#talktorickgrimes

DORK!

          ❝ are we ever going to get a break. ❞ being completely honest ; glenn was sick and tired of running to somewhere safe, only to have to run again. this scouting mission had turned into a ghastly game of hide and seek. one that should the group lose it would mean the end of their L I V E S.

                                      tho’st spontaneous words of COMFORT had regularly come as something so natural ‘pon the most tranquil of tongues: spencer had since succumbed to their unspoken grief. he, himself, was beyond REPAIR -- and became weary of incessant bad luck that plagued these walls of alexandria. jessie and her boys were the latest to play victim to the HORDE, and though the topic was left UNTARNISHED: spencer knew of the feelings the elder possessed for the flaxen female, and oh, how her untimely demise had left the LEADER in utmost tatters. and his son’s INFLICTED partial sight was but a further burden on he. and spencer’s SORRY: for a person did not deserve such loss derived from a situation that could’ve been TAMED, and though disagreement was a normality for the two men, spencer felt OBLIGED to offer a condolence of sorts. they’d all lost something that night: importantly, DEANNA MONROE. and from that, spencer since realised the FIRST to be offered such a role would be rick grimes. and he’s NOT even ashamed for passing the leadership onwards, for RICK was most deserving, HE SAVED THEM. ‘pon saving them, he’d sacrificed something DEAR, and regardless of past differences, spencer would offer his THANKS. rifle set a’twine both calloused palms, bloodied with EVERY strike upon rotting brain matter, he’d set foot upon awaiting ground to APPROACH his superior with voluntary terms of benevolence. 

                                            ‘ DOLOR HIC TIBI PRODERIT OLIM. ’

                                                                    mirrored the infamous words of DEANNA MONROE as she lay dying, succumbing to her anatomy’s wish to ROT. tho’st the expression proved most futile to UTTER in the cooler breeze, spencer had heard it once ‘pon his fruitful dreams, and deemed it NECESSARY to repeat for the sake of rick’s sanity.

         oh, there is too much blood splattered across his clothing,  yet the boy still hasn’t bothered to change, or to eat.  he’ll stand, staring at carl’s bed for as long as it takes for his cousin to wake up--        that much, shouldn’t be doubted.  for he’d done THE SAME thing when his mother lay dying in a similar position, to carl at this moment.     and though for two entirely different reasons they had laid there, unmoving and unconscious.    he can’t help but think back to those days when all he could breath,  was the sterile scent of lemon cleaner and watched as his mother-- slowly, but surely {withered} away before his too young eyes.    god he hated hospitals, and he hated this room even more.  but for carl--        for rick.  he’d stay.  they might not need him, but he NEEDS them.

                                      ❝ . . . i’ll watch him-- get some rest.  i’ll come and get you if he shows any sign of waking up. ❞