we're bittersweet, are we?

screamed at each other. left unwanted, hurtful words to each other by accident. lines somewhere between i shouldn't have and i'm tired. things thrown in the other direction than to each other. blames fired here and there.

that's marriage.

and it's his fault. it became his fault the moment he walked out that damn door thinking telling you that he can't do this anymore is enough for you to leave, let him go and not follow him out like a damn mule. fuck, he should’ve been more alert, should’ve seen the walker coming. then maybe you wouldn't be bit. then maybe he wouldn't be here, stuck and breaking.

eyes sore red at the corners, he tries to look around, focus on something, hold his breath, anything. trying to stay very still and not bounce his knee. hand clenching and unclenching on the wheel, trying not to cry. scratching his jean-clad thighs as if it's a cat to pamper. run his hand on his face then comb back his hair. and as he breathe, let out something, a sigh or an exhale escaping his lips, the dam just broke.

he heaves, crying there in the driver's seat of a car. cause why can't he? he shakes his head, tightening his grip around the bottle of jack daniel's tennessee whisky in his hand. his liver handles what his mind cannot, and he knows that he would have died from liver failure many weeks ago had it not been for the thought that he's going to turn to a damn walker if he did.

he hates it. but he hates himself ten times more as his hands, usually so rough were now impossibly gentle as he helped you cleaned up, like one wrong move could shatter you entirely. this tenderness, this quiet care—it wasn’t like him. he didn’t care if he looked weak, didn’t care if his hands were trembling slightly.

and finally, he hates himself for having to do this. had to bite down his tears. had to cradle you like it's the last time on our bed, holding the gun you had guided him to end this, to prevent you from turning to a walker.

"on the count of three.."