicidal rampage or giving up and turning to dealing drugs or prostitution. But seriously, I'm very proud of you and you should be proud of yourself. This is a late graduation gift, hope you like it!
DISCLAIMER: Do I even need to put this here anymore?
"Hey! I'm at 16!" Spencer shouts, leaning over the railing and grinning like an idiot as he shoots down a walker stumbling around near the entrance.
"Yeah? Don't be so arrogant, because I'm at 20!" Rositta yells from the upper platform.
"20?!" Abraham yells with a scoff. "I'm at 32!"
"How the hell are you at 32?! I'm only at 12!" Glenn asks dubiously.
"That's cuz you fell asleep! Gotta stay awake to stay in the game," Spencer teases, looking to his left to see the Asian slumped over against the wall, rubbing bloodshot eyes.
"It's hard to stay awake, especially three nights in a row," Glenn mutters defensively with a yawn.
"I've been awake all night and I'm still only at 14…." Tara mutters.
"Better rest up, we've got a big run tomorrow," Spencer says casually, still looking over at Glenn.
Glenn groans and dramatically bows his head. "Oh shit...I'm going to need a serious coffee fix to pull this off."
"Don't think we got any coffee but there's a shit ton of soda in the warehouse," Abraham says, looking out at the desolate and dark road below them. "That's caffeinated."
"Ugh. Soda is fine but I'm in the mood for an overly sweet cup of warm coffee with a ridiculous amount of half and half dumped into it. And maybe a bit of that weird caramel flavored sweetener," Glenn mutters with a smile.
Spencer smiles. "Yeah, I could go for that too. I haven't had coffee in….Jesus, months now."
"You two don't really like coffee," Rositta says with a snort. "REAL coffee lovers drink it black, not full of sugary sweeteners."
"The sweeteners is what makes or breaks the deal," Tara argues. "I never drank black coffee, I always drank it with creamer. A LOT of creamer."
"Creamer's good," Glenn slurs sleepily.
Spencer chuckles as he watches Glenn struggle to stay awake. "Keep those eyes open Glenn, because once they close the Sharpies come out."
Tara snorts and rolls her eyes. "God, Spencer, how old are you? Ahhh….good times. I remember all of those parties….wake up with genitalia and curse words written all over your body for your friends and family to gawk at."
"Yeah…" Spencer sighs out, a sudden surge of nostalgia hitting him harder than a truck. "Those were the best types of parties. I'd kill to wake up to find my friends drawing dicks on my face again. Jesus, never thought I'd say that."
Glenn sighs. "Yeah, never know what you'll miss until it's gone. I miss bitching about my boss at Joey's. I miss complaining about being underpaid and about how my car forever smelled like grease and pizza all because of my shitty job."
Abraham chuckles and shakes his head. "I feel ya. I used to turn on the golf channel, for no good reason, and fall asleep. Snooze on the worn-in couch with a cold beer, air conditioning, and the boring buzz of golf announcers droning on and on in the background. Man, I'd give my right nut to do that again."
"Claaaaaassy," Rosita says with a snort.
"As always," Glenn mutters with a sleepy smile.
"Don't fall asleep on us, Glenn. Think of it this way, it's daytime in China right now," Abraham jests.
Glenn laughs and bangs his head back against the railing with a wince. "First of all, I'm Korean. Second of all, Noah LEFT like two hours to go to sleep in his BED and you didn't give him hell for it."
"Noah's a newbie, you're experienced," Tara replies.
"Old people sleep more than kids," Glenn retorts, closing his eyes and curling up on his side.
"I never said you were old, i said you were EXPERIENCED. There's a big difference. Experienced means you've been surviving head-on for awhile now and should be used to pulling all-nighters."
"You should be used to pulling all-nighters," Glenn mocks in a high pitched voice.
"Hey!" Tara shouts, crossing her arms. "Don't make me come down there and smack you."
Spencer chuckles and smiles as he watches Glenn roll his eyes and curl further into himself. Night watch has become much more enjoyable since Rick's group arrived at the front gate. Most nights, before they got to Alexandria, Spencer endured night watch alone, hunched over the cold railing and smacking himself to maintain consciousness, whispering profanities to himself when he would momentarily doze off and end up face planting on the platform or driving his nose into the railing. The worst nights though, were when Aiden stayed up with him. On those dreadful nights, Spencer had to sit through HOURS of Aiden lamenting about everything and nothing. Nowadays, night watch is actually fun. The nights are filled with chatter and laughter and dumb stories and jokes. The best part is that Aiden still thinks Rick's group is sketchy as a back-alley lobotomy and refuses to do night watch with any of the members of Rick's group, so as long as at least one of them is on night watch, Aiden stays home. They're literally annoying little brother repellent.
"Hey, did you guys hear that?" Tara asks quietly, suddenly peering over the railing with a look of concentration on her face.
"Hear what?"
"Shhhh," she hushes, putting her finger to her lips, still peering at the stretch of dark road and woods below them.
Everyone goes silent and looks anxiously over the railing. Even Glenn staggers to his feet to take a peek.
"I don't hear anything," Abraham whispers.
"Just listen," Tara insists. "I know I heard something…."
Everyone goes silent again for a few moments and watches.
"It's probably just a walker," Glenn mutters, dropping back onto his knees and starting to curl up again.
"No," Tara insists. "It's not a walker."
"I think Glenn's right, any rustling or groaning noise you heard is just a walker stumbling through some shrubbery or something," Spencer whispers.
"It's not a walker," Tara mutters, anxiously fingering the hilt of her handgun. "It was moving too fast to be a walker."
"What did you hear?" Rosita asks.
"A rustling sound coming from over there," Tara explains, pointing at a patch of dark forest far off to their right. "But it was faint, like it's far away, and it was fast….like, faster than the foot-dragging pace of a walker."
"Probably just a critter then," Abraham says. "Rabbit or chipmunk or something."
Tara shakes her head, still watching the forest intently. "No, I don't think so. It moved too much shrubbery to be something small like that, it has to have more body mass."
"I think you're over analyzing this," Glenn mutters with a yawn. "You're getting paranoid because you're tired. Jesus Tara, I thought you were experienced. You should be used to pulling all-nighters," he teases.
Tara completely ignores him as she draws her gun and leans over the railing.
"Tara, relax, it's just a walker," Spencer says, but he also draws his gun as an extra step of precaution.
"Who's taking this one?" Rosita asks with a smile, seeming to have already dismissed the noise as a walker or Tara's imagination.
"I guess I should since I'm so far behind but….I don't want to," Glenn says with another yawn, resting his head on his knees and closing his eyes.
"I'll take it," Spencer offers, aiming his gun at the patch of forest Tara is staring down.
"Be careful," Tara mutters. "I don't think it's a walker."
"Relax, Tara. It's either a walker or maybe a forest animal," Rosita says, looking up at the sky and admiring the stars. "Nothing to worry about."
"It was moving too fast to be a walker an-shh! Do you hear that?!" Tara hisses.
A second bout of silence falls over everyone as they listen. It's almost completely silent besides the crickets in the forest chirping and the wind howling as it swoops by and tickles the shells of their ears….
And a sound of slight rustling of bushes emanating from the forest. Everyone turns their attention to it and stares for a moment. The sound gradually gets louder and louder as whatever is making the noise draws nearer and nearer.
"You're right, that's no walker," Abraham mutters, drawing his gun and aiming it by the forest. "Too much being moved too quickly."
"Do you think it's a person?" Glenn asks quietly, drawing himself up into a crouching position.
"That's my best guess," Abraham replies. "And I think we've all come to learn that the living pose a much more lethal threat than the dead."
Spencer feels a chill run down his spine at the words. "At least it only sounds like one person...one person taking on five heavily armed people with uphill advantage."
"But people typically aren't totally solo at this point," Glenn mutters. "They probably come from a camp of some sort."
The bushes start to frantically shiver as whoever is stumbling through them gets closer and closer to the opening between the gate and the other bit of forest across the dark street littered with decaying corpses.
"Do we say something?" Tara asks. "Alert them that we're here and armed? INstruct them to put their hands up now and come out where we can see them?"
"No, it might scare 'em off and then they'll run back to their homebase and tell their people about our little establishment here," Abraham mutters. "And if we're unlucky and the wrong kinda folk, they'll come back with more people and more guns. A planned armada attack from hell versus a single lost and clueless straggler."
"What if it's not like that?" Tara insists. "Remember how we tied Aaron up and questioned the hell outta him when he approached us and were convinced he was another lunatic out for blood? We were wrong. We could be wrong now and be about to shoot an innocent traveler."
"Better safe than sorry," Abraham replies. "One idiot that's dumb enough to wander around in the woods alone at night is more than worth everyone here's lives."
"Guys, relax...let's just see-" Rosita is cut off as the bushes seem to vomit up the figure responsible for their quaking. It's too dark for anyone to really see, the only light coming from the dim overhanging fixtures. Everyone freezes as a lithe, child-sized figure trips over a corpse's stiff arm, staggering a few feet before catching itself. The figure appears to be cloaked in a heavy black raincoat with the hood up, covering their face, and a pair of beat up hiking boots. Abraham's finger rests heavily on the trigger, as does Spencer's. Rosita quickly aims her gun and Glenn fumbles around with his in his holster in his haste to whip it out. However, Tara cautiously lowers her gun, squinting at the figure below her, trying to make out any predominate features.
"Guys. hold up!" She hisses, dropping her gun to her side and reaching over to yank on Spencer's arm to prevent him from shooting.
"Put your hands up!" Abraham yells suddenly, eyes transfixed on the figure. "Put your hands up and freeze if you don't want a skull full of lead! Now! Raise those hands nice and high!"
The figure stops, awkwardly catching it's balance and raises its arms above it's head. "Hey! Hey!" a weak, scratchy dry-throated voice yells up at them. "Don't shoot! Don't shoot, it's Enid!"
Abraham keeps his gun aimed, but Spencer automatically drops his gun and stares down at the figure with a look of foggy cognition on his face. "Enid?!" he yells, sounding ever so slightly surprised.
Enid rapidly nods, slowly lowering her hands to rest on the top of her head and languidly lowering her hood to reveal a familiar pale face caked in mud and splattered with blood. A pile of brown greasy strands of hair are pulled into a messy clump. She looks like she's been beaten down and dragged through fields of mud and weeds face-first. Her lips are so filthy and chapped that they look like cement and her hands are so scarred that they look like they're covered in several intersecting pattern tattoos that are so numerous and crowded that they can no longer be differentiated or deciphered.
Spencer lets out a small laugh and shakes his head. "You look like hell!" he shouts down to her before starting to hurry across the platform and down the flight of stairs leading to the ground. "You enter any beauty pageants lately?"
Enid rolls her eyes and drops her hands down to her sides with a her face pinched into a mixed look of irritation and relief. As usual, she's not up for Spencer's annoyingly lighthearted jokes that try too hard to penetrate the black cloud looming over her. It's irritating as hell to her because his quips don't make it through the dark haze she resides in, but instead bump into it with a thud, like a crow flying into a window, and fall dead at her feet, causing her immense irritation. Especially tonight when she hasn't had a drop of water to drink in a day, a marcol of food to eat in a week, or a shower in over a month. Her thunderous headache and slight anger over almost being gunned down combined with all of this don't help boost her tolerance of goofy bull shit. Alls she wants is for Spencer to open the fucking gate and let her in so that she can go home, drink 5 gallons water, eat an entire loaf of bread, and take a goddamn shower. But despite her annoyance and impatience….she's happy to see him again after so long and it's a little nice to see his smile and know he's relieved and happy to see her again. It's nice to feel like she's got a home and people who care for her to come back to….not that Enid will admit this to herself. It's easier to drown it all out and lock all those disgusting emotions away to avoid a mess when Doomsday strikes and leaves a mess.
"You were gone a really long time," Spencer muses aloud as he starts to unlatch the gate. "I was getting a little worried about you."
Something in Enid's chest flutters. Most people would call it affection but Enid duly concludes that it's an effect of her combined dehydration and exhaustion as she listens with anticipation to the heavy chains on the other side of the gate clink and clatter as they're released from their hold.
"Yeah," she mutters, closing her eyes momentarily as her vision starts to blur slightly and her temples throb.
"Everything go smoothly?" Spencer asks as he swings open the heavy gate with a loud creak.
"For the most part," Enid answers slowly, her dry tongue feeling like it's plastered to the roof of her mouth.
Spencer eyes her warily, her staggering and sickly appearance don't fly under his radar and he stays close to her in case she collapses. "I think we should take a trip to the infirmary," he suggests. "You seem to be dehydrated and those wounds on your hands probably should be cleaned out."
Enid shakes her head in protest. "I don't need to go to the infirmary. I can take care of myself, thanks."
"I really think you need some medical attention, Enid," Spencer replies, looking her over again with concern.
"He's right, you don't look so good," Tara says, leaning over the railing to listen to their rather one-sided conversation.
Enid rolls her eyes, causing her forehead to feel like it's being split down the center. "You didn't look too glamorous either when you showed up at the gate after being outside for months on end," she retorts. "I'm fine, I can clean myself up."
"You're clearly dehydrated, I think an IV is a good idea," Tara says, shaking her head. "You're limping too, maybe you broke something."
"Yeah, a quick check-up and an IV looks like it's sorely needed," Rosita agrees with a nod.
"And a check over for any bites or other wounds won't hurt," Abraham adds.
Enid groans, tripping over her own feet as her vision blurs and the sky and ground seem to collide and turn everything into a weird shade of maroon. Spencer lets out a little yelp of surprise, quickly reaching out to grab her and hold her up. She leans against him for a minute, closing her eyes and catching her breath.
"You ok?" Tara calls down, looking a little anxious as Spencer awkwardly hoists the limp body up over his right shoulder.
Enid lets out a grunt, humiliated, and grabs onto Spencer's back as he starts to carry her away. "I don't need to go to the infirmary," she huffs out, softly punching him in the back and glowering at the swirling shades of purple dancing around in her vision.
Spencer let's out a little chuckle. "You might be the second most stubborn person I know, only coming after my mom. You just almost fainted, you're going to the infirmary whether you like it or not."
Enid just weakly punches him again and drops her chin roughly onto his shoulder blade with a wince. She can barely see the platform now, it's growing smaller and smaller as Spencer keeps walking further and further away from it. She blushes when she sees 4 silhouettes leaning over the railing and looking down at her. She awkwardly coughs as the red creeps up her cheeks and down her neck. This is beyond humiliating, being carried away like a sick little kid who can't stand on her own two feet. She waves at them to show she's still conscious.
All four wave back.
Her cracked lips pull upwards, despite her best efforts to stop them.
"Good morning," Ron whispers, smiling, all teeth. It's a smile Michonne would call dorky and laugh at, but it's the best thing to wake up to in Carl's book.
"Morning," Carl replies with an equally dorky and toothy smile, pieces of grass sticking to his forehead. Ron snorts in amusement and snakes his free hand up from Carl's side to pick them off.
Both just lay still, smiling at each other and swimming through the heavy emotions in their heads leftover from last night. Neither goes to move despite the morning dew on the grass making them shiver and soaking through their jackets and both of their limbs starting to get pins and needles from being crushed and bent at odd angles. Neither wants to be the one to pull away because despite the discomfort, the proximity is rather enjoyable. Actually, it's pretty fucking awesome and neither want to lose the feel of the other's warmth or heartbeat hammering up against his torso.
"You sleep well?" Ron asks with a yawn, picking the last strand of grass off his companion's forehead.
"Yeah, fine. You?"
"Yeah."
"You're cheek looks worse today," Carl mutters, staring at the left side of Ron's face. It was just red yesterday; today it's swollen and a deep gray color. "Does it hurt?"
"Not too bad," Ron mutters, very aware of how bad his cheek must look since it FEELS rather puffy. "It's been way worse. This is nothing, don't worry about it."
Carl sighs sadly, looking at the swollen lump of flesh and cringing a little at the thought of it having been 'way worse before' as it already looks pretty bad and like it stings. He wonders how bad it's been, what's been the worst.
"How're your shoulders this morning?" He asks, remembering how they'd been hurting Ron last night.
"Ok, but starting to smart again a little," Ron mutters with another yawn, wrapping his arms tighter around Carl's midsection and closing his eyes. "It's fine," he mutters, feeling content despite the burning in his shoulders and throbbing of his cheek.
There's a comfortable stretch of silence between them in which Carl still finds his eyes drifting to the rather nasty looking bruise on Ron's cheek. His heart twists a little everytime he looks at it and he once again wonders morbidly what the worst has been. Ron says this is NOTHING, and it looks pretty bad; his whole left cheek is grey and swollen. What's the worst if this is nothing? A broken arm? Two broken arms? A concussion? A limb so badly bruised and marked up that it's a deep purple and looks mangled? Carl remembers how bruised and scarred up Ron's arms are and it makes his blood run cold. He looks at the asshat curled around him, sharing his body heat, that he loves so much and feels his heart ache a little. How bad are Ron's bruised up arms are in scheme of things to him. If his cheek's 'no big deal' are his arms also nothing? How awful does something have to be for it to be considered bad in Ron's book? Carl's a little hesitant to ask this obviously, as by asking he'd basically be asking Ron to tell him about the most painful and traumatizing thing that's ever happened to him. It's kind of a heavy question to spring on someone first thing in the morning.
"Hey….how awake are you?" Carl asks quietly.
"Awake enough to talk," Ron replies with a yawn.
Carl smiles, gazing up at the blazing sunrise sky. "You should look at the sky, it's amazing."
"The sight of the back of my eyelids is pretty satisfying right now."
Carl snorts and gives Ron's head a gentle push. "Just take a look, asshole. It's really beautiful, it looks like the sky is on fire."
Ron lazily opens one eye and looks up to the sky. "Whoa," he breathes, enthralled with the streaks of magenta and red that creep along the horizon, followed by the blazing orange ball, extinguishing the stars and chasing away the inky blackness.
"I told you," Carl murmurs, gazing up at the sky with wide eyes. "The sky never ceases to amaze me, you know? It's got so many different looks that all blow me away. THe starry night sky, the bright sunrises, the blue skies, puffy white clouds, swirls of grey, bright bolts of lightning. No matter what, the sky always manages to look amazing."
Ron nods, opening his other eye and turning his head to get a better look without untangling himself from his companion. "You're right. It always manages to look beautiful. It always has some element to captivate you with," he mutters, eyes sweeping across the sky, trying to take it all in.
They both lie there, watching with wide, tired eyes as the red streaks slowly start to turn orange, and the orange starts to turn pink, and the pink gets paler and paler as the sun creeps up higher and higher on the horizon. The blue seems to spills out of the pale pink and slowly spread across the sky, a few whippets of white clouds dotting along the blue.
"I haven't watched the sun rise in forever," Ron mutters. "I'm never awake for it."
"I've actually watched the sun rise a lot in the last few months out on the road," Carl whispers, as if afraid speaking too loudly will scare away the sun and send it careening back down over the horizon. "But every time I see it, it's even more beautiful. I never get sick of watching all the fiery colors crawl across the sky like watercolor paints being splattered over a canvas. It never gets old."
Ron smiles, finding Carl's infatuation with the sky kind of adorable. He slides his hands inside of the pouch on Carl's hoodie and nuzzles in closer as he shivers. Most people in his position would be miserable; cold, wet, grass sticking to the back of his neck, shoulders and face hurting, legs cramping from sleeping on the ground and being bent oddly, arm asleep. But Ron's far from miserable. The right things are perfect, so he's happy. He's over the moon.
Carl's happy too, despite the crappy wet grass and shivers. He loves being curled up with Ron like this, enveloped in him. It makes him feel….sorta secure and warm despite his shuddering. But he feels the question nagging at him again when he feels the swollen lump on Ron's cheek press up against his neck.
"Hey….Ron?" Carl asks after a few moments of silence.
"Yeah?"
"You remember that idea you had last night?"
"Uh….you mean the two questions a day deal?"
"Yeah."
"Yeah, of course," Ron says with a yawn. He won't say it aloud, but he remembers almost every second of last night in vivid detail. He believes it was a pinnacle in his life and refuses to let any part of it slip through his fingers and be forgotten.
"I wanna cash in my two questions for today, if that's like, ok," Carl says.
"Sure," Ron replies. He knows any questions Carl has to ask him will be about the abuse and he's pretty sure Carl knows any questions he has for him are about pre-Alexandria travels. It's not surprising and, honestly, who could blame them? Anyone would have a hell of a lot of questions for a child soldier who's survived hell and lived to tell the tale, but chooses not to, and a physically and verbally abused kid with more bruises and scars than an MMA fighter.
"You keep saying that your cheek doesn't hurt too much and that it's been way worse. Uh, your cheek actually looks pretty fucking bad, dude. So I'm just wondering….what's the worst it's been?" Carl asks, his voice faltering slightly as he knows it's a deep cutting question to ask at the ass crack of dawn.
Carl feels Ron stiffen, hands clenching the fabric of his hoodie and shoulders suddenly arching forward. There's a tense minute of silence before Ron starts to slowly drawl out his answer, like he's talking through a mouthful of peanut butter or sleep talking.
"Uh…..uh…." He stutters, eyes narrowing in concentration. It's hard to remember the WORST it's been. Ron admittedly buries some of the more….ahem, traumatizing incidents. Tries to forget about them and move on. It always makes him feel ill when he goes through that file cabinet of 'terrible things' in his brain and uncovers some of those memories. He tries to block them out, even though he's been told it's unhealthy. But those memories make him SICK. They make him dizzy and his lungs move too fast and everything seem unbearable and inane and dark. He remembers his guidance counselor in middle school saying something about 'emotional distress' a few times when he'd been called in. The term rings hollow in his head as he shifts through the 'terrible things' file.
"Uh….when I was nine," Ron starts, still muttering lowly, still clenching the fabric and body still arched forward defensively. "My dad bruised up my face pretty bad, gave me a black eye and broke my wrist."
"How?" Carl asks gently, knowing that Ron has more to say if he just draws him out….
"I knocked over the bookshelf in the living room. Made a huge mess. It was an accident," Ron mutters. "He stormed in and went ballistic. My mom...she got between us but he broke her nose and threw her aside. In the five seconds it took her to get up, he grabbed me and I struggled, henceforth the broken wrist, he hit me twice, yelled at me, and chucked me back against the wall. I smashed into it face first….fell on the floor and hit my head again. I think that was the worst because I was so fucking young…nine."
"That is really young," Carl agrees quietly, heart aching again at the thought of a 9 year-old being thrown around and ending up with a broken wrist. It makes him wonder how young Ron was when it all started. Before he can really even think, the question spills past his lips.
Ron continues to tense up, closing his eyes as he tries to remember the first time it happened. The first time his mom got beat, the first time he got hit, the first time he looked at his dad in fear. It's hard to recall it….it seems to be one of those things he's buried in hopes of never remembering again. How far back can he delve? He feels his head hurt a little as he thinks, his breathing becoming rapid and uneven.
"Uh…." he mutters, voice muffled as if he's holding a rag to his face. He feels distant, far away, like he's reliving it and walking back through his head in a foggy haze. "I must've only been 5 or 6….my dad was watching me…..I don't remember what I did to piss him off….but I did something obviously. He….he slapped me. Hard. I fell back on my ass. I remember looking up at him after he hit me, staring, wide eyed and confused. He flared his nostrils, still pissed, raised his hand to hit me again. I started….I think I started crying. His face softened and he lowered his hand, looked at me with watery eyes and looked, like, kinda guilty. Like, 'holy shit, I just did that'. He scooped me up off the floor, pressed a bag of frozen vegetables to my cheek, and kept telling me he was sorry and that it was 'our secret', that I couldn't tell mom. He sat me on the couch, let me watch Indiana Jones for the millionth time and let me have chocolate ice cream with whipped cream for dinner. That's the first time I remember being hit," Ron mutters.
"The first time he hit mom….at least that I can remember, I was around the same age. we'd been sitting at the kitchen table, eating dinner. I don't remember why he was pissed, but he started yelling. I'd been scared, shaking in my seat and watching my mom start to yell back at him. He eventually lost patience, got up and started throwing things….threw the phone and it's cradle, threw a few plates, threw the clock on the wall….mom was freaking out, screaming at him to stop, running around trying to grab things he was trying to throw. That's when he grabbed her by the forearms, dragged her a few feet despite her struggling, and smacked her….twice...three times….I think in the end it was six hits. I just watched, what the hell was I supposed to do? I was a kid….but I guess I should've picked the phone up off the floor and called 911, or ran to my neighbor's house to get help….but I just sat there, watching and shaking and I think I cried but I don't really remember…." Ron mumbles, eyes transfixed on the sky as he talks, not all there.
"So it's been going on awhile," Carl mutters.
Ron nods slowly. "Yeah, it's nothing new by any means. As long as I can think back this kinda stuffs been going on."
"How many times were you called into the guidance counselor's office?" Carl asks, forgetting that he's only supposed to ask two questions. He's too caught up swimming in the sesspool of memories. Too interested in exploring Ron's head, walking down memory lane...not as cheery as he'd wished at all, but kinda what he'd expected.
Ron answers anyway, also forgetting the 2 question rule. "Uh….I wanna say about 5."
"Why?"
"Well, there was that time in elementary school because of the drawings that I told you about last night. Then…..there was that time I came to school with a broken arm, and it was only a year after the art incident, so I was still on the radar I guess….I never got called into Child Resources though, thank fucking god….uh...middle school I took my jacket off in gym and they saw my arms...I got called in twice for that. And then I got called in once because I had a nervous breakdown of sorts in the cafeteria…."
"Was it, like, triggered or whatever?" Carl asks.
"I think so, but I'm still not positive of exactly what the fuck happened. The night before was the night my dad broke Sam's arm and I blamed myself….I still do...and my mom was all upset and talking about calling CPS and about how she failed us and apologizing to us for being a shit mother. I was on edge. I remember someone saying something to me about looking like shit or something and asking if I felt OK... Uh...the next thing I know I'm in the nurse's office because I passed out after screaming and yelling at some kid who was talking to me and attempting to run and push away the teacher who was trying to calm me down. Not sure what happened…" he lets out a little laugh.
"Uh….they sent me to the guidance counselor since I already, like, had a record or whatever. She said some shit about being under 'emotional distress', lectured me about being honest with her so that I could 'get the help I need', and tried talking to me about why I'd done what I'd done. She knew something wasn't right at home, but she couldn't really do anything without me making her accusations truth. I wasn't there very long, I kinda refused to talk much and she eventually released me, but told me to come see her every Friday around dismissal to 'have a chat'. I never showed up. Well….I did once. It was weird, we talked about my parents and how stuff is at home….my file was why she was concerned, but my file didn't have HALF of what was going on in it, just said my dad was an alcoholic and that i came from a stressful home….I just kinda pulled stories out of my ass to make it sound fine when I was there, but I mean...I did have A FEW good things to tell her that were real."
"Like what?" Carl asks, trying to find the light in it all. Any hint of a glimmer or any reason for the light in Ron's eyes.
"My dad made my mom dinner one night. He made a fucking mess in the kitchen, pots and pans all over the counters, but it was still the thought and effort that made my mom melt. And then…. My dad is a funny guy, he is when he's sober anyway. He makes good jokes and he's not afraid to poke fun at himself. And my mom has always been the sweetest person in my life….always going the extra mile just to make me and Sam happy. There's plenty of happy memories I have. It's not all bad….not even my memories of my dad…..although...they are warped, you know? Cuz of the way I see him? As a kid...I thought he was like a monster...staggering around, screaming and yelling and using his fists to resolve conflicts. It made me look at him differently."
Carl nods in understanding. "Why do you blame yourself so much?" he asks, reading into his friend's underlying tones of shame and guilt. "Every time something happens you seem to put all the blame on your own shoulders. Why?"
Ron's silent for a few moments before laughing under his breathe and slowly whispering: "Who else is there to blame?"
"Your dad. If I were in your shoes, I'd be pretty fucking hateful towards my dad. I'd be straight up wrathful actually. Or maybe I'd even hate alcohol. Or just….the world for my misery. Don't you hate other people for getting to be happy when you're suffering? Or do you hate the people for seeing your bruises and broken bones and not doing anything? Watching you drown and not so much as throwing a piece of driftwood for you?" Carl mutters, the fiery colors in the sky reminding him of internal hate fire, blazing brightly and crackling angrily at even the mention of certain people and instances.
Ron goes quiet again as he thinks. Does he hate the world? Hate everyone else? Hate his dad? Maybe even hate his mom a little for staying? Hate alcohol? Hate his guidance conselor for never growing a pair of balls and calling CPS or at least calling for a home inspection?
"Uh….I guess I go through stages where I'm just….full of raw rage, you know? Usually right after, I hate my dad. I hate him so fucking much. I want him to drink himself to death so he can't hurt anyone anymore, including himself. I want it to be over and I want to spit on his grave and set his clothes on fire in the backyard and throw all of the beer bottles out of the window and listen to the glass smash on the pavement," he admits, face contorting and his eyes burning a little with angry tears. "And sometimes I hate my mom….which is awful, she's the best guardian I've got and she loves me and takes good care of me but….sometimes I think she's a stupid bitch for staying with my dad. I realize it was probably for, like, financial support? I mean, being a hairdresser doesn't really make a profit compared to what a surgeon brings home. But still….we could've lived with her parents for a little bit or gone to those help houses or whatever….there were options. She just….she stayed and kept telling us and herself that she loved my dad and that she had it under control. I hate her for it sometimes, I want to tell her that it's not always smart to focus on the positive things...that even though he was sober yesterday and went to the store for her doesn't change the fact that he's broken her nose twice and terrorized her and her children. If she'd just left….my life could've been so much better. Sam's life could've been so much better if she'd just realized, the first time his fist came into contact with her face or the first time he belittled her or backed her into the corner and shook her, that it wasn't love. Love's not supposed to hurt like that…." Ron trails off, the angry tears continuing to build up, a few slipping onto the grey mass bulging out under his eye.
"Whatever though," he mutters with a sniff, wiping his face with his free hand. "I don't know shit about love though, right? Anyway, I swear I love my mom, but it makes me wonder how smart and self-respecting she is. And then, yeah, I fucking hated some of my classmates and even some of my friends. Just….listening to them talk about all these good things in their lives sometimes got to me. Which is stupid, I know, but…..this one kid in 5th grade, Jake Spinsky….his dad was a teacher at our school. I hated him. I hated him. So. Much. You know why? Because he got to eat in the teacher's lounge with his dad, talked to him between classes, rode home with him every day. That's why. I was seriously jealous of this kid. Wanna know the funny part? Jake was bullied all the goddamn time because he was with his dad all the time, always getting shoved around in the halls and having things thrown at him in class. He ate in the teacher's lounge because no one would let him sit at their table. But I was still jealous as fuck. I wanted that. I wanted what he had with his dad."
"That's understandable," Carl mutters with a little laugh. "I hate the people here sometimes. I get jealous of stupid stuff they have and the problems they don't have. I get it."
A tiny smile works its way onto Ron's face. "I hate the people here sometimes too and get jealous," he admits. "But...you're asking if I hate all these people, my dad, my old classmates, my friends, the world….yeah, from time to time I have immense hatred. But 90% of my hate and anger is at myself."
"Why?" Carl asks in confusion. "How the hell can any of this possibly be your fault. You were being logical when you said sometimes you hate your mom and I understand completley why you'd hate your dad, but why yourself?"
"I can't control my dad. I can't make choices for him. I can't control my mom or make choices for her. I can't control the guidance counselor or any of the other adults who had a clue and make choices for them. But I can control myself and I can make my own choices," Ron mutters slowly. "I can choose to do the right thing and I can choose to get help. I can choose. But I never do."
"Ron, you can't fix it yourself," Carl murmurs sadly, feeling his stomach drop a little as he feels something warm dripping onto his neck.
"But I can. Well...now with the world ending and everything I can't. But I had several opportunities to before. Like….during any given one of my dad's outburst I could've picked up the phone and called 911 or ran to a neighbor to get help. I was in the guidance counselor's office all those times. If I'd just said something….if I hadn't lied just to keep my mom happy. If I'd said something to any of my teachers….they'd kinda HAVE to call CPS then, right? Sam with my neighbors, if I'd told one of them they'd feel morally obligated and shit. I had so many chances to get me and my brother and mom away. I'm a hypocrite for calling my mom stupid and bashing her for not getting help, because i never did either. And you know why I didn't? Because I was scared. I was too scared to. I was scared of change, scared of how my mom would react, scared of what would happen to my dad, scared of the consequences. So I just kept silent. I'm just as bad as everyone I hate."
"No one should feel afraid of the consequences of getting help," Carl says, turning his head to the side to make eye contact. "No one."
Ron swallows and shakes his head. "I was. I felt like I had no control over anything, I still don't really. I….I was just scared. I was scared because I'm a coward."
Before Carl can open his mouth to correct Ron and inform his self-degrading ass that he is NOT a coward and that he's actually a rather courageous person, Ron cuts him off, seeming to know Carl too well and know where he's going. Ron appreciates his friend's kindness, but he really doesn't see himself as brave at all.
"I'm a coward," he says again, a little louder. "I know it and I admit it, even though it kills me every day. I am, don't say otherwise. I watch my mom get hit and don't do anything. I watch my mom cry and don't do anything. I watch my dad corner my mom and belittle her, make her so fucking small and I don't do anything. I get hit myself and I lay down and die at his feet. I watch him wreck things and just stand by. No one with even a single brave bone in their body would stand by or just die. They'd fucking fight back or go get help or at least TRY. I just bury my head in the sand and wait for the hurricane to blow over, but you know what? It never will, so I've basically just buried myself to wait until I suffocate while everyone above me screams and cries and suffers. I'm a coward," Ron spats, voice edged sharply in anger. It kills Carl a little to know that all this sudden venomous anger is used as ammo for self-inflicted injuries.
There's a moment of silence between them before Ron lists every single instance in his life that leads him to the conclusion that he's a coward. He tells Carl everything, every shameful story he can remember. Every memory that makes him feel like a fucking goat. Every one he can remember. He word vomits them out left and right.
He tells about the time he locked himself in the bathroom to stay safe while his mom was screaming in the family room. He tells him about the time he picked on Jake in the hallway and called him a 'daddy's boy' and mocked him. He tells him about the time his dad broke Sam's arm because Ron failed to keep his grip on him. He talks about every time he failed to get his dad away from his mom, despite his best efforts. He talks about the time he ran out of the house the second he walked in the front door from school because he heard yelling. He spends almost an hour talking about the time his mom ranted about calling CPS and apologized for being an awful mother and down talked herself. He cries a little bit when he talks about the time his mom ended up with a broken arm while he was over at a friend's house. He talks about each of his guidance conselor visits in detail. He cries again when talking about the time his mom ended up with a broken nose defending him. He grows angry again when talking about every instance of an adult asking about a strange bruise or broken bone. He gets sad again when talking about every time he's watched his mom get backed into a corner and shaken without interfering. He talks about every time he's made his mom cry, either by displaying his injuries or by talking about his feelings or just telling what he thought was an innocent story. He talks about the time he accidentally cried in front of his mom and made her cry. He cries for a third time when he talks about the time he laid on the floor with his head spinning and a dislocated shoulder listened to his mom's sobbing. He mentions all the good times he had with his dad with a wistful smile, including a fishing trip and a midnight snack session of muffins and Star Trek reruns. He talks about the time he and Sam hid in the basement and the time Sam asked him 'does dad love us?' with wide eyes of fear and uncertainty. He talks about the verbal abuse too, all the belittling and degradation. He talks about all the times he hear his mom crying and just block it out and all the times he'd try to do something but fail and end up with more bruises that would only further distress his mother.
As he goes on and on, Carl keeps his arms around his shoulders and holds him close, letting him keep his face pressed to his neck. He doesn't let him go to drown in his memories and miseries. He doesn't dare interrupt, just letting it continue to flow from Ron's head. He doesn't want to curb that flow, he has a feeling it's been pent up far too long already. Ron talks and talks until his mouth is dry and his mind empty.
When he's done the sun has fully risen and sits in the middle of the blue ocean, hidden by a few whippets of white. They lay in silence after he's done, both thinking. Ron wonders how pathetic and whiny he sounds, wonders if he just sounded like the 'faggot' his dad always tells him he is and proved his point that he's a fucking coward. He wonders if Carl will be honest with him and agree that he's a fuck-up, a disappointment, a coward, and a mess. He knows he is, there's no need to spare his feelings. He's known he is for a long time, not that he really needed to FIGURE anything out, his dad told him everyday and his mom's tears and bruises screamed it at him. He almost wishes he could take it all back, just to avoid looking so pathetic and weak. But….it feels kinda good too. Just to talk it all out and have someone listen and not interrupt. Just to spill out everything that kills you every time you look in the mirror or remember you're alive and you're you.
Carl's mindset is rather different. He processes everything he's heard, reruns the stories in his head again and again like a movie. A really, really sad movie that makes his heart ache horribly. He has no idea HOW Ron can possibly see himself as a coward. He's lived through so much and been put down so many times and tried so hard, even putting his well being on the line in the process, to try and fix things. He's jumped in to try and save his mom, he's lied and kept things to himself for her and his brother's sake. He's suffered in silence and swallowed his anger and emotions for everyone else. Instead of directing his anger at the people who hurt him, he uses his anger to hurt himself. Carl doesn't see a coward, he sees a beaten down boy with seriously traumatizing events playing behind his eyes and crippling him.
"If you're a coward," Carl says slowly, breaking the silence. "You're the bravest coward I know."
Ron looks at him, eyes still bloodshot from crying, looking skeptical. "Then you must not know many cowards," he croaks out, throat dry.
"You'd be surprised at how many cowards I've met," Carl mutters, running his fingers up through Ron's hair. "The end of the world kinda has a way of making the cowards stick out like a sore thumb. Trust me, I've met a lot. You're not one of them."
"Carl, how do you not get this? You just listened to me talk about how I can NEVER protect my mom and how I just get my ass kicked and how, sometimes, I just drown it out. You just listened to me tell you about how I've kept my mouth shut in fear, despite everyone's well being. I'm a fucking coward, man," Ron says, sounding slightly angry and lifting his head off of Carl's chest to glare down at him.
Carl stares at him for a moment before shaking his head. "I just listened to you tell me about how you almost always try to stand up for your mom, even though you KNOW it'll just end in your pain. I just listened to you talk about how it hurts you so fucking bad that you shut down and how you kept suffering in silence because you were afraid of upsetting your mom and getting your dad in trouble...it was a consideration thing. I listened to you talk about how you look out for Sam, ALL THE TIME! His arm being broken wasn't your fault! You always protect him first. You try to protect your mom, you try to fix everything and….the hate you have for yourself? You don't hate your dad, even though he hurts you and your mom. You don't hate your mom even though she lets it go on. You don't hate just decide to hate the world ever. No, you hate yourself, you blame yourself. That tells me you're a strong person. It's so easy to hate, but you just….internalize the shit out of it! You're a strong person! You're NOT a coward man! You're saying what you just told me justifies you as a coward?! No way! It actually makes me think you're even more brave and independent and kind hearted and strong than I thought you were before!" Carl exclaims, slowly sitting up to get on eye level with his friend.
Ron stares blankly at his friend for a minute, noticing how almost...livid Carl looks. Before he can speak though, Carl jumps back in.
"You've got enough things putting you down, man. You're dad does it everyday, physically and verbally. Don't bog yourself down too! Don't put yourself down! You have so much beating on you already; your dad, fear for your mom and brother's safety, guilt over your mom's tears and bruises, so much shit putting you down. You don't need to do it to yourself," he says, shaking his head. "You're the bravest coward I know. It takes bravery to fight even when you know you're gonna lose, it takes guts to still stand up every day knowing you're gonna be beaten down, it takes balls to swallow it all down and strength to keep from throwing it all at someone else. You're not a fucking coward."
Ron stares at him again for a few minutes. He knows Carl means what he's saying, he's not patronizing him. He looks way too ardent to be faking this. He means it, dammit.
"You…" Ron mutters, feeling like he's distant again, his voice coming from thousands of miles away. "You mean it?" he murmurs, eyes getting glassy again despite his rapid blinking. His cheeks turn red in shame.
"Yeah," Carl says with a firm nod, feeling his heart twist again. Each time Ron cries it kills him a little on the inside, especially since he seems so ashamed of it. "Like I said, you're the bravest coward I know."
Ron's eyes dart up then back down and his lips quiver, but manage to stretch into a sad shaky smile as he wipes at his eyes and nods. "Ok," he mutters. "Ok." He flops back onto his back and loudly exhales, gazing up at the sky. The insecurities seem to disappear, leaving him feeling rather relieved, like a fucking elephant just got off his chest.
Carl smiles and flops down beside him. He looks over at Ron, seeing him smiling with tears freely running down his face as his eyes drift closed. "Hey," he mutters, reaching over and brushing his fingertips over Ron's shoulder. "Hey."
Ron just laughs breathlessly, feeling like a little part of him has died but another part has been freed and yet another part has been reborn. It's exhilarating and bizarre and it makes his stomach clench.
"How did two questions become me making an autobiography?" he asks with a laugh.
"You didn't have to stay," Enid grumbles as she laces up her boots.
"Not like I had anything better to do," Spencer replies, leaning in the doorway. "Besides, you looked lonely lying on the big, uncomfortable examination table with an IV stuck in your arm and your hands splayed out, throbbing from their little scrub down and new stitches. Couldn't just leave you alone."
Enid doesn't reply, that fluttering feeling flaring in her chest again. She draws a blank on the cause, as she's now feeling fine besides the annoyance biting at her insides like a swarm of mosquitos. She sighs, her knees creaking as she hops to her feet. Exhaustion sweeps over her again and she has to hold the back of the chair to keep her balance. Spencer makes a move to catch her, but backs off when she sends a glare his way. She wants to go to bed and hibernate for days and days, sleeping in a nest of clean sheets and fluffy pillows.
She'd never admit it out loud, but she's fucking thankful for her trip to the infirmary. The night-shift doctor, Denis, took one look at her and mouthed 'holy mother of god' before sweeping her out of Spencer's arms, setting her on the examination table, sticking an IV in her arm and disinfecting all the open scratches and wounds on her hands and stitching them up. For the two hours that the IV was in her arm, she endured Spencer's company. He sat in a chair next to the table, eyeing her with a look of concern, and continuously asking Denis questions about how long the IV would be in and how it worked. While Denis was stitching her up he'd noticed her wincing and had offered to hold her opposite hand. Enid made it VERY clear that she didn't need his hand to hold.
After the IV came out and Denis let her go take a shower in the infirmary bathroom, he'd ran to her house to fetch her clean clothes and brought her back a strawberry Pop Tart, a baloney sandwich, and a can of Dr Pepper along with a comfy pair of sweats. When Denis cleaned out and stitched up any other open wounds on her legs or torso, Spencer once again offered to hold her hand, despite her venomous reaction to his last offer. He'd left the room during her full-body examination and let her use his jacket as a blanket when she got cold while the IV was in her arm. He stayed with her all night, leaned in the doorway or slumped over in the chair, trying to strike up a conversation. Most of them had fallen flat due to Enid's typical demeanor and exhaustion, but every once in awhile Spencer would bring up a topic of her interest and she'd engage.
Spencer's a nice guy. Enid knows this, and secretly appreciates it. But she hates it. She hates the nice people. Because it's the nice people you get attached to and the nice people that leave the deepest wounds.
"You should go rest up," Denis says as she hands Enid a bottle of painkillers. "I'm exhausted from being up all night so I know you must be dead on your feet from traveling so far and not getting enough sleep for weeks. Take a pill if the aches get too bad, but no more than two every six hours."
Enid nods and thanks her before following Spencer out the door. He walks her home, much to her annoyance and admiration.
"Go get some sleep," he says with a gentle pat on the back and a smile. "You need it. It's good to have you back, Enid."
Enid loses the fight to keep the smile off her face for the second time in 24 hours. "Thanks. Nice to see you again too. And….thanks for staying. I haven't had a sleepover in a long time."
Spencer grins. "Neither have I. It was fun, especially the pillow fight and the game of Truth or Dare that was really 'tell me who you like or perform a bizarre semi-sexual act'. Really fun, really fun."
Enid lets out a little laugh and nods. "I think my favorite part was when we watched 'Pretty in Pink' and ate a whole bag of popcorn."
Spencer laughs and gives her another pat on the back. "Yeah, we'll have to do it again some time."
"Hey, you said...you said something about a big run today?" Enid asks, recalling one of the four million conversations Spencer tried to kick start last night.
Spencer nods with a yawn. "Yeah, we leave in an hour…..I might not go, I'm bushed and everyone else who's going went to bed at 6 AM when night shift let off and has gotten at least 5 hours of sleep now. So….I might throw the offer to Aiden. There's no way he won't pounce on the offer to lead the run."
Enid feels her eyes grow wide and something like guilt pang in her chest. "Wait….lead the run? You were supposed to lead the run?"
Spencer nonchalantly nods, like it's no big deal. "Yeah, we're going to this warehouse to find micro inverters to fix the power grid. Eugene kinda orchestrated the whole thing, so I guess you could say he's leading the run, even though he's not thrilled to be going. But yeah, I'm driving the van and all….but I'm so tired, I won't really be of much use and could end up getting myself killed so…..probably for the best if I let Aiden go. I think my life is worth listening to his gloating."
Enid frowns and awkwardly clears her throat. "I'm really sorry."
"Why are you sorry?" Spencer asks, looking genuinely confused.
"You'd be rested up and ready to go kick ass if you hadn't stayed up all night with me."
Spencer laughs and waves it off. "It's fine, there'll be other runs. I've lead three other ones before anyway, no big deal. I enjoyed last night, I had fun."
"Yep, nothing more fun than sitting in a cold infirmary for three hours with nothing to do but try to engage in conversation with a dehydrated and exhausted zombie girl who smelt like roadkill for half the night," Enid deadpans.
"Hey, don't forget about our Disney movie marathon and the fort we built. That was good quality shit, ok?" Spencer jokes, trying to lighten the mood, as always. "Go get some sleep. It's been a long night and you've been on the move for a really long time, I think a clean and comfy bed is going to leave your mind blown."
"What I really missed was indoor plumbing," Enid replies as she opens the door.
Spencer chuckles. "Yeah, that's reasonable. How about toiletries?"
"Right now toilet paper and soap are like the best things on this miserable planet other than the air I breathe."
Spencer laughs. "Yeah, that's what I always missed the most while on runs. Well….that and privacy….anyway, see you around."
Enid barely manages to bite back her smile and nods, stepping into the wonderfully air-conditioned house and closing the door behind her with a soft click. Since she's a loner, no family, she lives in the tiniest house; only one floor with a kitchen, family room, one bathroom, and two bedrooms. It doesn't bother her at all, she thinks it's fair and she's rarely home anyway.
Enid yawns, rubbing at her eyes and starting to walk down the hall, her legs starting to shake and threatening to give out. Her eyes fall on the familiar sight of the worn in and smiles at how much more comfortable and soothing this is than sleeping on the dirty floor of an abandoned apartment to the sound of groaning and scratching seeping through the walls. She closes her eyes and is about to drift off…..when there's a knock on the front door.
Enid curses under her breathe and rolls over, not intending to answer it. It's probably not nearly as important as her getting some shut eye. She tries to drift off, but the knocking continues. She curses again, louder this time, and hauls herself to her feet and hurries down the hallway.
"What?" She mutters, her voice coming out as more of a growl than she intended for it to as she swings open the door.
"Uh, sorry, Enid," Spencer says sheepishly, taking note of her disheveled hair and assuming she'd just gotten comfortable in her bed and was about to doze off. "I just remembered I forgot to give these back to you," he explains, handing her a plastic Walmart bag full of freshly washed clothes.
"Oh, thanks," She mutters, her anger drying up on the spot as she looks in the bag and is greeted by the overwhelming, eye-watering scent of lilacs. "You didn't have to wash them."
Spencer shrugs. "Kinda felt like I should. When you showered last night, Denis put your clothes in a bag and they looked gross and smelled pretty damn nasty, so when I went to pick up a fresh set of clothes for you, I threw them in the wash. I brought them back with me to the infirmary, but it just slipped my mind to give them back to you until now. Sorry."
"No need to apologize. Thanks a lot," she says, feeling an honest sense of gratitude.
"No problem," Spencer says with a breezy smile, already starting to back down from the porch stoop. "Sorry for waking you up, go on and rest up."
"You too," Enid mutters, closing the door and looking down at the bag of clothes. She shuffles back into the family room, flops down on the couch, and empties the bag's contents on her lap. Yesterday night, her black rain coat and jacket had been smeared in blood and muck, her white socks had been a dark brown, soaked with mud. Her shirt had been so soaked in sweat it looked like she'd jumped in a lake while wearing it and her pants were caked in sludge. Every article of clothing smelled like skunk, blood, and festering wounds. But now they're all clean again, almost good as new and smelling like a Field of flowers. The only imperfection is that the socks are no longer white but an off ivory color, but that's totally ok with Enid. She's beyond thankful that Spencer took the time to wash her clothes on top of everything else he's done for her.
He's such a nice guy. She hates it.
Her eyelids feel impossibly heavy and droop down as she lets out a yawn. She pushes her clean clothes to her side, wraps herself back up in the blanket, and closes her eyes again. She's so tired at this point that she's quivering and her eyes hurt when they're open.
When there's another knock on the door a few moments later, the only word that comes to her mind is 'fuck'. She squeezes her eyes shut to block out the noise and curses. There's no way in hell she's going to answer it this time. No way. The door knocking is not nearly enough for her to get up. Christ, the fucking house bursting into flame isn't at the moment. She flinches in annoyance each time she hears a knock, swearing that whoever it is has a death wish. When it eventually stops after what feels like forever, a content smile spreads across her lips….until she hears a thud in the hallway.
"The fuck…." she mutters, her blood boiling in anger as she throws the blanket off of herself and storms down the hallway. Usually being woken from a nap wouldn't piss her off so much, but considering she was up all last night and hasn't gotten adequate sleep in over a month….
She goes to throw open the door when she sees a package lying on the floor. It's lying right by the old wooden cat door flap, someone must've pushed it in through there. Enid stares at the parcel in confusion for a few moments before squating beside it and examining it. It's a plain brown box, nothing's written on it or anything, and it's taped closed along the seam with grey duct tape.
She carries the box back into the family room with her, and takes notice to how heavy it is. She sits on the sofa and starts to peel the tape off with shaking fingers. Her teeth start to chatter and her eyes water because she's so goddamn tired, but curiosity's got her by the balls as she continues struggling to peel away the duct tape. With a few curses and chipped nails she manages to get it off and open the box.
"What?" she mutters, peering into it.
It's crammed full of envelopes with her name written on them in crappy cursive.
She stares at them blankly for a moment. Why the hell would someone waste their time writing hundreds of letters to her when she lives in a small and enclosed community with them? Why not just walk down the street and talk to her?!
"What?" she whispers again, wiping the tears of exhaustion off her cheeks and picking out an envelope to open. She pulls out the piece of stationery paper that's folded over sloppily and stuffed inside to read:
There's this girl who lives on my block
She's got something that gives me a shock
Everytime I see her around
I feel like a part of me has drowned
But she doesn't seem to be affected by this emotional merry-go-round
She keeps it cool with her Vans and Vinyl tracks
Sometimes she lets me listen to them with her in her bedroom and lists all these facts
About life and death that've got me coming back
Every day just to see her
Every day just to be her
Every day just to know a part of me knows her
But I'm gonna put it on the line
And say I wanna call this girl mine
Enid rereads the poem seven times. She's certain her sleep-deprived mind is misinterpreting this letter...it has to be! If she didn't know any better she'd say this poem is someone's way of admitting their feelings to her. If she didn't know any better she'd say this poem means somebody LOVES her.
She blindly reaches back into the box to grab a second envelope, her head awhirl in overdrive confusion.
Dear Enid,
I feel like I don't tell you this enough when I see you, but I really like you. Wait, I NEVER say that when I'm around you cuz I'm afraid you'll kick my ass. Ok, never mind. But I do REALLY like you. I like just about everything about you. I like your eyes and your hair. I like how you smell, even when you're all sweaty and stuff. I like how you're cool and collected but how you can be spontaneous and funny around the right people. I love how brave and adventerous you are, you're no annoying-as-shit damsel in distress who waits for someone else to save them, you kick ass yourself. I like how you carry yourself and how you're a good listener. I love those rare moments when you cry too. Not that I like you being sad, of course not! I just like seeing you as human sometimes instead of a kick-ass ninja soldier warrior thing. You're pretty when you cry too, your tears look like little diamonds nuzzled in your eyelashes and dotting along your cheeks. You're pretty when you're happy too, you've got the best smile. I like everything about you. I wouldn't change a thing, even if I could. Well….one thing. I'd make you fall in love with me, but that's the only thing I'd change.
-Mikey
"Mik?" She mutters, her world's rotation pausing, heart stopping in her chest. "Mik?"
She's in total shock. Mikey?! Mikey loves her?! Her friend MIkey?! Mike?! She'd never guess in a million years….well...maybe.
Mik always made sure to stop her to talk, no matter what he was in the middle of doing. And he'd always hung out with her more than Ron had. He'd never gotten pissed or impatient with her for being moody or distant. He'd been an amazing friend, even when she was sub par. He always made offers to hang out, even when she declined 9 out of 10 of them. But….they'd gotten close over time. They'd bonded. Some of the things they bonded over were stupid but fun things they have in common, like Mortal Kombat (which they'd played for 3 hours straight one time in Mikey's basement) and their obsession with Lord of the Rings (one night Mikey slept over so that they could watch all 3 movies back-to-back) and their love of ice cream (sometimes Enid would get a carton of mint chocolate chip, which was both of their favorites, before headed to his place to hang out)
But other things they bonded over were more meaningful and actually about their differences. Mik's never lost anyone like Enid has. He still lives with both his parents and his brother. He still has his family. He doesn't understand the sad aura around her. Doesn't speak the language. Her pain is foreign to him and it makes her all the more interesting and exotic to him. Enid rarely opens up about what she went through before Alexandria. Actually the only people she's really told about her parents are Deanna, a little to Ron, and Carl. But….Mik's a good listener. On the rare occasion that Enid does want to talk, he listens. And she loves the empathy that practically oozes out of him. Loves the way he looks at her like she's brave and strong. The look of awe in his eyes. And she knows he likes the way she stares at him like he's foreign too since he's happy. Since he's talkative and bright and fun. He's like a strobe light and she's fascinated, and she's like a tiger and he can't take his eyes off her as she paces around her enclosure.
Her head spins with the thought of him wanting to be WITH her that way. The thought of him kissing her and holding her hand and calling her shit like 'babe' and 'sweetheart'...the thought of him WANTING that. And it makes her wonder, does she WANT that too? She likes him, sure, but does she really like him LIKE him? She's never thought about it, never seen him in that light. He was a kindred spirit to her, someone who was so different from her, so much more extroverted and easygoing but still had managed to fit into her agenda. It confuses her so much...there's a twister in her head and a hurricane in her stomach as she opens another envelope with mixed emotions of dread and that weird feeling in her chest again.
"My mom told me to be back by sunrise," Ron says as he and Carl sit on Carl's front porch, eating bowls of cereal, still wearing their damp and grassy clothes they slept in. "It's now noon. I'm a deadman when I get home."
Carl snorts. "Want me to write your obituary?"
Ron gives him a little shove but smiles as he chews on soggy corn flakes. "Shut up," he mutters affectionately.
Carl smiles over at him and can't help but think that he looks so sweet. Sitting there smiling like a goofball with milk dripping down his chin and laughter vibrating in his throat, pieces of grass stuck in his messy hair and to his neck, all damp with sweat and morning dew. Eyes still red from crying and lack of sleep, bags under them like thick messy eyeliner.
There's a few minutes of silence as they both eat their cereal and smile at one another. Ron breaks eye contact first, sheepishly smiling down at the half-eaten bowl of cornflakes in his lap.
"I haven't thanked you yet," he mutters.
"You don't need to thank me," Carl replies softly.
"Yeah, I kinda do. I'm a mess….as you've figured out already I assume. And...thanks for listening to my ravings this morning and just letting me….you know, get it all out."
Carl smiles and shakes his head. "You didn't rave this morning….you talked. And….I know you better now. I feel honored that you, like, trust me enough to replay all of that upheaval to me."
Ron smiles sadly at his lap again. "I haven't ever really talked about it before. I've never had someone I trust enough before. I've felt scared talking to anyone else about it, felt like I was either being cornered and forced to talk or totally ignored and screaming out for help with nobody caring. But….I talked to you. I fucking made my autobiography for you this morning with no problems. I wish you'd came into my life sooner. I'm not forced with you and I'm not ignored. And...you, like, care."
"Why wouldn't I care? You're my best friend, I know you've got things in your head….complicated and scary things that are eating you alive," Carl says. "You just needed to get them out in the worst way."
"I honestly was a little scared you'd think I was pathetic," Ron admits. "I always think I am so I guess I just assumed you would too. I always think everyone looks at me and thinks I'm a coward who can't make a difference."
"You're the bravest coward I know and you've made a big difference in my life for someone who can't make any," Carl says sincerely, looking over at him with a meaningful look that chases any lingering self doubt in Ron's being away.