#bcrnblue

    “Lu’?”

    Murphy’s voice is a roar and a whisper. Seeing her injured -- seeing her hurt, sparked a rage in Murphy’s chest that is alien, even to him. Panic and blinding rage flash before his eyes; panic that he could lose his little girl. And rage that anybody -- living or dead -- would dare lay a single finger on her.

    He hurries to her side to catch her before she falls.

     ❝ have you ever wondered what it would be like if we were just normal kids?  no walker shit, nothing.  imagine how different shit would be. ❞

“I like your skin.“ and there is no malice in the boy’s voice, he is no one to judge others by how they look. he is after all, the son of the devil. there is a smile, warm and innocent as he looks back at the girl. “it contrast with your hair.” he also doesn’t know how to talk to girls. Dean was meant to teach him but things had grown complicated. “It means you are special, right?” 

    In a way, he’s grateful for the numbness in his chest and limbs. He doesn’t have to think about the fact that he’s burying his daughter, or the way her blue hand had drained itself of warmth as she slipped away from the world. He doesn’t have to think about the bite marks on his arm that cause his arm to ache and sting, blood staining the inside of his sweatshirt.

    Doesn’t have to think about how she will never come back.

    And as Murphy spends time alone, unable to cry or yell or do anything, he tries to ignore the subtle signs that he may be losing his mind. He shouldn’t be hearing scratching from Lucy’s grave, shouldn’t have to force himself not to turn at the sigh of what may be an animal scratching at the mount of dirt. But soon, the angers builds, reaches a terrifying crescendo as he goes to slice the head off of whatever cruel thing must be disturbing her rest -