Walking Dead Game Collection 2

"Deep Fault"

He was sucking at everything, and needed to change it before it was too late.

He stared for the back of the lot. It was where their rooms were with a separate closed off space just for Clementine; allowing her some privacy. But today, right now, the last thing she needed was privacy. She needed support, someone to talk to, something. She needed more than what they were currently offering.

Omid knocked on the wall beside the flap of fabric that acted as her door. Then, without hesitation, he peeled it back. "Clementine, I really just--"

He froze.

She froze, mid stroke, a blade pressed to her wrist. Terrifyingly slow, she removed it and fumbled with it as it fell to the floor.

Omid stood, jaw agape, colour immediately draining from his face. "Clem."

"I can explain," her voice wavered as she stood, her opposing arm extended to him, pleading for him to not stir chaos and draw Christa closer.

Given his sudden stiffness, and the way he pulled the sheet closed behind him — despite it not making a difference — she assumed he agreed. Christa needed to stay out of it, for her sake and Clementine's. "Clem, what are you doing," he said as a statement rather than a question, hands panicked and extended before him.

She stood idle, eyes wide with panicked tears gathering on their rims. "Please don't be mad." She pleaded, a single tear spilling over and trailing down her face. She brushed it away. "Please, please."

Omid frowned, feeling his heart clench and freeze. She was terrified. She wasn't being rebellious, she wasn't trying to scare him, she was hurting. She was bleeding.

Right before his eyes, he was losing her. He couldn't be angry at her. That wasn't going to get him anywhere. If anything, it was only going to make her disappear faster. "Clem," he started gently, watching as her gaze snapped to the floor, too scared to meet his. "What's hurting you so bad?"

Clementine turned around, eyeing the damaged drawings scattering her walls.

"Clementine." Omid pushed, wanting an immediate answer.

"It's them." She finally said. Her voice sounded strained, as though it was wedging it's way through withheld tears. She sniffled and jabbed her fingernails into her palm, hoping to stifle the emotional pain. "I miss them."

Omid eyed the drawings scattering her walls; of Lee, of Kenny, Christa, and Duck, of Ben, all of them tear-stained, pinned up over and over again. He struggled to understand — to fully understand — and allowed his gaze to flitter back down to the back of her head. "You miss them?"

"Yeah," she mumbled. She squeezed her arms nervously, too worried to turn around and face him head-on. "Because I caused them to die."

Omid felt as though he'd been physically smacked by the words; so untrue, but spoken with such conviction he couldn't help but stumble. "What?"

Clementine flinched, but didn't turn around.

"Clem, that's not true."

"How do you know?" She said, finally turning, feeling as though she was starting to break through the tear-blockade. "You weren't there when some of them died. You don't know everything I did that got them killed."

There was such anger; such pain and such determination. Omid felt as though his heart was wringing itself of any emotions, desperate to appeal to her. "Clem, it doesn't matter what you did and didn't do. You didn't ask for them to be killed. You can't blame that on yourself."

"But I do." Her voice cracked on the last word. Finally, she let her hands settle against her chest, feeling her heartbeat, feeling as though it didn't deserve to be there. "And it'll never stop hurting me." Omid blinked back his own tears and, seeing that she had generated them, she turned around again. "See? I'm even making you upset just by being me."

"I'm not upset, Clementine." Omid offered, feeling his chest ache. How tragic that she couldn't see compassion for what it was. How damaged was she that every time someone cried for her, she saw it as an act of violence rather than of care? "I care about you. I'm worried about you."

Clementine didn't budge, her stare still facing the back wall of drawings. Tears began to swell above and beyond their boundary, distorting her view.

"I want to be able to help you." Omid furthered, taking a slow step closer.

Clementine closed her eyes, allowing tears to fall freely. She turned, her eyes still sealed, but to allow herself to hear him better.

"I'm not crying because you've hurt me," he assured, a hand extended in pleading. Only at that phrase did Clementine open her eyes. "I'm crying because I love you."

'I love you.'

That was it. That's what got her.

Suddenly, just as her emotions reached a boiling point, she bubbled over. Unable to control herself, she collapsed to the floor, a desperate wail rippling from her throat, her knees crashing into the ground. "I'm sorry!"

Omid instinctively flinched back before reaching out, praying he could catch the child before she crashed. He wasn't so lucky. "Clem--"

"I'm trying! I swear!" She screamed. Her throat was so hoarse from crying, and her body so weak from her pain, that it came out strangled and muffled.

"We know, Clem, we know." Omid assured, fumbling to pull the wailing child into his jittery arms. He couldn't lose her. He needed to hold her. He needed to ensure she was safe, and held, and reassured as much as he could offer.

There was an urgent slapping of footsteps, resonating off the walls as nothing more than blurred background noise. Suddenly, Christa fumbled into the room, a hand clutched to her stomach, throwing the thin sheet to the side to see what was unfolding. All she could spot was Clementine on the ground, Omid frantically wrapping his arms around her. She saw blood on the floor, a used blade tossed to the side, and Omid's frantic gaze settling on her.

Christa's stomach curled, rolling into her throat, threatening to make her sick with worry. She had never seen Clementine in such a paralyzing, traumatized state, and she had never seen Omid so pale, so terrified, so desperate. He flickered his gaze toward one of her walls, hoping to provide Christa with a clue. Christa obeyed.

As her eyes landed, she spotted the drawings scattering her walls. Then, it all made sense, even though it made her feel even sicker to think of the trauma such a young child had faced.

She dropped everything, collapsing to her knees and wrapping the duo in her arms. "Clementine," she whispered, already feeling tears clogging her throat. "Clem, it's okay." She breathed into the child's hair, feeling as the sobs shook her body.

And she was okay. She was going to be. With the two of them at her side, even if nothing else was going to be, they were.
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