CHAPTER SEVEN, 007
❝ ALCOHOL ! ❞

WHEN Beth Greene collapsed and went into a catatonic state, Luke laid beside her on the worn-out mattress in the guest bedroom. The faint flicker of a candle threw shadows across the walls of the Greene farm house. He laced his fingers with hers, her hand cold and unresponsive, his warm and thumb gently moving.

"Do you remember...?" His voice cracked, cutting through the silence like a knife cut through fresh bread. He hesitated, his words stumbling into the empty air of shallow breathing. "Do you remember when we made pancakes together? Of course you do, it was just the other day. I burned half the batch because I didn't know how to flip them? You laughed so hard, you snorted. Or... uh, when I first met you? You were so happy but so stubborn. You told me I couldn't keep calling my baseball bat 'Bertha'—said it sounded like I was dating her."

Luke wondered if he should call it Beth, a reminder of her and the power they could wield together.

Beth didn't respond. Her chest rose and fell in slow, light shallow breaths, but her eyes stared blankly into some unreachable place. Locked onto the spot of the roof where there was one singular star painted.

Luke swallowed hard, fighting back the lump in his throat. What else was he supposed to say, how else could he help her. This life, the one they lived in, wasn't for those who didn't want to be in it and for those who would shut down. He had to bring her out somehow, before everyone thought she was weak and beloved she wouldn't survive.

"How about a story?" He shifted slightly, the springs of the mattress creaking beneath him. "I'll tell you about my mom, okay?"

He began slowly, his voice softer now, trying to find a rhythm in the words he was saying, reliving. "I was twelve. Just turned twelve a few days before. Some kid at school bragged about taking a shot of fireball. I had no clue what it was — it sounded dangerous, like it might actually set your insides on fire or something. But I wanted to be cool. I begged my mom, over and over, until she said she'd think about it."

Luke let out a breathy laugh, the sound dry and hollow in the room with the door closed, keeping all the noice inside. "She was a strict person, I knew that and yet, somehow, she caved. She brought home a tiny bottle one day. 'Fine,' she said. 'One sip.' I was so excited I could barely stand still. I tilted the bottle back like a real pro, or so I believed — and then I puked everywhere. Right there on the kitchen floor."

He glanced at Beth, hoping for even the flicker of a smile but all he saw was her face void of any emotion. "My mom just burst out laughing. She couldn't stop. The woman who never drank had tears streaming down her face because of me — and - and my stupid, twelve-year-old self who thought fireball was a rite of passage."

"It was so warm, it felt like my insides were burning from that little sip." Luke paused, his voice softening to almost a whisper. "She laughed at me so hard, Beth. And I think that was the happiest I'd ever seen her."

The silence wrapped around them again like a heavy weighted blanket, Luke felt his chest tighten before it softened as the sound of Malie and Tilly outside playing was heard.

Luke's grip on Beth's hand tightened. "I just want you to come back, okay? I need you here. We all do."

( tw ; death / murder )

SILAS was a big fucking boy. When someone or something was failing at keeping Hershel (or any other family), — who had started to feel like his father in the short amount of time knowing him — alive and well, man, he'd do whatever he could.

A young man, no older than twenty, found himself impaled on a post. His leg, caught, broken and bloody. He had tried to stab Silas when he told him he wouldn't take him back to the Greene Farm, and in an attempt to escape when shots were fired, he landed on a fence when he tried to climb it.

"We can help him." Glenn spoke, watching for anyone else that would be coming towards them; walkers or humans. "We — we have the tools."

Silas was a big fucking boy, and he pulled his pocket knife from his jeans, and flicked it open. The young man, nearly unconscious, knew what was happening. He was so close to bleeding out, but not close enough that the walkers nearby wouldn't cause him any pain.

"Please, please." He forced the words out in blabbered voice, tears still streaming down his face. The harsh reality was, even if they could help him, he'd die before they could get him back to the farm and before he could receive any actual help. "I don't wanna suffer."

Silas held the young man's hand, and firmly slid his knife into his skull. He watched the man take two more breathes before his chest stopped moving and his eyes dulled.

"Silas ... ?" Rick rounded the corner, eying the scene and putting together the puzzle pieces. "What happened."

He wasn't questioning kindly, he was demanding an answer from Silas.

"He wouldn't make it." Silas stated, but there was more than that. How could he let someone he didn't trust, someone who had tried to kill him, back to his home.

How could he bring someone to where his children were? He had heard the young man and his friends whispering, and he knew the damage they could do given the chance. Silas was protecting his family, and he'd be damned if he ever gave someone the chances to hurt them.

Silas, with only his family on his mind, stepped away from the fence and towards where they were parked.

Silas Eden Lovdin-Walsh's morals had changed. He once believed in the good, the forgiving, peace and happiness. Now, he had seen what the world made of people, and refused to let anyone come in his way of making sure those he cared about were safe. The world wasn't the same anymore, and he couldn't go through whatever life he may have left, with a bright bubbly smile. Not when everything around him wanted to eat him or kill Jim.

Silas was just surprised that it took the end of the world to make sure his children and those he cared about would always be protected. To think, none of this would have happened if hadn't wanted to go get a drink — damn alcohol.