|[part seven]|
-҉
AS CONSCIOUSNESS reclaimed you, a faint rustling near your ear snapped your eyes open. Instinctively, your hand darted to the knife at your belt, hoisting it defensively before you as your surroundings gradually came into focus. The ambiance was unfamiliar, a stark deviation from any memory you could muster—a dimly lit interior, warmth radiating from a crudely fashioned fire burning within an iron trash can. Your gaze drifted, settling on a figure ensconced near the fire, engrossed in the task of skinning what appeared to be a possum. An attempt to rise was swiftly curtailed by a sharp, pinching pain that coursed through your arm, drawing your attention to a makeshift sling cradling it. Clearing your throat, you swallowed hard, steeling yourself against the vulnerability that threatened to lace your words. "How long was I out?"
"2 hours... give or take," came Daryl's response, his attention unwavering from the task at hand. His initial indifference belied a forthcoming engagement. "Don't do that, I said. You'll get hurt, I said. And what did you do?"
An involuntary roll of your eyes accompanied a burgeoning grin. "Stop being grumpy. It's lame." His gaze finally met yours, traversing the length of your sling-bound arm to your face, lingering momentarily on your smile before reverting to his culinary endeavor. A silence ensued before you ventured a "Thank you," acknowledging his intervention with the ghouls and your injury. "For helping... with the ghouls and my arm."
"Nah, you're good," he dismissed, the fire casting an orange glow upon his features.
Curiosity piqued, you broached the subject of his past. "What's your story?" Despite the initial discomfort, you managed to prop yourself up. His response was a noncommittal grunt. "You know... how did you get here? How are you still... alive, I guess?"
"From the start?" he queried, his interest seemingly piqued.
"Yes," you whispered, your gaze flitting across his visage before settling on the flames. "From the start."
A momentary hesitation preceded his decision to recount his journey, his voice resonating with the weight of untold trials. "It all started in Atlanta..."
As he unfolded his narrative, the hours waned, your throat constricting with emotion you dared not display. His tale was a tapestry of survival, woven with threads of pain and resilience, starkly real yet narrated with an unexpected eloquence. It dawned on you that while you had encountered loss, his experiences painted a portrait of endurance amidst adversity far beyond your own. Daryl's narrative unfurled like a grim tapestry, each thread woven with the trials and tribulations he endured, painting a stark contrast to your own journey through this desolate new world. As he recounted the names and faces of those who had once stood by his side, now lost to the unforgiving tide of survival, a profound sense of empathy stirred within you. It was more than mere sympathy; it was a deep-seated sorrow for the relentless series of losses that had battered him, a man who had endured the unthinkable, yet stood resilient before you.
"I'm so sorry," the words escaped your lips, soft and laden with genuine emotion, as your gaze remained steadfastly fixed on him, seeking some semblance of comfort you could offer through mere words.
"I ain't want no pity," he retorted, his voice gruff, a defense mechanism against the vulnerability that the conversation had unwittingly exposed.
You shook your head, gently dismissing his interpretation. "It's not pity." The words were difficult to find, a tumult of thoughts vying for expression. You bit the inside of your cheek, grappling with the inadequacy of words to convey the depth of your empathy. "I'm just... All of it... I'm just really sorry that you lost every home you ever had," you managed to articulate. Your voice carried a weight of understanding, acknowledging not just the physical loss of shelter but the profound sense of belonging that had been cruelly ripped away, time and again. "Not only them being taken from you—and your group in the cruelest ways, but also that those people tried their hardest to not make them feel like your home anymore."
His reaction was subtle, a flicker of surprise, perhaps even vulnerability, before he armored himself once more with a semblance of indifference. "Not every home," he admitted, albeit reluctantly.
"Right," you nodded, acknowledging the exception. "Alexandria."
A grunt of agreement escaped him as he took a bite from the possum he had earlier prepared over the fire. The conversation had led him to neglect the meat, resulting in one side being charred, yet he seemed unfazed. The piece he had shared with you, now cooled, was held limply between your fingers, a forgotten morsel amidst the exchange of soul-stirring revelations. "Wha' about you?" he inquired. Under the flickering light of the makeshift fire, the shadows danced across Daryl Dixon's features, carving out the rugged landscape of a man who had weathered countless storms. His face, etched with the lines of hardship and loss, told a story of survival against the odds. The firelight glinted off his eyes, which held a depth of emotion rarely allowed to surface, revealing glimpses of the sorrow and resilience that lay beneath his stoic exterior. The unkempt hair, the stubble that adorned his jawline, and the scars that marked his skin were not just physical attributes but symbols of the battles he had fought, both against the dead and the living.
"Uhm," the word hung in the air, a fragile prelude to the flood of memories that suddenly overwhelmed you, rendering you momentarily speechless. The enormity of the past decade's events crashed into your consciousness like a tidal wave, leaving behind a bewildering mix of emotions. "I, uh, was in college when everything went to hell," you began again, your voice a tentative whisper against the backdrop of your recollections. You fiddled with the piece of meat, your fingers clumsy with the weight of your thoughts. "I was actually at a party, my first-ever college party, and then... one of the on-campus janitors, he just... died. Might've been a heart attack or something." The memory played out in your mind's eye in vivid, horrifying detail: the initial confusion and disbelief, followed by the sudden, gut-wrenching realization of the chaos unfolding.
"It spread like wildfire. I mean, we'd heard some rumors about a sickness going around the day before, but we were just college kids, you know? We didn't really pay it much mind." Your voice trailed off, lost in the memory of the screams, the panic, the desperate scramble for safety amidst a reality that had shifted beneath your feet overnight.
You paused, taking a deep breath to collect your thoughts and steady your voice. "I didn't really have any friends there yet, so when I saw the... mess, I just ran. I had no clue where to go, ended up at the only place I thought would be safe and empty."
"Library?" Daryl interjected, his voice cutting through your reverie, a lifeline back to the present.
"Yeah," you nodded, the corners of your mouth lifting in a small, wistful smile as you recalled the sanctuary you had found amongst the books and silence. "I survived on apples for three days, with the dead just beyond those doors. But I was safe—or as close to safe as one could get in that nightmare. Then the military came, fought off the dead, and I was suddenly being whisked away to a 'safe zone' in a helicopter. Except, the pilot had been bitten during an earlier scuffle and turned mid-flight. We crashed in the middle of nowhere, and only a female soldier and I survived."
The bitterness of the memory was palpable, a sharp tang that soured your tongue as you recounted the events. "Waking up to the sound of gunshots... She had to do it. Had to put down the others—people she knew, trained with. Back then, I couldn't understand it. Thought they were just sick. I resented her for making those decisions, even as she was saving my life, teaching me how to survive, to fight."
You paused, the weight of those days pressing down on you, the silence heavy with unspoken words and shared understanding. "One day, she didn't come back from a supply run. I found her, turned. Sergeant Ava Wilson... she was my first kill." The words were laden with sorrow, a heavy cloak that wrapped around your shoulders. "Even in death, she taught me one last lesson. How to get past my own hesitation, to just... act."
Shifting uncomfortably, you tried to steer the conversation away from the depth of your past sorrows, inserting a lighter note into your voice. "Spent a couple years with her, then roamed alone until I ran into this group. Thought I'd found some semblance of safety, but turns out, they were a bit unhinged, collecting walker heads like some macabre trophies. One of them got too cozy with his collection, ended up getting his throat bitten out in his sleep. Barely made a sound. Most of them didn't make it, and by then, I was just relieved I'd kept my distance, spent that night up in a tree."
As you shared your story, it wasn't just the words that Daryl listened to; it was the pain, the loss, the fleeting moments of hope, and the stark reality of survival that echoed through them. Your journey, marked by moments of both despair and resilience, painted a vivid picture of a world irrevocably changed, of lives twisted and turned by fate, and of the human spirit's enduring will to persevere against all odds.
"The walker heads?" He interjected, his tone carrying a mix of resignation and disbelief, as if the very notion was something he'd come to accept as part of this new, grotesque normality. After he finished his meal, Daryl proceeded to open a can he had heated by the fire, spooning its contents with an air of detachment. Your curiosity piqued at his nonchalant acknowledgment of such a grim topic, but you chose to file away your questions for another day, sensing it was a discussion that required its own time and space.
"What'cha do after?" His inquiry pulled you back from your thoughts, prompting a sigh.
"We went our separate ways," you began, the words feeling heavy with the unspoken stories of those who had come into your life only to leave or be taken by death. You shrugged as if to physically cast off the weight of those memories, finishing off your own portion of the meal. "After years of wandering, I stumbled upon a larger group. They had carved out a semblance of stability for themselves—a home, a sanctuary amidst the chaos. A system." The longing in your voice was palpable as you recounted the desire for normalcy, for a life where the constant vigilance and paranoia could be set aside, if only for a moment. "I wanted so desperately for it to be real. To not have to sleep with one eye open, to not constantly look over my shoulder. To live, not just survive," you admitted, your words rushing out in a torrent before you caught yourself, reigning in the flood of emotions. "But, as it turns out, large communities aren't my thing." You offered him a smile tinged with regret. "So, I returned to what I know best—surviving on my own."
"Tha' what ya been doin' for the whole time I ain't seen ya?" He asked, his curiosity evident.
"Uh," you hesitated, the brief pause filled with the echoes of solitude and the countless faces that had drifted in and out of your life. "Well, I've been clearing out houses along my path here. The library was the toughest nut to crack, so... I guess I'll keep on clearing the area."
He pointed his spoon at your shoulder, a makeshift gesture of authority. "Clearing's gonna have to wait."
"What?" You shot back, feigning offense. "I'm still fully capable of kicking your ass."
He snorted, a genuine, unguarded reaction that seemed to surprise even him. "Yeah, right. You wanna test that theory?"
"What, 'you saying I can't?" You challenged, leaning forward with a raised eyebrow, the playful banter sparking between you like the flames of the campfire.
"That's exactly what I'm sayin'."
Your mouth fell open in mock outrage. "You, me, right now. Move that damn fire pit."
"Why? Can't do it yourself?" His retort was light, teasing, a reflection of the camaraderie that had somehow flourished amidst the desolation.
"Oh, shut up," you hissed jokingly, the laughter bubbling up within you, a rare and precious warmth in the coldness of your world. He tossed you another piece of meat, not from the charred remains but a choice cut he had reserved, presumably for himself. You couldn't help but wonder why he'd prefer the monotony of canned food over this, especially when he didn't seem to relish it. Yet, the realization that he had saved this piece for you stirred something within—a fluttering, almost forgotten sensation of connection and care that momentarily filled the void of loneliness, reminding you of the human capacity for kindness in a world that had seemingly forsaken it.