Unbreakable threads

Chapter Twenty-five: Daryl gets hurt

Daryl clenched his fists, his knuckles white, blood dripping down his side and staining the ground beneath him. "Ain't like that," he muttered, his voice a hoarse whisper, his mind a whirlwind of pain and defiance. He cared about Alyssa—sure, he did. But not in the way Merle was saying. She was someone who needed a friend, someone he saw parts of himself in, and he'd only ever wanted to look out for her.

But Merle kept taunting, relentless in his accusations, picking apart Daryl's intentions until Daryl's own mind felt muddied, full of anger and shame he didn't deserve. He dug his nails into the earth, his breaths shallow as he fought to push the hallucination away, to drown out Merle's voice.

"I'm not you," Daryl choked out, forcing himself to move, inch by painful inch. "I ain't... I ain't like you."

He pushed forward, fueled by the fire in his belly, the determination to prove his worth—to himself, and to anyone who doubted him. He would protect people, not fail them. And Alyssa... she was family now, like the rest of the group, and he wouldn't let Merle's taunts twist that.

As he climbed, Merle's voice faded, replaced by the steady beat of his heart and the harsh rasp of his breaths. He was leaving the shadows behind, piece by painful piece, climbing out of the darkness. For Alyssa, for Sophia, and for himself.

At the farm, life moved slowly, each person quietly settling into a rhythm of necessary tasks. Alyssa found herself outside, folding laundry alongside Carol, who gave her gentle directions as they worked in the soft morning light. Alyssa felt a strange sense of calm in the simplicity of it all, even though she couldn't help but feel like she was playing a part she hadn't signed up for. The repetitive motion of folding and stacking clothes was grounding, keeping her mind occupied and her hands busy.

Nearby, Glenn and Dale were setting up a modest campsite just off the porch. Neither wanted to intrude on Hershel's home, respecting the family's space, especially since they were still strangers here. Dale worked with a quiet precision, his eyes often wandering back to the house, checking in on the people inside, while Glenn hummed under his breath, working through his own anxiety by keeping his hands busy.

T-Dog walked the perimeter, his face focused as he scanned the edges of the property, keeping an eye out for any threats. He moved with a steady, practiced ease, his hand resting on his belt, ready to spring into action if needed. Occasionally, he'd pause to exchange a nod or a quiet word with the others, offering them a reassuring presence amidst the underlying tension.

Inside the farmhouse, Rick and Lori remained by Carl's side. Hershel moved around the room with quiet authority, checking Carl's vitals, adjusting his position, and murmuring reassurances to the worried parents. Rick kept his hand on Carl's shoulder, whispering quiet promises that he'd be there when Carl woke up. Lori sat nearby, her eyes filled with worry and hope, holding tightly to Carl's small hand.

Meanwhile, Hershel's family worked on their own chores. Beth, Maggie, and Jimmy were tending to the farm animals, moving with a practiced ease as they fed the horses, milked the goats, and checked on the chickens. Maggie moved with a quiet determination, occasionally glancing toward the group setting up outside, her gaze lingering on Glenn with a mix of curiosity and guarded interest.

As Alyssa folded the last of the laundry, she glanced around the farm, feeling a quiet sense of unity among the group. Even though they were from different worlds, each person had found a place here, a purpose in the routine. They were strangers thrown together by circumstance, and yet, somehow, it felt almost like a makeshift family—a fragile, uncertain one, but real all the same.

Andrea positioned herself on top of Dale's RV, her gaze steady as she scanned the farmland with a loaded rifle resting in her lap. She kept watch over the open fields and the treeline beyond, her senses sharpened, ready to protect the group from any threat that might creep onto the property. The responsibility gave her purpose, something to focus on other than the lingering grief over Amy. She was vigilant, her eyes tracing every rustle of the grass, every distant movement, prepared to fire if necessary.