It takes him a moment to remember to move. It takes a moment to look into his son’s eyes and tell him that things were going to be fine. But now that he’s here he knows that there’s nothing he could say to assuage what had happened. What had happened. He felt the weight of the blood on his own two hands, the way it stained the creases of his palms and sank deep into his skin like he had been the one to wield that bat that Negan had taken down to two of their own.
A hole. Too many holes and Rick felt the gritty feeling of knowing he was responsible. Every decision ached within him and he knew that he was the reason it had happened. He led these people, he was the head of their small group, their small family and now two more were dead. No one ever stopped dying and with each new grave dug or new name written on the gates Rick felt it weigh further inside of him.
The porch creaks, he can hear the flakes of paint dust off the spinters beneath his boots. It’s so quiet. Everyone feels it. Everyone is worried. Everyone is afraid. Rick is tired, exhausted even but he can’t sleep because every single time that he closes his eyes he sees it, he hears it, he feels it. It hurts, it breaks, it echoes like an ever aching wound that won’t ever heal or disappear. It’s his own scar and he bears it, he will have to bear it.
Finally he moves towards Carl and settles down on the swing beside him, his knee hitting the porch foundation as he nods. He had seen Carol take Judith, had kissed her small head and for a moment had felt hope rise again. But with each splinter of hope that existed Rick knew that even more pain would come quickly behind it.
“Did y'sleep?” he questioned softly, defeating the glare of the sun beating down on him as he turned his eyes towards his son. Sleep. It didn’t seem necessary, not anymore.
what good would sleep be? he knows that he wouldn't be able to if he had tried. had he tried? he had sat down by Judy when she was asleep. with his eyes opened and unmoving. and he kept seeing it over and over again in his head. when he had tried to cry for them he felt completely dry. he felt a little drained. and he felt empty. he felt the cold slicing chill of anger. had he slept? he had been so still he had forgotten he was even alive. maybe he had slept. like some small form of death. he had been vacant. maybe that's what sleep was anyways.
he hears the creek of the swing. he feels it deep inside of him. he feels the noise. it's the first thing he felt in a while since the anger had come in, pouring in like some violent storm. he didn't want to be out here in the heat of the sun. he wanted to be loading up the car with guns and storming Negan. he wanted to see his blood run on the ground at his feet. he wanted to know that they hadn't come this far just to be pushed down. he refused to believe that they had lost.
but he remembers his dad crying, the look in his eyes. had he ever seen him that scared? he remembers the cold felt of the marker on his skin. and he had already thinking of how his life would be without an arm, without an eye. it could have been funny. if he wanted to laugh it off. it'd be easier to laugh than it would be to cry. but he had cried, hadn't he? he had done it all. he had laughed. he had cried. he had screamed.
had he slept? that's what his dad asked. had his dad? he didn't look at it. he didn't like looking at him right now. there was something missing there. and he wasn't sure what he was. he swallowed harshly and felt a glaze over his eyes. his dad. his dad was a man full of hope. had been. had been one to take care of everyone. kept them all alive.
"I did." he lies. he tells the truth. it's all bitter in the end anyways. and he feels a little weaker because of it. "a little." a small shrug of his shoulders. "It was so quiet. I couldn't stay sleeping. I can't sit still."
