Rick was hysterical. The gut-wrenching sounds were stuck somewhere between his chest and throat, preventing him from taking a full breath, and the sheriff needed air to the point of insanity.

Rick needed to breathe deeply and evenly, because his heavy burden was slowly but surely taking away the last of his strength. It was the first downpour in Georgia all season, and the sky wasn't just dripping. A wall of water was falling from the sky. His feet sank into the mud, Rick stumbled over rocks and tree roots, but continued to drag his motionless body.

He shouldn't have succumbed to your lighthearted suggestion to swing back and forth. Cold raindrops cut and beat on the face, bouncing off the skin like a fan. Distantly, Rick thought that each blow would leave a dark bruise in its wake. His fingers clenched on the wet fabric of your tank top, and desperately whispering — "God, no, don't die, you hear me, don't you dare die,”

Grimes began to get up hastily, grabbing you by the arms and staggering on unsteady legs. All that kept him upright was a rattling mix of adrenaline, pain, and the thought that he could lose everything. Rick's life was literally in his hands. Heavy, smeared with blood and dirt, soaked through and possibly no longer breathing. He was afraid to stop for even a second to check if your chest was heaving.

He tried to breathe his life instead of the suffocating water, but instead he inhaled rain again. Grimes didn't see anything. He only knew that he had to go forward with his back, back away, not letting go of the precious burden, and as soon as possible. The bloodstain continued to spread, and after a few minutes it was impossible to guess exactly where the wound was.

Your whole shirt was smeared with red, the color of life, the color of anger. The color of fierce, possessive love. A color that turns all the others into monochrome. Grimes does not immediately hear the screams of familiar voices. He does not immediately realize that he has finally reached the prison. He got home.