Vanessa Taylor, a sassy blue haired, tattooed cosmetologist with a mouth of a sailor was born and raised in Ohio. One summer while she was visiting her sick father, her connecting flight ends in the city getting shut down, leaving her stranded in th...
The four of us carried Eugene off of the tracks and back to the truck. Abraham had jumped into the bed with me while I tried to stabilize the bleeding, so I could get him inside the infirmary, to stitch him if I need to. I silently thank Hershel for agreeing to teach me while he was still alive, otherwise I don't think Eugene would've survived the ambush.
Though, upon further inspection once I got into the infirmary; I note that the bullet had just grazed him. I clean area. I give him a few stitches, laying a gauze over the wound before setting antibiotics next to the table with a glass of water. I instruct him to take one twice a day until the bottle is empty, to fight off any possible infection from getting it's teeth into him.
"I didn't just save your ass for you to die by an infection. Got it?" Eugene nods under my orders. "Good."
Daryl is sitting next to the window, quietly watching me work on our friend. He offered his help where I needed it. I sigh, sensing the tension radiating off of him when he got too close to me. It doesn't take a genius to realize things are tense between us at the moment.
We will work it out. Hopefully.
Eugene's eyes meet mine, "thank you, Vanessa."
"No problem, mullet man. You did good out there. I don't think Dwight will ever get hard, again." I tease, smirking. Eugene weakly smiles over at me. "Well, not any time soon."
Suddenly the door swings open as Abraham stalks through, "Rick's coming. How is he?" He approaches our friend, standing next to the side of the bed.
"Bullet just grazed him, but it's a good thing we got him back when we did. The antibiotics we picked up could save him from an infection. Could save his life. Now I'm going home to shower. See yall later. Let me know if he gets worse and I'll come back. But he should be good to go." I reach for my coat, heading towards the door. I've been feeling a small breakdown build in the back of my soul over the last few hours.
Rosita's questioning voice stops me, "you never answered our question, who was Dwight talking about?"
I hang my head as images of Owen consume my mind, fear turning its ugly head one more time as my coat falls from my trembling hand. I grip the nearest surface for support. "No one." I stare at my leather jacket for a long moment before I bend down to pick it up. I feel Daryl's eyes bore into the back of my head. I quickly exit the infirmary, walking towards home.
"I ain't ever saw her react like that," is the last thing I hear Daryl say while I stalk by the open window.
Yeah, Daryl, this is mild compared to what I faced years ago. It's only downhill from here.
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Anger at myself soars through my soul. Denise is dead because of me; it was my reckless call that put us out there. It should've been me. Dwight admitted as much. Behind the anger, there is soul deep fear. Owen is back; I have to figure out how the hell I'm going to deal with that. He's going to kill anyone who stands in his way. I will not recruit anyone to help me; I have to protect them from my own personal devil. If that means running away... Behind the fear, there's confusion. I'm carrying Daryl's child, something that seemed just out of reach because of Owen.
