If I'd been permitted to pick my cause of death, fading away from a zombie bite would not have made my list of preferences. The indignity of it was a stain on my pride, and I wished to preserve as much of that as I could. Regardless of the fact that in a few minutes, it'd be no use to me.

My fingers grazed my wrist. The blood was mostly dried, I think. The wound wasn't seeping. Even the pain had subsided, somewhat. I'd always been vaguely curious about the magnitude of pain associated with having the muscle and tissue ripped from your bone, and I had to say I was disappointed with the results. It hurt about as much as you could imagine it did, but after a while, that was all it was: pain. A dull throbbing where your body was failing to repair itself. A canvas that's been torn and taped a hundred times and has long since lost its charm, but sentimentality forbids disposing of the damn thing like you knew you should. It was sobering, but not debilitating.

Daryl was still slamming the heel of his boot against the last of the walkers' head, and I didn't try to stop him. He was fully aware that there was no stopping this, regardless of how many pieces the afflicters were reduced to.

After a few minutes, though, he turned to me, his eyes wild. He kind of looked like all his facial muscles were threatening to collapse on themselves, so he had to keep them tightened to preserve their structural integrity. He fell against me, and cupped my face.

Our foreheads were pressed together, both our eyes dripping tears.

"I'm sorry," I said calmly. I knew what I was putting on him. I knew. I'd felt it. I'd lived it. That was mind-blanking pain. Unlike that of a physical ailment, there was no medicine to cure heartbreak. Time and whiskey were your only allies, and the hellish reduction of the world produced limited quantities of both.

"Don't," he said, putting his face on my shoulder, thumbing the skin around my bite. My bite. It's weird how possession can be placed on objects of little to no actual belonging. It wasn't my bite. It was no one's bite. It belonged collectively to the universe, an embodiment of the world's unjust and unrest.

There really wasn't much time left. The longest this process had ever taken was a few hours, and I didn't want to put up with the most gruesome stages of this. Daryl knew that. That was why his hand was shaking as it bore the weight of my rifle.

It wasn't as victorious an execution as I would like. I'd seen the effects of my own gun, and there would be next to nothing left of my head when all's said and done. Especially at this distance. I apologized again.

His head was low, and I wondered how much more of this shit he and the rest of the group could manage before it took over. Before they were lost in the limits of their own durability. Emotional stability is not as negligible as some would have you believe. I hoped he would be okay.

It's not like how I always imagined it. The moments that come to greet your final ones, I mean. The sky wasn't darkening, the trees weren't falling; I was about as significant to the progression of the world as a blade of grass. Cumulatively, I could produce a field. But without the physical presence of a hundred thousand people, I lacked substance.

The only thing darkening was my vision. It was terrifying, but I managed to keep my eyes focused on Daryl for as long as they were open. I wanted to tell him I loved him. I wanted to remind him to clean his crossbow, even when I wasn't there to tease him for doing so. I wanted to hug him, and laugh with him, and talk about his stupid angel wings vest and see the crease in his forehead deepen when I tell him it's silly, even though I loved it. I wanted to breathe in the scent of his sweat. I wanted him not to cry for me.

That's the most excruciating part of impending departure, I think. Not the "I shouldn't have done that"s, but the "I'll never get to do this"s. He'd never hear all the things I used to mumble when he was sleeping, as I counted his steady breathes. The words I left in my subconscious, saving them for a day when sentimentality would be permissible by the forces that would see us busied constantly.

And now, when such a time had arrived, I was shirking it. Such a waste of feeling.

I wanted to say something, but couldn't find the way to open my mouth. It hurt to even move my jaw, for whatever reason. Maybe I'd been clenching it for too long. That was possible, given that I'd managed to avoid screaming in pain for several hours. My dentist always said I gnashed my teeth in my sleep, but obviously never this hard. Elsewise I'd be used to it.

And then, as the curtain of my life force drew to a close, my last moments were spent with thoughts of irony. How caustic is it that the hand I trusted to pull the trigger at the right time was the one that was eating away at my life force. It was literally killing me.

Daryl turned away as my grip on his hand slacked. "That's it, then?" He asked gruffly. "You're just gonna leave."

I blew some extra air out of my nostrils and quirked a smile. We always knew things would hit this way, didn't we? Our tie was one severed by circumstance before we even met. Though, delusion is a powerful mistress, and it's easy to forget that the inevitability of death in the wake of it. Our meeting was a blessing and a curse, and frankly I wouldn't blame him for regretting it.

He looked at me, a mess of blood pressed against his clothes and into his hair, and a nasty frown darkening his face. He looked like hell, but I swear to God, I've never seen anyone more beautiful.

He closed his eyes, and I did, too.

"I—I'll make it quick."

"Thanks," I managed to say, the softness of my voice failing to disguise the sequential crack of it. He winced.

Daryl hugged me, and in it I acknowledged everything he'd never dare to say out loud. He pressed his lips against my forehead, and held them there for several seconds. "Hope you and my brother get along well enough until I get there."

I nodded, best I could, and hoped he felt my smile. The intangible pain I wasn't impressed with earlier was returning, bringing a load of exhaustion with it. My nerves were crying, and every breath was a fire in my chest.

He swallowed.

I felt the barrel of my gun against my head.

My eyes squeezed tighter, and I ignored the resounding protest from my head.

I wished he would hold my hand.

The bullet slid into the chamber with a resonant click.

I counted back until I heard the trigger start to give to the pressure he was exerting.

A bit of moisture fell down my face, somehow managing to escape the vice of my eyelids.

A shiver ran up my spine. Why was I cold?

"Sorry." Daryl whispered.

Don't be. I wouldn't trade us for the world. It was only by a run of bad luck that the world had traded us out. And that was something he and I could not be blamed for.

I sucked in a fiery breath, and made sure he caught sight of a smile on my face. Then, I steeled my shoulders and my resolve, and waited.

I always had been a lady of patience.