The coolness of the dark night's air did nothing to calm the agony that exploded in his head. He could feel his strength fade away, almost as quickly as last night's dream when he sipped his morning's coffee.
"…takin' it like a champ…"
He thought he heard the new arrival say something, but the warm embrace of death overpowered the ringing in his ears as he slipped away from the world that became so cruel.
...
His crystal blue eyes snapped open as he gasped for air. Rick lay where he was, trying to be still, as he tried to focus on an all-to familiar sight. His empty hospital room, quiet and sterile.
Moments ticked by as he tried to focus on what he thought he was seeing.
The sunlight poured through the windows as he slowly turned his head to see the blue and white floral vase, the dead flowers leaning over the rim and petals strewn on the side table.
This can't be happening.
As his consciousness slowly crept back, just barely enough to match the brightness of the room, he tried to focus on what he could. His right hand moved to his left side, his fingertips gliding over the fresh bandage that covered his skin. His hands immediately searched for the button to call for the nurse, but it stubbornly remained hidden.
Trying to make sense of the situation, his hands went to the top of his head, searching for the damage that only a barbed-wire cover baseball bat could cause. His felt nothing but his scalp, his hair tickling his fingers as he became more aware of the fact that he was back to where his story began.
"Nurse!" He yelled, panic setting in.
As the moments ticked by without anyone responding to him, he pulled the sheet back and slowly moved his legs to the edge of the bed.
It was only then that he was able to smell the indistinguishable stench of decay.
Oh God. Please help me.
After pulling out his IV he slowly walked to the bathroom and saw his own face, the on he remembered from long ago. No scars from fistfights, just a scruffy beard, and clean but sweaty skin.
He turned on the tap and cupped his hand to gulp down the water that remained in the pipe. He tried to ignore the stale metallic taste as he quenched his thirst. When the water slowly stopped, he walked back to his bed, sat on the cool sheet and immediately started to cry until his body shook with sobs.
...
He was laser focused on every precise detail, occasionally slapping his own face to try to wake up from whatever dream he was convinced he was still having. Everything was the same as he remembered from so long ago. The nurse, lying dead on the floor, her body eviscerated by the walkers. The bloody handprints and bullet holes on the walls, warning "Don't Open, Dead Inside" on the doors leading to the cafeteria. The dozens and dozens of bodies that covered the hospital's loading dock.
He solemnly climbed the embankment and passed the helicopter before looking for any spare weapons. He found a couple AR-15s, some ammo, and a handgun before his eyes landed on a single hand grenade.
"The CDC." he whispered to himself.
With his head on a swivel, always looking for somebody, or something, that would hurt him, he stuffed everything he could find into a canvas bag and hopped into a Military jeep, and drove home.
...
He looked around his house, and it was just as he remembered. Clothes strewn about, dresser drawers empty, and photo albums missing.
"I need to find them." Rick whispered to himself, thinking of his wife and child. Lori and Carl.
Rick raised his hand and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger.
Memories rushed back, mistakes he made, people he lost, people who died because of his mistakes.
Amy. Jacqui. Jenner. Tyreese. Hershel. Beth.
The faces he prayed he would never see again flashed in front of him.
The Governor. Gareth. Joe.
Negan.
He convinced himself that he was in purgatory. Maybe this was how he was doomed to live the rest of his life. Maybe he is still in his coma. Maybe he is still in the field, writhing in agony on the ground, desperately trying to catch his breath as Shane's face hovered over him, calmly yet sternly telling him to breathe.
...
As the minutes ticked by, each one blending into the next, Rick remained at his seat at the kitchen table, behind a securely locked door. The empty house was too quiet, as if it was mocking him with the solitude.
The last time he was in the kitchen the air was thick with the bitter words between Lori and himself. When his family was family was falling apart and he walked away. He was always walking away.
"So that's it, huh? You're just gonna walk off? Just to hell with everybody else?"
He stood slowly, shuffled to the window when he saw a man, dressed in black, slowly stumbling down the road. He instantly recognized the man who walked up to him and immediately shot him in the head. The walker crumbled to the ground before the familiar face walked away.
Morgan.
Morgan, who helped him through his first night of the madness.
Morgan, whom he helped with weapons before the two parted at the police station.
Morgan. The man who lost his boy to the monster that once was his wife.
I need to clear.
The Sheriff decided that if his fate is to live this life over and over again, he won't make the same mistakes. Carl getting shot, Sophia going missing and ending up in the barn. Lori being gutted on the revolting floor of the prison's boiler room.
"Hershel, there's nothing left."
He inhaled deeply, trying to absorb the familiar scents of his home as much as he could.
Rick Grimes knew that as soon as he opened his door and walked out to meet Morgan again, this hell would start anew.
Checking himself, with a fresh pair of blue jeans and a simple white tee-shirt, he pulled on his worn sneakers and walked to the front entryway of his home.
With his spare handgun in his left hand, he turned the doorknob and opened the door.