Carl has yet to wake up. In a world like this, you understand that caring for someone who shows very few signs of improvement typically proves futile. You've spent a week tending too his wounds, feeding him the broth of the vegetables you've grown over your time at the cabin and of the animals you've caught while hunting. You didn't like leaving him alone for much longer than an hour or so, just enough time to get some food and water from the stream not too far away.
You'd grown somewhat accustomed to his presence. You could talk all day, not receiving much in response, but knowing that someone was there in the room with you was enough.
The routine had fallen into place naturally. You'd grown accustomed to the simplicity of it, ensuring his comfort and your own survival.
There's nothing but the pale moonlight seeping through the dusty glass, the gentle light falling across Carl's pale features in his slumber. You're curled up on a beaten up pillow beside the fire. There was no calendar, but if you'd have to guess, you'd put the date somewhere around late September. The evenings didn't have the refreshing summer warmth anymore.
Carl's quiet breathing acts as background noise, aiding the room in feeling less still. There's a book propped up in your lap, your eyes laced within the words. It's some worn fantasy book, something about cults and demons. You quietly utter each word under your breath, just faint enough for the words to hit your ears.
The bed creaks as if there's movement, though you brush it off. This place was old, and you weren't the best at house maintenance. Creaks here and there were typical.
"Mom?" There's a quiet strangled cough, like the boy tried to inhale and exhaust simultaneously. His voice is small and weak, almost raspy from the dryness of his throat. You turn to look at him, taking in how he'd propped himself up on his right elbow. "What? I'm not- " You huff realising that's the least of your worries.
"Hey- uh, let's just like - not sit up yet, hmm..." You hum, settling your book down, your feet padding against the floor as you walk towards him.
"It hurts -" He huffs, his blue eye looking up at you as you gently guide him back down against the pillow. "I know, I'm sorry." You apologise, pressing the back of your hand against his sweat clad forehead; he wasn't nearly as clammy as he had been. All signs of fever leaving his body.
"Where- where am I?" His forehead wrinkles as his eye darts around the room before landing on you. As if he was trying to figure out if you were trustworthy while also relying on you for some form of comfort. That of some pray animal has spotted you, far of in the distance, trying to work out what species you belong to.
"You're in my cabin. You got bit, I saved you." You whisper, trying to put it as light as possible.
"Bit?" His eye goes wide, he coughs, looking around for the bite. He looks up at you with glossed over eyes. "Am I gonna die?" He croaks, visibly trying to hold back tears. You shake your head, trying to put a comforting smile on your face, something somewhat reassuring, "No, you'll be okay." You lie, forcing the reassurance, you truly didn't know if he'd be okay, something could happen, the wound could get infected or- you push the thought aside.
"Where's everyone?" He whispers, looking up at you, he seems almost child-like, when you think about it, he kinda is. "I found you alone..." You sigh, moving to perch on the edge of the mattress, the old wooden boards creaking under your weight.
"Alone?" He quirks his left eyebrow, his gaze more gentle, more trusting of you.
"Only you can tell me what happened." You nod, not really thinking about how harsh it sounded. Especially for someone who'd seemingly forgotten everything that had led to this moment.
"I found you, bitten and alone. I don't know who you are, who you were with, what happened." You hum.
"So, why did you save me?" He whispers, like he's fearing some hidden aspects to this, fearing the idea that he might owe you for saving him. "Because you needed saving...?" You pull a questioning look, confused for a moment about his uncertainty before remembering in the world as it stood, genuine acts of kindness typically didn't come without strings attached.
"I don't even remember - I just." He sighs, turning his head away from you. His brown hair feathers over the fabric of the pillow, slightly dampened with sweat and lightened by the sun. It was long and unruly. You didn't know much about him personally, but you had a feeling his hair matched him perfectly.
"The brains kinda...wired to do that. Trauma, I mean, I'm no real doctor, but from what I've read. People block stuff out."
He blinks. You don't need to know if he's listening. In all reality, he had nothing else to do but listen. In his state, any attempt to run for it, he would've ended up worse than how you'd found him. Weak, without weapons it was practically a death sentence.
"I don't block stuff out." He says matter-of-factly. His gaze somewhere far away. Not on you. Not on anything in this cabin.
"I just- I was trying to reassure you. It'll probably come back to you at some point." You huff, reaching down to straighten out your trousers, feeling a slight draft on your ankles.
"I was, out- n'I think-" He pauses, trying to force something to come back to him. "The community- was I shot?" He glances at you.
"I said you were bitten by a walker?" You pause. "You have scars but I couldn't tell you what off..." You continue, glancing at the bandage over his eye. You'd taken a look just to clean it, but you didn't know what caused it. It could've been anything, a knife, a bullet, the shrapnel from an explosion, some poorly done surgery for an issue with the eye itself, the scars from haphazardly done sutures and the way the flesh had healed ment there was no real way to determine what caused the injury.
"I was shot." He responds, "my eye then my side- or" He trails off. Side? You'd only seen the faintest little dip of rougher, pinker skin on his abdomen. Even then, it didn't seem like much to bother looking at.
"I saw the eye, I've been cleaning it, it looks only a few months old..." You respond, his right hand reaching up to feel for the bandage, clocking it's not the usual one he'd use.
"Yeah- I think- i- I can't remember..." He whispers, his eye blinking like he's growing tired.
"M'not surprised." You coo, not daring to force much else about him. You weren't all too surprised by his fuzzy memory and slightly disorientated state. You'd been expecting it.
He hums, muffling something about sleep before letting his eye close fully.
He sleeps for a solid twelve hours, and you nod off here and there. The sun's gently pouring in through the windows when he wakes up again. You'd been out, tracked a squirrel only to find it half eaten, and gathered some water which you'd boiled upon your return too the cabin.
Carl huffs, blinking at you as you turn the heat down on the last of the water. You knew streams tended to be fairly clean and drinkable, but after a less than enjoyable week of puking your guts up from something in the water, you'd learnt your lesson.
"I thought it was night." He whispers, looking out the window, his eyes focused on a small bluebird perched on a slightly bare branch just outside.
"You went back to sleep." You respond, leaving the water too cool.
"Things feeling a little less fuzzy now?" You question, valuing responses from the boy more than he'd ever know. Part of you had forgotten the idea that he'd ever leave you. He'd wake up, and wanna go home, and you'd be alone again.
"Mmm, everything feels more in-place now." He sighs, he's clearly trying to ignore the pain.
"I cleaned that and your eye before i went out this morning." You whisper, settling down at your table, resting your elbows on the smooth wooden surface.
He sighs, feeling slightly more aware of himself, his surroundings, and his arm. He wrinkles his brow, glancing at you, watching as you struggle to read his expression.
"I know. M'sorry, it'll take a little getting used to."
He nods, glancing down at the fresh bandage. "I'm covered in scars." He whispers, knowing that you understand he doesn't just mean skin level. "Everyone is." You hum in response.
"I think scars are pretty, not in a weird way, they're like art to me." You hum, absentmindedly tracing the thin scar on the palm of your right hand, its rough raised surface warm against your fingertip. "Art?" He pulls a questioning look, you knew nothing you'd say could ever be reassuring enough given the amount of scars carls young flesh lay home to. "Like the bodies way of painting a picture of survival in its flesh, I can't help but question the stories behind them"
"Stray bullet." You pose a questioning expression to carls words, "Ricocheted back at me, kid tried to kill me twice before." He hums, shifting slightly in bed.
"I hate looking at it." He sighs, bringing his hand too the bandage. "Its so- it's hardly a nice scar, more that of a hole in my head. for a week after I woke up I'd wished it would've been the end."
"You shouldn't say stuff like that." You whisper, he looks at you, with such exhaustion laced into his youthful features.
"Everything that has happened to me, I can't seem to die." He states, matter-of-factly like he's grown resentment too his luck. You can't figure out what to say, staring at him like some stranger. In all reality he was a stranger, all the talking to him in his unconscious state didn't aid in any bond forming, all he knew was the darkness of sleep. And he had no way of responding, you'd been too overjoyed with the mere idea of having a living person in the room that you'd not grasped the fact that when he woke up you'd have to get to know him and he'd have to get to know you.
as you take him in, you gather the understanding that this boy is a product of this world and nothing more. "The worlds my father, and I've got its looks." Carl says as if he's read your mind.
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