𝑰. ▬▬✧*:.｡

,𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒏𝒆𝒘

𝕿eeth, Two and a half, trunk, girl,

They proceeded within the boy's mind subsequently at a moderate pattern. Replaying themselves in the farther profundity of his cerebrum. Over and over it ricocheted; like a small rousing counting rhyme.

Then it quickened; merging the words into one.

Teethtwoandahalftrunkgirl!

It was as if he were sat inside a car while staring to a variety of distinct trees that passed through his vision- and then as the vehicle sped up; the once distinct trees composed a messy and confusing myriad of green and golden hues.

Twoandahalfgirltrunkteeth!

The speed reached a point where it felt unbearable for the brain to process. Each word was ripped, fragmented into tiny bits of puzzle, then re-clustered into an array of nonsense. Like a stuck tape, it looped in a wild and mad fashion. Mad enough to blow someone's head like a juicy water-lemon hit with a hammer.

Tirlholfwatgruntandaheek!

But then, the words faded as miscellaneous sounds made their entrance. The rustling of leaves against a soft breeze, the whistling of the wind as it slipped through the cracks. Yet, another concordance of dull whack came at widely spaced intervals. It was inward. Like a mad fist was bumping against a punch bag, the noises drummed heavily. For some obscure reasons, they felt strange and brand new.

Boom, boom, boom. It turned harsher and louder creating a wave of tremor as it scoured down his whole frame. But stillness lingered over his members restraining them like plaster that remained rigid as a piece of wood. The sonorities faded in the haze and blackness overpowered. A pause. But then, the fist backed away gathering momentum.

BOOM!

The fist freed itself from his rib cage. Like electroshocks sending a rush of volts through his bloodstream, his torso jerked upward briskly. Mounting up to the air as though it were catching back the boy's soul as it attempted to exit from his sternum.

His eye shot open.

A cerulean blueness fired to life in the midst of an empty white desert. Like a switch flaring on a bulb it's been linked to, his lashes wet and heavy like lead fluttered together haphazardly. A harsh and dry gulp followed by the venting noises coming from an erratic and unsteady breath sounded loudly round the stillness dominating the atmosphere. And every breath filled the hollows like clouds filling the sky.

White. All he could lay an eye on was the bright light that blinded his sight.

One question resounded in the back of his head. Which oddly ticked over and over.

You're dead?

Deep in his bones, he knew the question was legitimate. An eldritch concordance of overlapping answers emanated from his brain; all different from the previous one. Yes, you are. His core stalled for a second. I don't know, maybe you should. His brows furrowed. Such a silly question, you've been dead since everything started. Heaving in a slow breath, he narrowed readjusting his sight. A tear slipped out. Then he realized, the light was just a mere white ceiling. And everything became real, too real.

Oh, no you're not.

His limbs were desensitized, bones tremulous and fragile as a three-years-old's stick-drawing. His throat was sore and scorched with dryness. It felt like, blazing ivies of spikes were clawing firmly into his trachea. He wanted to talk, yell, cry his guts out. But the idea of being strangled, ripped inside by those imaginary spikes frightened him.

Sharply, he inhaled another puff of oxygen. Lungs inflating as pain, stiff and rough ran inside of him. His skin was met with a comfortable and well-furnished surface. It was warm and smooth at the touch, which fizzled out, a bit, the sense of anxiousness trickling down his bones like icy water.

With great worry and bewilderment clustered in, his lonely eye hon in on his body as it scoured down a plain white blanket covering the bareness of his chest.

Sweat was pouring out of the opened pores that dotted over his skin, clinging to the end of his hair, shaggy and messy, then landing on whatever was underneath him. He felt like he was drowning in his own wild storm of sweat and tears. So sticky. Like cement, his back was glued to the once immaculate fabric; his weight was sunk into the mattress swallowing his figure like treacherous quicksand.

A mattress?

Another question rung out. As far as the young male could recollect, Negan pinched them every mattresses they got. Alexandria did no longer possess any comfy bed. Then, he understood. You're not home...

He gaped at his surroundings. He was in a room. Large and clean. His head tilted to the side, gaze meeting another bed with no soul in it and a small bedside table neighboring it. He lifted his gaze; a glass of water stood high onto the piece of furniture with pure majesty. The microscopic constellations of bubbles swimming inside the container indicated it has been left out for a while. A tiny shrill, similar as a cry of distress left his lips at the sight of it.

Golden rays streamed across the walls, buoyant dusts glistering in the air against the subdued sunlight like specks of gold. Those rays. The shadows cast by them to the wall. They were wrong, like gridded by vertical and horizontal dark, shadowy, thick lines. Same as the ones he saw across the concrete of his old home. The prison.

During a brief second, the boy was convinced he was back at the prison but no. The prison walls weren't that shiny and big, they were a dull oppressive grey rejecting an odor of mould and rust.

Then where are you?

Tentatively, he shifted and with a groan; he attempted to hoist himself up on his elbows, but a weight and the soft clicking of steel whispering in his ears pulled him back. He looked back.

One of his wrists was tied to the edge of the bed with the grip of firm handcuffs. His hand clenched into a fist and cling sounds of metal rubbing against metal echoed as the boy began to jerk his hand from the strangling bounds.

The noise of his heaves became more apparent, the pulsation of his core pounding against his ears. He was so weak that each action made him even more numb. Panic commenced to catch in the back of his throat, and his puny kid's movements weren't bringing anything than a stinging dolor to his waist.

Feeling a little shaky, he ceased on his movements and used his one free hand to sat up wincing as his muscles writhed with fragility and stiffness. Fingers grasped onto the warm fabric and flung it off him in one swift motion. Then, his gaze landed down a large, wide bandage wrapped around his stomach. Suddenly, the thought crashed into his mind again.

Teeth.

This time, it was clear and loud and meaningful. Small images flashed and shafted their way through his mind, drawing upwards every hair residing in his freckled skin. He started to remember; Siddiq, the walkers, the snarls nearing his body threateningly, Death being in direct contact with his living state, the rotten teeth picking into his skin. It didn't put an explanation to how he ended up in this situation, but it was something. Something he could at least cling onto.

Right when he was about to utter something, strangled coughs jolted out of him. He brought a hand to his neck whilst irritation stabbed through his esophagus.

Instinctively, his eye directly glanced over to the glass of water. Hesitation commenced to pulse inside his skull, but thirst overlapped the pilings of blurred emotions that grew inside the boy's mind, winning victoriously. With as much fragmented strength as he managed to muster, he shifted on his side and stretched his arm forward unable to move any other part of his body freely. It's okay you can do this. He thought. That cannot be that hard. No matter how much he strained under the inferno sweeping within him, it remained a good five inches above the tips of his nails. Members quivering at the efforts that had been gathered, the pad of his finger faintly stroked at the glass.

Come on shitface, get it!

Impatience took over. He charged forward, grasped onto the glass. But the object slipped out of his grip falling from the furniture, and his body followed as it clumsily lost its balance.

A dull thud joined by a symphony of glass shattering against a hard surface bounced across the room. His face made a harsh collision with a floor. He squeezed his lids tight shut. Falling from a bed has never felt so painful.

A flash, Trunk

He saw himself. A bucolic scenery of leaves and whistling of birds whirled around him. Mother nature's soft melody dwindled as the sound of feet scraping against muddy grass, and dead vegetations planted its way in the air. He was looking for something or someone. Eye darting through every branch that scratched his vision, cold sweat trickled down his pale skin like oil.

And he came to a halt resting his hand over his gun. He found what he was looking for. His gaze cast over a trunk, were he could sight someone knelt beside it.

Unable to get a glimpse of the stranger's face, he moved forward. The boy swallowed approaching the person who was about the stand up on his feet.

Without thinking, he sped up and shoved the stranger against the trunk, only to see his actions being retaliated. Faint grunts and panted drifted as both struggled to control each other's moves. There was a last and unintentional move. The boy's head slammed hard against the tree bark causing him to lose his balance and collapse.

"Oh, shit, shit, shit! Freakin' freckled bitch!" A series of curses came out whilst the boy was graying out on the damp ground. The voice was feminine, breathy from the fight that had occurred previously.

He could still perceive steps thudding back and forth hurriedly. Until they stopped and restarted sounding louder as they neared him. Fingers wrapped themselves around the hem of his shirt lifting it up. Hesitantly, they brushed past his skin; where a gauze was neatly hiding a mortal wound. A small pause.

"You should've not come after me."

Then he allowed the thick film of black pitchy-tar to envelop him.

More coughs pulled him up, hand still tied to the side of the bed, the other one firmly relying onto the cold and unfamiliar ground. Quivering in weakness and anticipation filling his lungs, vomit poured out of him as it emptied from his chest. The pain. Oh, he felt the pain throbbing through every part, every crevice, every atom that constituted his poor frame.

Out of breath his surrounding was swaying between blurriness and clarity; he collapsed burying his cheeks into his own puke. The substance was flimsy, drenched with a scent of bile that was mixed with chemicals and antibiotics. He flipped, laying flat on his back; oblivious to the crimson spot expanding onto his bandage. He faced back the mere white ceiling as it turned into a blinding light again.

Another flash, now different from the previous ones. Two and a half

A surge of blue light swelling into an indelicate neon shade. Two faces covered with masks, surgical gloves hovering him loomed to his sight. Half of his vison was taken by a black hue. He stared down, and realized he was wearing an anesthetic facemask. His eye started to dart up and down, right and left.

All he could glance at, were the bright splotches and the spiderweb of tubes and the gloves filling his sight. Suddenly, there was a kiss of metal pushing deep into his skin. A cold sensation ran along his right arms. He blinked.

"Intravenous is in place." The voice was professional, and poised.

Slowly, the boy's gaze hon in down to the owner of those last words. At the same moment, his orbs met with dark marron eyes hidden behind translucent glasses. The stranger's eyes frowned and glanced up.

"He's waking up, we need to put him under. Now."

"Did you find the propofol?"

"I'm on it. How much?" Another voice, strong, thick, however less collected than the previous one.

"Two and a half per kilo."

"Okay..." A sigh and the man who owned the deep voice repeated the words as they rolled from his tongue anxiously "Two and a half."

The door burst open. And a silhouette loomed in front of the teenager whose features were all trapped in a sense of pure daze.

"Rhodes! What part of stay away from this room don't you understand? Not until we bury-" A raspy voice with a tinge of a southern accent laced through it, rung out. A voice belonging to only one person. He could recognize it among many other ones. His heart sunk as he identified the voice of his,

"D-dad?" He whimpered, fear trickling in his tone like a small child. Sole of boots scraped against the shards as the figure walked to his direction and crouched beside the wounded boy. He wore a pepper-grey beard on his sunken cheeks. Rick Grimes' head tilted slightly as he squinted his piercing blue eye at his boy. He looked different. Older.

"It's me, son. I'm right here." His reply was soft, a warm grin twisting up his face. And shaky breath left the son's chapped lips.

"I'm scared..." He croaked out. Tears clung onto the bream of his crystal blue eye, and chin quivering for a reason he hadn't grasped onto.

His paternal laughed passing a hand through his son's hair and shook his head before asking to his son. "Who are you, son?"

"Carl Grimes." He responded; Rick nodded addressing another soothing smile. "Right." The man breathed, admiration plastered over his features. Carl's throat started clenching again, his stomach tightened sending an uncomfortable feeling as it rose through his chest. Thinly, another mouthful of bile spilled from his lips and splashed messily onto the floor that was already flooded with sour vomit.

He spat the remains of sticky substance out, his throat trapped into an endless inferno. With a pair of attentive hands patting down his back, he coughed then finally welcomed the air into him with labored and hasty wheezes.

"That's right, let it out." The tone of his voice was tender however, to the boy's ears, something was off. Then, Carl's core dropped to his feet as he cognized the vision of Rick was, as a matter of fact, a beautiful lie orchestrated by his own ingenuous mind. You were hallucinating, you fool.

"You're alive kiddo" Carl remained frozen in the same spot on all fours, "Here. I'm sorry we were waiting for you to- never mind." The man, who happened not to be his father, apologized untying the boy from his bonds. With the help of cautious hands, Carl managed to sat up slumping back against whatever could support his weak frame.

"Oh god." The man said shockingly at the sight of blood streaming from the boy's waist. "Wilson bring your ass and your tools here!" He instructed. No sign of any response resounded, until another silhouette, thinner and smaller, appeared by the door frame.

"Wilson's busy right now, Jones. He's taking care o-Is that puke on my floor?" The voice was young, care-free and feminal.

"He ripped his stitches. Stay with him, I'll be right back." He ordered as he left Carl's side hurrying outside of the room.

"I told them you wouldn't turn into one of those crackfaces after the procedure." She spoke proudly walking toward him. Crackface? What kind of language was that?

"Rise n' shine, Sleeping Beauty. No one's gonna give you a true love kiss to wake your ass up." He felt something patting both of his arms. He looked up but his sight remained obstructed by garish tears. So he blinked them away. As je regained his vision, Carl chanced to drank at the unknown features.

Girl

Chocolate bouncy curls cascaded over her shoulders. Her skin was lightly tanned. Elusive freckles, tiny beauty-spots, evanescent imperfections scattered hither and thither were adorning her cheekbones like the luminescent facet of the moon. Her eyes; empty and hypnotic back holes. So deep that even the daylight couldn't ooze into them. Finally Carl's eye was coaxed by a notable detail. Like a spoiling brushstroke on a Leonard Davinci portrait, a long gash was digging through the skin of her-

"Not with that shit all over your face. Come on." A grunt drifted whilst she bent down and took his feeble arm passing it over her shoulder. She pulled him up to his feet. Balancing his weight onto her side she tore him off the luxurious shards swimming through the sick that lolled beneath their feet.

"Who are yo-" He tried, only to be interrupted by the girl.

"Ew, how did you manage to throw up that much? You haven't eaten anything for like a week." Her palm came scrub off the vomit smeared all over his cheeks. Carl's look dropped to the floor the same way a five-years-old child would do after being scolded by his mother. In a normal state of mind, he would've felt deeply embarrassed by the situation but dizziness was making a return, swirling within him like a merry-go-round.

His breath hitched into a loud tempo occurring at shortly spaced intervals. A dolor commenced to rack the front part of his head like scorching, and punitive whiplash. The view in front of him morphed into blotchy hues and ill-defined shapes that gyrated and melted against each others like watercolour paints.

"I'm sorry, I.." He didn't know why but he apologized."I don't think I can-" With one step backwards, his knees gave up. A pair of slender hands laced tight around his torso, preventing the boy from falling again.

"Oh no, stay awake. Don't play this game with me, I can't handle your weight alone."

His lid felt heavy, and a commotion of inaudible pleas and thunderous beats floated in the haze. Slowly he was greeted with the empty welcome of darkness and he gladly fell into it.

▬▬▬▬▬ .｡.:*✧*:.｡. ▬▬▬▬▬

I'm only giving the first
chapter. But I'll update
only when I'm done
with writing the book
fully. It's better this way.

I won't lie, I was actually
thinking about bringing
Lori instead of Rick. I
imagined her telling Carl
"Why can't you stay in
the fucking house?"

I made some
modification with the
way Carl ended up in
this situation. They are
not big but you should
pretend like you've never
read the old version of Still
Alive (if you did... and
if you haven't be grateful
you didn't have to read
this calamity.)

▬ ▬