Love
xxxxx
A man of misplaced faith asked Carl a question once.
What is love?
Carl doesn't remember his answer. Probably, likely, he made something up. He's not one for sentiment, hasn't been for a long time. But counting the minutes that pass between each labored rise and fall of his father's bloodied chest? Watching beads of sweat coalesce and soak into the shaggy salt and pepper curls splayed over a time-stained pillow? He recalls that question, and his heavy heart speaks.
It's Sunday morning pancakes, the weight of a proud hand on his shoulder.
It's gentle fingers in his hair and a pair of scissors, the shading brim of a too-big Sheriff's hat.
Sun slants through the window, a starburst of light paints the room golden, masks the pallor of his father's skin, almost makes him look peaceful, and for a too-brief moment, Carl lets himself believe. Seconds stretch into minutes into what feels like hours, and his father's breaths rattle. They wheeze. He traces a calloused fingertip across the heavy handle of his knife, registers the cold press of metal at the small of his back, and he swallows hard, tries to clear his mind, but that question…that question won't leave him alone.
It's comic books, the last Big Cat.
It's his baby sister's head resting against his heart, the first time discovery of the North Star.
His vigil will not last much longer. Carl knows this. He lifts a hand to his face, slides his grimy, feverish fingers beneath the patch that is but an afterthought now, just another (missing) part of him, and the threadbare fabric flutters to the floor. He ignores the wetness that seeps into the dirty whorls of his skin, disregards the tremor that betrays his wavering resolve. He thinks instead of three figures disappearing over the crest of a hill, the sun at their backs. The sharp glitter glint of Michonne's katana, the hint of fire in Judith's long dark waves, and the rising tide of sadness in Carol's blue eyes as she looked back, one last time.
It's a knife to the belly, the bearing of teeth to evil's throat.
It's a bullet to the brain, the sudden, merciful plunge of a blade.
The silence lasts but a second before the shot rings out, and Carl Grimes simply ceases to be, the answer to that question finally, finally clear to him.
Love is letting go.
xxxxx
Sorry for this.
Who knew what should have been a fluffy prompt would turn into a multiple character death ficlet?
Certainly not me.
I hope you...enjoyed really is the wrong word, isn't it? Ah,well. I hope you did anyway. ;)
Feedback is love.