↳ we aren't who we were anymore...
oc x carl grimes
season 7-8 (sequel to who we were)
TW: Depression, thoughts of suicide, use of drugs/alcohol, use of tobacco, detailed gore, use of weapons, death, and mentions/suggestions of assault.
DISCLAIMER:...
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The note that had been slipped beneath the door didn't have to make Daryl ponder his choices very long. The answer seemed obvious as it sat in front of him, a simple piece of scrap paper and key in his hands being his escape route. There would be no thinking about the things that could go wrong the second he twisted the hand around the door handle and let himself out of the dark, damp room, because in that moment, he was more concerned about what would happen if he forced himself to spend even another moment inside of there, feeling alone, filthy, and vulnerable.
And so he did just as he knew he'd have to - he grabbed the silvery knob, twisting it with a steady hand until he heard a click. It was the click that sealed his escape - that proved he had a chance at freedom after being treated like an animal. At first, Daryl almost couldn't comprehend the dim light seeping through the crack in the door, or the way the air seemed unmistakably fresher on the outside. He had been taken from the closet before, but it was never on his own, freewill. It was always to do the unnecessary tasks Negan had ordered so that he could become the laughingstock of the Sanctuary, or be pressed into another form of torture. This time; however, was different. There he was, pacing out of the room, his hands not bound, nor was he being escorted by a bunch of Negan's cowardice men who claimed to be fighters. He was on his way to freedom.
Adrenaline coursed dully through his veins as he grasped the yellow paper between his fingers, nails crusted in dirt and grime. Daryl ran his hand along the wall as he moved, wondering if he'd need to trace his way back to the broom closet in fear that he would be caught. He could only imagine what would happen to him if he were to be caught. He pushed the thought away, knowing that it's shouldn't even be a tangible idea because he was going to make it out of this hell hole and back home with his friends. Nothing would stop him from being with his family.
Voices murmured as Daryl crept across the cool, tile floors. It sent shivers up his spine as he heard the end of an argument just before the explosion of glass and pickle juice across the floor from the room at the end of the hall. It was just steps away from him. "Goddamn it!" a man's voice yelled as soon as he heard the glass shatter. Daryl stopped, refusing to move any further. He looked around him for just a second before sprinting in the direction he had come, ducking himself in the first room he found and slamming the door shut behind him. As he twisted the lock on the door, he could hear the couple outside continue their argument, like a broken record that wouldn't stop replaying the same part over and over again.
Daryl looked around the room as the two debated about what would be done with the spilled jar of pickles. The room was small, but clearly someone's quarters. Upon inspection, he found a mess of pillows and blankets in the closet, and then a jar of peanut butter upon a shelf by the door. It didn't take Daryl even a second to think about what to do. He swiped the jar, opening it up, and began eating it with his own hand. He didn't mind. He was so hungry he could care less.
