tw: some slight self-harming behavior

Dad's left again.

He slips away from the group every few miles to go searching the woods again, but he never comes back with anything. I think he knows he's not going to find anything, but he keeps searching anyway, 'cause he thinks that, maybe, this time it'll be different. Or he just wants to get away from everyone. Any time me or Momma or Carol ask to join him, he tells us that he wants to go just him.

I ain't blind, and I ain't stupid. At least not in the ways Daddy's been acting like I am. He's got that feeling. He might even think we're all gonna die before we get to wherever it is that we're going. My daddy lost hope. I can see it in his sad, blue eyes, in the way his voice barely lifts above a grumble when he speaks, and in how his gaze stays glued to the ground beneath his feet until he goes out hunting.

Sometimes, I think I can see the life draining out of him.

Of course, it ain't only Dad. It's Maggie, too. Maggie lost her baby sister. The only blood family she had left. She's been trying to stay strong, but her feet drag and her eyes get that vaguely distant look in them that only Glenn can snap her out of.

Sasha, too. Sasha lost her big brother. I can't imagine what that must feel like. The closest I can get to it is thinking about if Carl died, and gosh, I think that would wreck me. I think losing Carl would suck the life right out of me. I wouldn't be the same Juni that I am today without Carl. He's just a kid, and he's the only kid I've had since the end of the world. One of the few constants. He likes to be my friend, even though kids at school didn't always like to, and he helps me feel brave whenever I'm scared. Without Carl, I think I might have a piece missing out of me.

Everyone else is drained, too. Abraham picked up a bottle of some kind of alcohol earlier, when we were digging through cars, and Rosita told him he didn't need it, but he took it anyway. Alcohol ain't gonna do him any good. It ain't gonna to anyone any good when we're all starving.

I've been hungry before. Very, very hungry. Hungry enough to feel dizzy every time I sat up and for my muscles to shake when I walked, but I don't know if I've ever been as hungry as I am now. I think, maybe, I was used to feeling hungry, back before we got to the prison. We were on the road for a while, and we didn't get to eat as much, but even before that, I wasn't eating too consistently, so the absence of consistent meals didn't bother my stomach so much. It was bad, sure, but not this bad.

This time, it's worse. When we were at the prison, my parents started making sure I ate every meal, every day. My body got too used to having the nutrients I need and my stomach got too used to being full. Now that we don't got nothing but worms and other bugs, which I refuse to eat, my stomach is empty—really, really empty—and my body ain't used it no more.

I feel dizzy morning, noon, and night. It doesn't matter if I just stood up or if I've been standing upright for hours. I'm always at least a little bit dizzy. Mostly, it just makes it so the things around me blur together when I move or turn my head, and my head feels a little bit like I'm carrying a bowling ball on my shoulders. I haven't told neither my mom or my dad about this. I don't want them worrying about me more than they already do.

Besides, we're getting a walking break right now, which always helps at least a little bit.

On the side of the road, amongst the dirt and twigs and dried-up leaves leftover from last fall, we all sit on the ground. Carl, still with Judith in his lap, sits back to back with his dad, Sasha fidgets with her gun, and Tara picks at a hole in her jeans.

Tara. She's new here. There are lots of new people, actually. Tara, Rosita, Eugene, Abraham, Gabriel, Ruby, and Noah. All of them weren't here before we left the prison. Tara, actually, was on the Governor's side of things, turns out. She was the girl in the ponytail who Rick was calling out to. I sort of remember her, but not really. Everything was a little bit of a blur, that day. Especially after what the Governor did to Hershel, but I can't think too much about that or I get even more nauseous than I already am. Anyway, Tara switched sides, and she and Glenn got away from the prison together. They say that's when they met Abraham, Rosita, and Eugene.

Abraham is tall and muscular and a little bit scary. He has bright red hair, sort of like fire, and a mustache that makes him look a little like a cartoon character. When he talks, his voice booms, but he hasn't done much talking lately.

Rosita is small and skinny, but she's mighty. She's got a cool hat and a great sense of style, even in the apocalypse, and Momma told me Rosita was a badass when she introduced me to her. I like Rosita lots, even if I haven't gotten to talk to her so much yet. She seems just as strong as Abraham, but without being so scary.

Eugene is very different from both Abraham and Rosita, even though he's apparently been with them for a long time. He's short for a grown-up guy, he's a little pudgy, and he's got an interesting haircut. His black-ish, curly-ish mess of hair is short in the front and long in the back. And he talks a little robotically, too, but it's because he's real smart.

And the newest of them all is called Gabriel. He lived in a church that everyone was staying in while my parents were roaming around Atlanta looking for me and Beth. That's what Carl says, anyway. Gabriel seems nice enough, but I haven't talked to him very much yet, so I suppose I don't really know.

Then, of course, there's Ruby and Noah. But I've known them for longer than everyone else has, except for Ruby and Noah themselves. I know for a fact that they're nice, because instead of running away and saving themselves, they came back for me and Beth in the end.

Not that that worked out too well.

Gosh, my stomach hurts.

I grab at my gut, squeezing the little amount of skin I can pull away from my bones. It hurts in a good sort of way, like when you slip your shoes beneath the legs of your chair at school or when you pinch a hair clip onto your arm.

The good, fiery kind of pain distracts me from the churning, gnawing one in my stomach just for a moment, but it doesn't last. You can't ignore your hunger for long. Your body won't let you, because all it's doing is screaming at the top of its lungs, trying to tell you to please, please eat before it dies. And I would, I think, if I had something to eat that I could get down without barfing it back up.

Mom runs her hand through my hair, trying to work out all the knots in it with her fingers, and it sort of hurts in a bad way, but I don't tell her that because I hate having knotty hair, anyway.

Suddenly, there's a crackling in the trees. Twigs snap and leaves rustle, and everyone's heads snap toward the source of the sound. My hair snags on one of my mom's fingers, and she silently apologizes with a kiss on the top of my head.

We keep our eyes glued to the tree line, listening to the sounds with our hands on our weapons.

The only thing that comes out of the forest, though, is my dad, all sweaty, covered in dirt, and more than anything else, beaten down. Most notably, however, my dad comes out of the trees empty-handed. Defeated. Any glistening star in anyone's eyes, even half expecting a single small squirrel's worth of food, fades away as my dad locks eyes with Rick and shakes his head. Nothing.

Without a word to anyone, Dad joins me and Momma in the dirt. Momma gives him a half-smile, but Dad's too tired to return it, so he rubs her back up and down one single time instead. I lean against him and he squeezes my arm.

Tara's exhausted voice is the only one brave enough to break through the heavy sort of silence surrounding us. "So all we found was booze?" she asks, and I can practically hear her frown.

I turn to look at her, and I see that she's looking over at Abraham. By himself on a slight slope, Abraham sits silently with a half-empty bottle of alcohol in his hands—the same one he took from the car he searched earlier. His fingers tap softly against the glass and then he takes a swig.

Rosita huffs out a sigh from beside Eugene. The kind of huff you do when you want someone to notice it. When you want someone to know you're annoyed with them. But Abraham doesn't look her way. "Yeah. It's not gonna help," Rosita says. She presses her fingers against the bridge of her nose, shaking her head disappointedly. "He knows that."

"It's gonna make it worse," Tara says.

"Yes, it is," Rosita agrees with a numbness in her voice.

Abraham doesn't stop. He takes another swig from the bottle, and it reminds me of Uncle Merle. Merle used to drink whenever he got angry, and Momma would tell him that he was only making it worse, but he wouldn't listen. He'd only drink more, grow angrier, and lie on the couch until he either fell asleep or had to get up to puke into the garbage.

With Abraham, though, he's only dehydrating himself more than he already is. He's smart enough to know that, I'm sure, but he doesn't seem to care, just like Rosita said.

"He's a grown man," Eugene reminds everyone. However, I don't think anyone could possibly forget that Abraham is a grown man. I think he might be the grownest man I've ever seen in my life. Still, Eugene adds, "And I truly do not know if things can get worse."

"They can," Rosita mutters.

I always like to think that things will get better and that things aren't even that bad right now. I'm only lying to myself, though. I know it, but even if I didn't, everyone around me would never let me forget it. They treat hope like poison. Most of them, anyway. Everyone has always acted like I'm either blind or stupid for thinking that things always turn out okay, but I don't see what's so bad about having a little optimism. If I weren't feeling so utterly defeated, maybe I'd even say something hopeful right now, since that feeling hasn't been gripping me so much today, but I keep my mouth shut because I don't think anyone wants to hear that kind of thing at the moment.

Trying to fight away the aching in my stomach, I squeeze at my skin some more. It burns and aches under the pressure, and it distracts me from the hunger pains for a solid thirty seconds.

The hunger hits again like a tidal wave, but just as soon as it gets me, it vanishes at the sound of a dog's bark.

I flinch at the noise, even though I ain't ever been afraid of dogs, and instinctively scooch closer to my dad, who grabs my and Momma's arms protectively, moving himself in front of us before unsheathing his knife.

We all watch in awe as a group of four dogs creep out from the woods. Two of them have collars, like they used to belong to someone, and the other two look like they could have been strays since before the fall. Two have longer hair, which is all dirty and matted, but they all have blood stains on their fur, which makes my heart skip a beat. The four dogs inch closer, sharp teeth poking out between their lips as they growl and bark in warning.

I've never been attacked by a dog before, but a girl from class in fourth grade got bit by a rottweiler once. She came to school with stitches on her hand one day and told everyone the story about how the dog had ripped into her skin when she reached down to pick up a dropped french fry off of the floor. The stitches looked nasty and painful, and if a bite like that came from just one hungry dog, I can't imagine what might come from four of them.

But regardless of how scary or threatening these dogs might be, they're only dogs. They might have had families before all this. They might have babies of their own somewhere, maybe hidden away in a bush or a cave.

I put my hand on my dad's arm—the one holding the knife—and he briefly turns away from the dogs to look at me, just for a single second. "Don't hurt 'em, Daddy," I tell him, my heart in my throat.

Dad grunts the way he does when he's not sure of what to say. He doesn't want to tell me that he's darn well gonna hurt them if they come any closer, but he doesn't need to say that out loud for me to know it already. I just know it because I know my dad, and I know he's not gotta let any wild dogs tear into anyone here.

And, gosh, the dogs really seem like they might want to. With the blood on their fur and the way they bark, howl, and scream at us, getting louder by the second. They inch closer, and we inch back.

Just go away. Go away, I secretly pray inside my head. Leave us alone. Go back to your puppies, if you got 'em.

They don't.

The next thing I hear is a single silenced shot, then whimpering. Whining. Pained puppy cries that send a shot of pain through my veins. Another shot, then another, and finally, a fourth. The dogs' crying fades into a silence that feels like there's nothing left in the world but death.

"No!" I shout without meaning to. I bolt up to my feet and rush over to the poor dogs, but before I can get too close, my dad grabs me and pushes me the other way. "Why would you do that?!" I cry, though I can't get any tears out of my eyes.

I don't know if I have any tears left in me. I can feel the thick, tightened sensation of a pained cry stuck in my throat, like the tears are waiting in there behind a lock and key, but I can't get it open. I can't cry—not properly, anyway—because I'm empty. All that leaves me with is raw emotion that my body doesn't know what to do with.

My body moves without me telling it to, my hands slamming against my dad's chest as I try to shove him away from me. He's stronger than I am, though, and he keeps a hold on me.

"We need to eat," Sasha says in a cold, heartless voice that makes my gut churn and my face burn with anger.

Eat?

We need to eat? These are just dogs! They're someone's pets! They used to have a home! Maybe they played fetch with their owner, licked a kid's face with love, or snuck food off of some baby's face when its parents weren't looking. You don't eat dogs. You take care of them. You take them in as your own, you feed them, you nurture them, you pet their fur, and they fill you up with love, right up to the brim.

"No!" I shout again. Dad's grip on my arm hurts—not because he's squeezing too tight, but because I've got hardly any meat on my bones. "You're not eatin' them! You're not eatin' them!"

I try to get away from my dad again, maybe to stop Sasha before she can slice into the dogs, but he doesn't let me. He pulls me in, pressing my face against his chest and covering my eyes with his hands. "Shhh. Shh," I hear him utter into my hair as if I'm some kind of baby.

"Stop it!" I try again, slamming the side of my fist against Dad's chest. Mom pulls me towards her next, wrapping her warm arms around my entire body, and everything drains right out of me. I can't speak, I can't move, I can't cry. I really am empty. I really am nothing. I float away from my body, slipping off until my fingers go numb and my eyes close themselves. All I can feel is the pressure of my mom's hands against my back, pushing me tight against her, and she's catching me. She's catching me like a happy birthday balloon in the grocery store parking lot, just before I can float off and be gone forever.

Tearless cries pour out of my throat, hoarse and dry, when I hear the squelch of a knife sliding through flesh.

♡

I'm not eating it.

I don't care if everyone else around me eats it. I'm not doing it. Sasha says not to think about it. She says we gotta feed ourselves or we're going to die, but I don't care. I can't do it. Even if I wanted to, even if I didn't feel so bad for those poor puppies, I wouldn't be able to do it. I can't look at it without feeling nauseous.

Earlier, when Sasha was slicing into the dogs and when Rick was cooking the meat over the fire, I couldn't even get myself to move. I couldn't open my eyes. I couldn't pull away from my momma, who was holding me tight, telling me to calm down and that there was nothing I could do.

Dad knew I wasn't gonna eat it, I think, but he gave me some anyway. I kicked it away the second he put it in front of me. He put it back, and this time, I just curled my knees up and hid my face in them. When everyone started eating, and I could hear it all as they bit into the meat, ripping it to shreds and tearing it apart with their teeth, I had to cover my ears. Just hearing it made me feel like my stomach was gonna fall right out of me. I couldn't handle it. I just couldn't.

Every couple of minutes, Mom or Dad will lean in close, gently nudge my knee or my shoulder, and say something like, "You need to eat, Juniper, or ya won't be able to stand up straight," or, "C'mon, sweet girl. Just try a bite." But I won't.

I'll eat berries or one of them little white flowers that grow in your yard, that you can apparently eat, even though they taste bad. I'll some darn leaves if I gotta, but I ain't eating those dogs.

But, gosh, I really feel like crap. My whole body aches, now, and not just my stomach. My muscles are tired and my head hurts, and I don't feel like I can really think properly. I know it's my fault, too. I know it's all in my head, and that I'll be okay even if I do eat those dogs, but I just can't bring myself to do it.

If I try to explain that bit to my parents—or anyone else, for that matter—they won't get it. They won't get it because they can't feel it how I do. No one understands it and I don't think anyone ever will.

A hand brushes up against my arm, and I know it's my dad from the roughness of it. I can feel his presence as he leans in close, but I still don't move my knees from my face or my hands from my ears. "We'll try and find somethin' for you soon, June, but if we don't, you're gonna have to settle," he tells me, his voice muffled but just loud enough to hear.

I wish someone—just one person—could understand what it's like. But I'm alone in this and I always will be.

♡

The silence that follows after killing and eating someone else's poor pets is excruciating, but we trudge on along the road, the sun beating down on us and the humidity boiling us alive.

Dad's gone off to find water, and I hope he finds it fast because I really need it. My stomach is already empty enough, not having eaten nothing but a couple of berries Dad found yesterday. Everyone else got their refills with those poor dogs, but gravity still weighs them down, too. We all look like walkers, dragging our feet and keeping our eyes on the ground. We might as well be dead, is what everyone's faces are saying without words.

As I'm walking, alongside my momma and Ruby, my vision starts to get spotty. And I know what that means. I know it, and I hate it, and I wish it wasn't real, but black dots start speckling the world around me, and I stumble on my feet.

My arm shoots out, grabbing my mom's, and she stops and turns. Her dull eyes go a little wider as she wraps her arm around my shoulder. "What's wrong? What're you feelin'?" she asks in a breathy voice.

"Dizzy, and hot, and spotty," I murmur, squeezing her arm to help me stay upright with one hand and pressing the fingers of my other against my forehead.

My eyes blink, blink, blink away the spots, and I can see everyone stopped and staring at me. I take deep breaths leaning against my momma and trying to get myself back together again. The spots shrink and grow, and I keep blink, blink, blinking, trying to get them to fade away permanently, but they keep coming back, like the weeds I used to pull out of the sidewalk outside our house.

"Know what?" Momma says, pushing my hair back away from my face. "Let's go see if your daddy found any water. Maybe take a rest, too, huh?"

Really, I don't get any choice in the matter. Before I know it, my mom's leading me away from the road and into the trees. It feels better being in the woods. The clusters of trees shade away some of the sunshine, cooling me off even if it's just a little bit, and I also don't gotta worry about any prying eyes. Having everyone stare at me like they were back on the road just embarrasses me. I hate it. But in here, hidden away by bushes and tree trunks, it's only me and my momma.

Neither me or my momma say a word as she leads me through the trees in the direction my dad disappeared off to. It's not an awkward, tense, or uncomfortable silence, though. It's just quiet. The type of quiet you can only have with people you really, really trust. People like my mom.

"Daryl?" she calls out, somewhat quietly. The hard thing about searching for someone is that you can't scream their name anymore, or else you'll attract walkers. Mom sighs, pausing for a moment and looking around. "There's another clearing that way," she says. She points quickly but I don't bother to look because I trust wherever she thinks we should go. "I'll bet ya he went that way. Bet he found some water, too."

The more we walk, the more my legs feel like jelly, but we keep going. My vision stays slipping in and out, in and out, and I feel more dizzy than I ever have in my life, but my mom keeps me going. She keeps me going until we get to the treeline, and she suddenly stops. I hear her breath catch in her throat.

"Hell are you doin'?" she suddenly snaps.

I rub at my eyes and step forward, and between splotches of black, I see my dad, sitting on the ground with his back against a tree, tossing something onto the ground. He looks at my mom, a bit like a guilty dog, and then back at the ground in front of him.

"What're you doin' out here? S'posed to be with the group," Dad grumbles.

Mom lets a loud huff—one of the ones that moms do when they're angry—before sitting me down on the ground. Sitting helps me a little, and my head stops feeling so heavy. Mom sits down beside me, in between me and dad, and yanks his still three-quarters-of-the-way empty water bottle from him. She untwists the cap and passes it over to me. "Drink. All of it," she tells me, a little more stern than she was earlier.

She ain't mad at me, though. She's mad at my dad for whatever it is she saw him doing just before we got here. Something I'm not supposed to know, I bet.

Pretending to be minding my own business, I watch out of the corner of my eye as Mom grabs at Dad's hand. She brings it up closer to her face, and my dad just lets her, even though he's turned his head, facing the other way. While my mom stares at his hand and he looks the other way, I take my chance, sitting up a little higher to peek over my mom's shoulder.

On my dad's hand, between his thumb and pointer finger, is a little, white circle mark. The surrounding skin is all red and swollen. My brows furrow and my lip curls without my control. What is that? What is that and why would he do it?

Then, I see it. On the ground between my dad's feet is a cigarette, still smoking but not burning. He pressed that cigarette into his skin. He burned that hole into his hand himself. He made himself hurt.

A distraction from the pain, maybe.

Like slipping your shoes beneath the legs of your chair at school, or pinching a hair clip onto your arm. Like squeezing at the skin of your belly to forget about your hunger.

Something that hurts in a good sort of way.