Bad feelings are one part of what sucks about this world. Good feelings are the other. Because the good stuff is what can get taken from you, the rug that gets pulled out from under you. A warming feeling that, once it's gone, leaves you out in the...
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M E G A N
Siddiq.
The occasional grenade detonates, rattling the underground and everything in the tunnel along with it. Dust and dirt rain down on us, falling from the ceiling, following every rattling explosion.
There have been many times where I'd accepted death. Several, of which, have been the possibility of facing my own. It's difficult to decipher between the good and the bad, when I often think about how my death—above anyone else's—would be the easiest for me to handle. And, right now, I'm immersed in the news that I'll have to soon go through the hardest demise of all.
The death of Carl Grimes.
A father grieves over the inevitable loss of his son. The woman, who'd grown to be the boy's best friend, also sits at his side. A blank, worrisome stare on her face.
As I also continue kneeling down, next to the dusty cot, with every intention to somehow help the boy—to somehow reverse this—I can bring myself to do nothing, except hold his hand in mine, as I try to come to terms with the unchangeable reality. My fingers spread out across the back of his warm, sweaty hand, that lies atop his chest.
The three of them exchange words of explanation. More-so just Carl, as the adults can not yet process the thoughts of their own.
The dying boy makes use of his limited time, by letting the other two people closest to him in on whatever'd happened in the woods yesterday, when he left to bring back the man from the gas station. He was bitten, trying to help someone who—it turned out—is not a Savior. Not that Carl's outcome would've been much different, if the boy did go blindly chasing after someone from that group.
In the process of accepting his fate, the boy'd written the two adults their very own personal letters, as a means to make sure he got the chance to say his goodbyes.
His every, echoing word counts. Now, more than ever. Now that he's been given an expiration date to his own life. My mind guiltily allows Carl's feeble voice to play in the background, while my avoidant thoughts run wild.
I try to listen.
I try to concentrate.
I hear his words.
I do.
But—despite the fact that I am knelt at the sight of such a pure, emotional rehashing—my focus stays glued to one thing. One man, that I stare at through my bitterly narrowed eyes.
