HEART OF GLASS
CHAPTER FOURTEEN !

[ season two, episode six ]

Marley reached for her hand.

A desperate cry ripped through her sandpaper throat, agonisingly painful, a futile plea for help — but the blood coating her palms like a slick layer of oil made it too hard.

The chunks of metal protruding from the storage container dug into her ribs and it made it too hard.

The echoing snarls of the monsters swarming together like an Avian flock below made it too hard.

Too hard. Too hard. Too hard.

Marley couldn't do it — the one thing she needed to do. And she just couldn't do it. She was weak. Everything was crumbling at her feet, an unbearable tremor of pain blazing through her outstretched arm, crimson blood seeping through her jacket and dripping onto the metal.

Drip, drip, drip. Drip . . . drip.

It was too hard.

Bonnie's fingers slipped away.

And with them, so did her life.

━━━━━━━━━━━

Knots. Marley combed through them with gritted teeth, adding more unprecedented vigour to the routine each time a shoot of pain radiated through her scalp. She was only making matters worse, but, in her defence, she hadn't slept too well last night. At all. Her brain decided to repeat the tragic events leading up to Bonnie's death, taunting Marley with the main source of her guilt. 

From the moment she awoke, it had been playing over and over again in her head like a broken record.

Distracting herself from the surge of guilt that accompanied the flashbacks was hard, too. Harder than Marley initially assumed. Whenever she closed her eyes, all she could see was Bonnie's face. Bloodied and bruised. Inanimate. Half-torn. Soulless. Staring up at the cloudless sky, betrayed and broken.

And it was all Marley's fault.

Bonnie died because she didn't try hard enough.

Too weak.

She sighed, looking at her reflection bounding across the streaky bathroom mirror. Dark shadows bloomed like fresh bruises beneath her eyes, and her wayward hair had warped into a blonde, frizzy mess that clouded around her head like a plume of thick smoke. She grumbled to herself irritably, but wandered out into the open farm regardless.

The air was sticky with humidity, the blazing globe slowly rising over the horizon beating down harsher than usual.

She was one of the first awake, apparently. Most of the tents were still zipped up, and the campfire they tended to throughout the day was reduced to a bundle of smoking ashes in the midst of the camp. Marley's tent was located at the cutting edge of the tree grove, and the sun reflected a faint silhouette stirring inside, draped across the nylon.

Sage.

Marley considered approaching, but the twitching shadow slumped back down. Clearly, Sage had decided an extra few minutes would be beneficial to her poor sleeping schedule.

Fair enough.

So — refusing to allow boredom to take charge and trample all over her sanity once again as if it were a doormat— Marley decided to ponder around the farm. Scope out the area. Look for potential routes that led away from the elongated fields, a shortcut out if anything bad were to occur . . . which she hoped was unlikely.

These strangers hadn't earned the travellers trust yet.

Knowing she would be putting herself in danger wandering around empty-handed, Marley slipped the butterfly-knife out of her back pocket, curling her fingers tight around the cool, smooth metal. With a brief glance over her shoulder, she began following the winding dirt road that sliced through a major segment of the Greene's farm.

There was a rundown tractor in the middle of the field to her left, and a wilting scarecrow — wearing a patched straw-hat and shabby oversized clothes — on the golden corn-field to her right.

For a moment, Marley thought it was a walker.

She clutched her heart, unfurling her tight grip around the small knife when she assured herself it was only a scarecrow, "Jesus."

And then she continued walking.

The sun was brutal. Marley was beginning to regret planning and actioning her precarious endeavour around the seemingly endless land. Beads of sweat were cropping up on the surface of her forehead ceaselessly, a singular droplet running down the side of her flushed face. She grumbled to herself furiously and wiped her body's fluids away using the back of her clenched hand.

Heading back seemed to be the best option.

She made a beeline toward the enormous barn. It was a dilapidated structure — planks of rotting wood swinging on their hinges, the red paint that was smeared across the roof now chipped and tattered. A haunting aura encircled the ancient structure, dripping like thick globs of blood from the splintered walls. It looked cold. Creepy.

Marley made sure to leave a large gap between herself and the barn as she passed.

But then something caught her attention.

A sound, so faint she thought she had imagined it. In fact, Marley was almost absolutely certain she imagined it. Until she heard it again, only louder this time around.

A snarl.

Her knuckles grew pale around her knife as she hesitantly advanced toward the barn. Curious, she pressed her hand against the rough wood, splinters grazing the calloused grooves that were permanently engraved into her fingertips as a result of the apocalypse. The soft groans inside had morphed together, resembling a chorus of humming cicadas.

She peeked through a mangled hole in the wood.

. . . A strangled gasp slithered over her lips.

Inside, a swarm of walkers were stumbling around aimlessly. They had no set location to reach within the tight enclosure, and inevitably wound up stumbling into one decaying corpse after another as they prowled sinisterly toward a secluded corner of the dark barn.

Marley's heart rate accelerated. The blood-pumping organ residing within her chest hammered relentlessly fast against her ribcage — to the point her breathing was staggered, breaths grazing over her lips in quick, sharp hisses.

Why were there walkers in the barn?

Not just one. An entire pack.

She couldn't help but stare. At the peeling faces of the undead, the chunks of rotten flesh and white feathers scattered across the hay-strewn floor, the thick plank of wood barricading the door from inside . . . Everything that screamed and pointed to the sobering fact that these people were crazy!

Marley shook her head vigorously as if to rid of the unbelievable sight before her, squeezing her eyes closed to bleach any evidence from her sight.

However, when she opened her eyes, it remained.

"Shit —"

Two hands clamped down on her shoulders.

A scream ripped through her throat — raw and horror-stricken. But a firm hand clapped over her gaping mouth, muffling the shrill sound almost immediately, acting in the same way a thick cloth would. She didn't know who it was; they were standing directly behind her, concealed from view. It could be anyone. There was a possibility that her life was currently being juggled in the hands of a stranger.

Panicked, Marley drove her elbow down against their arm hard, trying to break free from the unprecedented restraints coiling around her freedom.

A voice hissed in her ear, "Shush! Marley, it's me!"

Her frenzied eyes flared enormously wide with realisation. Ice flooded through her veins, rendering her limbs impossibly still. The fear that captivated her senses only seconds prior was quickly replaced by relief.

Thankful she had calmed down, the shivering hand slipped away from her face.

She whirled around. "Glenn?"

"Could you be any louder?"

Furious, Marley advanced toward the Rhee, brandishing her fist. "I hope you're kidding."

"No. Not kidding."

Marley scoffed harshly under her breath. She pressed her fingertips against Glenn's chest and pushed him back. She almost couldn't believe the truth splayed out in front of her. The cold, hard, bleak truth that Glenn had been a part of this . . . crazed hoarding. A trusted associate. Presumably. Marley was merely jumping to conclusions.

"You knew about this?" she inquired hotly.

A flash of guilt flickered over Glenn's distressed expression, but he was swift to reply in an anguished tone, "I only found out yesterday. I swear."

Her eyes narrowed to fine slits. Glenn shifted uncomfortably beneath her calculating gaze, taking one singular step backward as if to steer clear of a dragon's fiery breath.

Marley glanced back at the barn. "How did you find out?"

"Uh . . . I, uh —"

"Sorry, is that a hard one?" Marley interjected in a lethally sarcastic tone.

Glenn shook his head, swallowing thickly. There was no other way to put it. No way to hide the colour pooling in his cheeks. "Last night I was supposed to meet Maggie here. In the barn," he cleared his throat awkwardly. "She didn't tell me what was in here before hand. And I'm guessing you can figure out what happened."

"Hm," she hummed, tapping her chin sardonically. "Let's see. You stumbled across a bee-hive of walkers, assumably felt at least a little shocked, probably almost died, then didn't tell anyone — or is that a bit too far-fetched?"

"Marley —"

"Jesus, Glenn, how are you not freaking out right now?!" the Whitman demanded furiously. Like an explosion, her arms stretched out either side of her body in one swift, alacritous motion, bursting into a frenzy. "This is serious. We're living next to flesh-eating corpses!"

"I know!" Glenn snapped. "Don't you think I'm aware?"

Her mouth slapped to a close. The cave releasing a flurry of vicious bats had been sealed. Sheepishly, she rolled her lips together, picking at her nails; Glenn's edged tone had took her slightly off guard. Anger was a rare emotion for the Rhee — especially around Marley and the younger children of the camp — but she knew his sudden, quipped outburst was completely justified. He had a right to be mad at her. The comments she made, laced with a poisonous sheet of sarcasm, had been unnecessary

Sighing, Marley crossed her arms. The silence was an opportunity for Glenn to explain himself.

"Maggie told me not to say anything." he said.

Surprisingly, Marley responded with a stiff nod. A plethora of words were lingering on the tip of her tongue, but she didn't give them a chance to grasp the light of day. In this situation, keeping her mouth shut was the better alternative.

Glenn steered her away from the barn. He spoke in a hushed voice, "She doesn't want anyone to know. It's a . . . family thing."

"What, hoarding walkers?"

"You know what I mean, Marley."

The Whitman rolled her eyes in a deeply aggravated manner. Her heart still thrummed rapidly in her chest, the dreaded reality of the situation growing more serious. The confined walkers were only metres away — an uncomfortably close proximity between the haunted barn and their camp.

Glenn lowered his gaze to meet Marley's, "Please don't say anything to anyone, okay? Not yet."

She gnawed on her bottom lip, unsure. If the others discovered the truth — the risky lies she kept for the Greene's sake, despite a large and imminent threat to their overall safety — they would never find it within themselves to forgive her fully. Shane certainly wouldn't, nor would Daryl or Andrea. The ones who held grudges.

But Glenn was desperate for her to keep her mouth closed. There was a logical reason behind the secretive behaviour — to extend their stay on the safety net of a farm, rather than spending another minute on the highway or some other dangerous place. If they spilled the truth . . . well, the outcome of that had already been predetermined.

Marley released a heavy sigh, shoulders shuddering.

"Fine," she said sharply. "But you owe me."

✧.｡. *.

The stable in the far corner of the farm, the building closest to the white, mansion-like house, was Marley's final destination for the afternoon. She loved horses. They made her feel safe — reminded her of home. Marley came to the conclusion that staying there, hiding in the stable for the remainder of the day, was a far better option than dwelling over the consequences of her detrimental lies.

She didn't even want to tag along to the makeshift shooting range. Sage did, however. With the knowledge it would be a good thing to extend her abilities beyond jabbing a knife, Marley agreed to let her sister leave the premises alongside a majority of the adults of camp.

With Shane and Rick, she would be safe.

At the end of the stable, a dappled-brown horse was situated in front of an open pen. It's hooves dragged along the ground lethargically . . . but the horse was not the only entity present. Someone else was here, too.

Just her luck, huh.

Marley peered around the horse's wide frame. Hershel Greene came into sight, slicing an apple with the blade of a knife and throwing it into a steel bucket by his feet. He didn't notice Marley right away — at least, not until she accidentally stumbled into a cluster of stacked leather saddles, knocking them haywire.

"Crap," the girl hissed awkwardly. "sorry! Sorry."

She bent down and picked the scattered saddles up in a flustered haste. Hershel did not say anything. He only watched, curious and slightly amused.

Soon enough, the equipment was stacked back up as neatly as possible.

"Is there something I can help you with?" Hershel asked in a calm, slow drawl.

Clasping her hands together, Marley took a step forward, shaking her head. "Uh, no. No. I actually just came by because I wanted to see the horses."

Hershel gave the polite girl a curt nod before continuing to slice the apple.

She stepped toward the horse and ran her fingers through the straw-like mane extending along the dorsal side of it's lean neck. The creature grunted softly, toeing the ground with it's hoof. A content smile split across Marley's face — moving her fingertips to dance gracefully over it's elongated nose.

Hershel looked up from the mutilated apple. "Are you fond of horses?"

"Absolutely." she said blissfully. "My Mom was a riding instructor in Atlanta, so I basically grew up with them my entire life. Beautiful animals."

The greying man dipped his head slowly in a nod of acknowledgment. A man of few words. That was nice to know. He reached into the steel bucket of apples, curled his fingers around a clump of the chopped fruit, and extended his arm out to Marley. She understood the gesture and her hand opened up like a flower in bloom. He dropped the slices into her palm.

"This is Nelly." Hershel gestured to the dappled horse. "Nervous Nelly. She scares easily, so I advise you give her those nice and slow."

And she did, very slowly.

Nervous Nelly leaned forward, hesitant at first, but upon noticing the girl had no bad intentions, the mare chewed the apple.

Marley's smile grew. She peered up at Hershel, searching for a reaction or any more words of wisdom, only to see he was watching the scene unfold with a stoic expression. In a way, he reminded her of Dale; composed and calm and . . . well, old. Old people always kept to themselves, minding their own business. Hershel certainly did. The haunted barn was a clear indication of that — something she didn't doubt he wanted to keep very secret. Concealed from the strangers taking temporary board on his farm.

Marley sighed, stroking Nelly's nose softly. Her next words were racked from the back of her mind with the sole purpose of creating conversation to fill the silence, "I love your fields, Mr Greene."

His pursed lips twisted into a small smile.

The smile faded when Marley continued on, reluctant but determined to cut to the chase, "I took a small walk around your land this morning. And . . . I came across the barn."

Hershel stopped slicing the apple immediately.

Marley was desperate to release the pressure building in her chest. The suffocating lies pinning her in a chokehold. Every hour that ticked by since that morning when she discovered the truth about the barn had been filled with her swirling, anxiety-ridden thoughts. Maybe she would get answers from Hershel — the thought to confront him came to her mind only a few seconds prior. It just so happened he was there . . . as if the world had brought her to the stables on purpose.

She inhaled sharply, "Mr Greene — there were walkers inside. I saw 'em. A ton," she admitted nervously, wringing her hands together. "I hope I'm not crossing a line here, but . . . why?"

Hershel busied himself with the horse, avoiding Marley's eyes as he said, "I saw the broadcasts before they stopped. Saw the irrational fear, the atrocities, like the incident at my well."

"The well? We put down a walker."

The old man looked at Marley as if she had just betrayed his entire family. He was vaguely disappointed by her attitude toward the situation — but the most dominant emotion festering within his expression was . . . sadness.

"You killed a person."

Marley blinked a number of times, deeply unnerved. She was absolutely sure she heard Hershel right. He referred to the walker they killed in the well as a person. A real, breathing person.

The barn situation made sense now.

"Mr Greene, with all due respect, that thing in the well was not a person," she assured softly, leaning against the horse's pen. "Walkers kill. They hurt people and tear families apart, and they do it without any remorse. No mercy. They have no human instincts. They're dangerous."

"A paranoid schizophrenic is dangerous, too." Hershel quipped. He spared her a brief glance before continuing to busy himself with the horse. "We don't shoot sick people."

Marley was growing frustrated. She tried not to let it show, but — an almost instinctive response to the internalised frustration building in her chest — her fingers curled up into the base of her palms.

"I've seen people I care about die and come back." she snapped. Her voice was shaking slightly, trembling through a thick layer of pent-up rage. She tried to be sympathetic for Hershel's sake, but between the anger and the frustration, it became a hard feat. "They're not people."

Hershel's gaze roved to her for a moment. He looked even more sad than before — emotion clouding over his eyes like thick mist.

"My wife and stepson are in that barn. They're people."

The shock of the statement knocked Marley back a few paces. She physically recoiled, her fists unfurling. A wave of guilt knocked her anger haywire, and she found it much easier to be sympathetic in response to Hershel's side of the debate — with the knowledge his beloved family, despite the deadly infection gnawing away at their humanity, resided within the barn.

That's why he was secretive about it. He didn't want to watch them die . . . again. He had hope.

Marley understood; she was once a believer in the restoration of the world. A cure. A way to bring back those who had turned. But the CDC shattered every inkling of hope she had for a new beginning into barely decipherable shards. The Earth was dying. That was the truth.

But Hershel was clueless. He needed to overcome his grief before he could understand.

"I'm sorry." Marley muttered quietly. "I didn't think. . . I'm sorry."

Hershel only nodded stiffly. She had definitely stepped over that line she was so hesitant to cross.

She went too far. At least, in his eyes she had.

"I — I can speak to Rick. We can help. We can make the barn more secure, keep everybody safe."

"The barn is secure."

Startled, Marley drew her lower lip between her front teeth. Her words dissolved on the tip of her tongue.

"Keep this to yourself if you want to help," Hershel advised, maintaining eye contact with the adolescent. The unwavering state emphasised the seriousness behind his statement.

Another lie. Another secret. Something else that would be forever lingering in her conscience. She was too kind to say no.

Regardless, Marley nodded, sealing the deal.

"Okay."

Sooner or later, the glass sculpture twisting around her heart was going to crack. The lies would spill out, bursting from the chamber of deceit before spreading across the ground like thick, crimson blood. Then the walkers would devour it — her sanity, her guilt, her pride, her grief . . . every last bit. Until Marley was reduced to a pile of fractured glass in the dirt.

Because the girl with the heart of glass always breaks first.

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

sage chapter next 👍

also this whole barn situation is
throwing marley into turmoil. she
hates lying, especially if doing so
poses a risk to her fellow camp
members' safety. but she's too
nice to tell people to kindly F off
and leave her be. she's very
empathetic.

literally marley rn: