51: Kindness and Its Pitfalls

I set the medical supplies on the table just outside the prison and looked at Carl, Beth who was holding Judith, "Are you three okay?"

"Yeah," Carl eyed the tools apprehensively; "You got them before they could hurt us."

"Good," I unscrewed the top of the vodka bottle, "Have you been practicing your sewing?" He shook his head, at least he was being honest about it. I took a long swig from the bottle, "Don't worry, it's like riding a bike. The kit is sterilized, but let me get your hands," he held out his hands and I poured the liquor over them, "Perfect, now thread the needle and I'll clean out the first one." As he went to his task I carefully removed the towel I'd been clutching to stop some of the bleeding. The gash had been deep enough to nick a few tendons, but I could still move my hand for the most part. I double-checked my trigger finger; still got it. I poured the booze over the cut and sucked in a sharp breath. It burned and tingled and I wanted to scream, but I knew I couldn't. I couldn't do that to Carl, I had to be strong. I smiled up at him and held out my hand on the table, "Go for it, buddy."

He leaned over and made the first prick; it was far too deep and I couldn't control my grunt. "Sorry," he stopped his movements. I reached over with my good hand and patted his arm in support.

"Don't be. Mistakes are how we learn." He started back up again, and I did better controlling myself, "You don't have to go so deep," he apologized again and continued, this time with a lighter hand. "There, that's right."

"Annie?" Beth's voice was quiet.

"Yep?" I looked up at her with a smile.

She moved Judith to rest on her shoulder, "Where did you learn to fight like that?"

I nodded to the forest, "Out there."

She looked around for a second, clearly hoping not to be overheard, "Can you, can you teach me?"

"If Hershel says yes." Her face fell for a second, but I think she knew that Hershel would give in eventually. I motioned to my hand, "I'll need to heal a bit first, though."

"I think Judith wants some food," she got up and headed back inside just as Carl tied the final stitch.

"Good job," I gave him a thumbs up with my newly patched hand. I swung my leg onto the bench and poured some of the vodka over it, "And now for the leg." He went to work immediately, this time with more confidence. While he was stitching I cleaned my hand once more before wrapping some fresh gauze around it. Every now and then I took a swig from the bottle, it helped keep my mind off of what was happening with my leg.

"Is it hard to kill people who are alive?" Carl looked up after he tied the last stitch.

The truth was that it wasn't necessarily hard to kill people, but the aftermath, the guilt, the unceasing questioning, that was the hardest thing imaginable. I decided to bend the truth, "Not when they threaten the people I care about."

"I wonder if I'll have to kill someone," he set the supplies on the table.

"No." His eyes questioned me when he looked over, but I didn't change my stern expression. Carl should never feel like this, like heaven might not be attainable. Carl shouldn't have to deal with the guilt. He had enough to deal with. I sanitized the would before wrapping the wound with gauze. When I was finished I stood up on it at looked down to my buddy, my best friend, my brother, "Promise you'll let me do the killing."

He nodded.

-o0o-

I looked around for Carol, but she wasn't inside. Finally Michonne pointed me toward the guard tower. I made my way up the stairs, as the faces of the three men flowed through my mind. When I opened the door I found Carol and Daryl sitting together. I couldn't tell if they had been talking or not, but I didn't really care about that.

"Carol, do you think I can talk to you?" I nodded towards the stairs. She took a few timid steps forwards and I noted the look of concern on Daryl's face. I wonder if he ever had that face because of me. I brushed off the thought and forced a smile, "I'll have her back in a minute or two, I swear."

I stepped past her and she followed me down the stairs, "What do you—"

"Here," I turned and handed her an old bar of chocolate that I had pulled from my secret stash.

She took it while eyeing me, "What's this for?"

"If I were you I'd be shaken up by all of that," I tried to sound as friendly as possible, "Figured you could use some chocolate." She just looked at me like she always did, even after saving her, like I was some sort of inconvenience. "Also, here," I handed her the knife and sheath that I took off the dead man, "You should have this."

"Why?" She just looked at my outstretched hand. Just keep being nice Annie.

"What doesn't kill us makes us stronger, right? At least that's what they say." She took the knife from my hand, "If you need any help figuring out how to use that thing I'd be more than happy to show you a few things."

She didn't let up, "I'll think about it."

"Well, that's it. See you at dinner." You know that thing they say about killing people with kindness, that was the new plan. When dealing with people who obviously still hated me regardless of any daring feats that saved their lives I would simple be sweet enough to dole out toothaches. All I had to do was resist my urge to kill her, and I'd already been doing that since I got here. I can do this. Michonne walked up to me as I made my way to the table.

"What did you talk to that woman about?"

I shrugged, "Trying to be nice."

"Why bother?" there was a hint of laughter to her voice. I couldn't agree with her more; Carol didn't deserve my kindness, but I had the long game to look at. And the long game required me to play nicely.

I looked up to the guard tower, "Figured I'd give it a try, see how it goes, ya know?"

"Whatever you say," I could tell from the way she said it that she knew what I was up to. Good old Michonne, nothing gets past her. "We cleaned up the bodies, tossed them out in a pile of walkers."

"Good." When I sat she sat. She didn't say anything, just sat there next to me. After my time on the road, after everything, this was the kind of companionship I preferred. The only problem was the lack of noise. Noise was a distraction, and now it was gone. Now all I had was the visions of the faces of the men I'd killed. How many had it even been? Ten? Twenty? When did I stop counting? Close to twenty, that was it. Twenty people dead, and not walkers, real people. People who were still themselves, albeit their worst selves. I didn't even realize I had spoken until the last word crossed my lips, "Do you think I'm going to hell?"

"What?"

She had been thinking of something else too. I repeated, "Do you think I'm going to hell?"

"Why would you ask that?" her calm, steady voice cut at me.

Time for a bit of confession, "I've killed more than a few people, actual living people. Around twenty."

The way she looked at me didn't change, it hadn't changed after what happened this morning, I don't think it would ever change. Her acceptance of me and all my flaws brought some level of comfort, "I'm sure they gave you a reason."

"But does that justify it?" I looked down at my hand, bandaged but I am still alive. I won't be alive forever, though. One day my heart will stop, and I will shuffle off this mortal coil. One day, soon probably, I will have to face the consequences for the evils I have committed. That's just how the world works. "Don't get me wrong, I'd do it all again the same way, I just wonder if I'll get to see my family when this is all done."

"I can't answer that," she stood up, "But I don't think there's an evil bone in your body, kid."

"Thanks," I looked up at her. She meant it; I could see it on her face. She thought I was good. But she didn't know the whole truth; no one knew the whole truth. No one could ever know. I killed people. I struggled daily with a desire to chow down on the other white meat. I am a monster, even if I can control it. Underneath I am no better than the men I had killed. I wonder if God could forgive that much? I wonder if anyone could forgive that much? I certainly couldn't. I buried my self-hatred, putting on a smile and following Michonne inside for dinner.

-o0o-

"Carol hates you," I looked up from my book to Daryl, wondering for a second if I'd just imagined him speaking. It wasn't abnormal for him to not leave right when I got there for my night shift, but he'd never really said anything to me since I let him have a cigarette the first night. He was looking at me, so he must've actually said that.

I looked back to my book, "I know," I flicked some ashes in the bowl I'd converted into an ashtray.

"Then why'd you save her?"

I shifted in my chair and looked over at him, "I save people who need saving, doesn't really matter if they don't like me, or they don't appreciate it." He'd seemed satisfied with the answer, but I continued, "I'd help you too, if you ever needed it." I took another long puff, "It's just what I do, I don't have to think about it."

"You killed them without thinking about it?" The tone of his wasn't something I had heard for months. It was the same tone he used to speak to me with, and for a moment I flew back to that place and time, those brief moments when I thought I had actually found something in him. It only lasted a moment though. The accusatory words, the distance between us, all of that leftover hostility hanging around in the air; whatever had been was long gone. Now all that I had was my family and my hunger and my guilt.

"I have the rest of my life to think about it," I stuffed the butt into the bowl. "Do you think I should've let them live?" I swiveled my chair slightly to face him as he walked towards the door.

"You did what you had to," and then he was gone. The borderline sweetness in his voice had disappeared as well. I had probably just imagined it in the first place, anyway. What use is sweetness out here anyway? Sure, being kind to the group was going to serve my purpose in getting to be second in command, but what did anyone else out here have to be sweet about? Nothing, that's what.

Hope you guys enjoyed this chapter (I know it's short, but I wanted to get something out today). :)

QUESTION TIME! (copied from Uncomfortably Numb author's note) As a writer I am always worried about my work (it's natural, don't blame me). So, if you have the time I'd love a critical examination of my work thus far (character composition, plot, portrayal of canon characters, general writing skills). :)) I'd love you forever, even if you have mean things to say. See, I would love to be a writer professionally, and this is what I'm doing to boost my chops, so all critique and such is appreciated. :)