White Blank Page

Edited by: Amputation

Zenofbeingmommy prompt based on P.S. I Love You. Also, fueled by "White Blank Page" by Mumford and Sons. Oh dear, I don't see this being a one-shot. I think I may be able to squeeze out a few chapters of this.

Also: I own nothing in regards to The Walking Dead. All rights belong to the copyright holder.

Chapter 1

Daryl's heart was racing, his jaw clenched so hard it hurt as his upper lip curled into a snarl. He should have been there to protect her, but he was there now, the bite deep in her shoulder. She smiled softly at him, lip trembling with each breath she took. Beth was crying and holding Carol's hand, rubbing it gently. Rick stood next to the hunter, eyebrows knitted in anguish and his hand clasped to his mouth, outlining the frown lines with his finger tips.

The Deputy and the Hunter stared sorrowfully at one another. It had to be done. No need to see her suffer like this any longer, they couldn't just let her linger in this state to feel the fever or the loss of herself. It had to be one of them.

"I'm ready," she whispered feebly.

He went stiff at her words, feeling paralyzed by her complete calm. How could she be so strong even with her imminent death? Was she not afraid of what was to come?

Rick motioned to Daryl, indicating that he wanted to be the one to pull the trigger, but the hunter shook his head in protest, kneeling next to her. Beth had already been pulled away by Maggie and Glenn, neither of whom wished to watch, outright refusing to do so. He couldn't blame them. It was hard for him to find the strength to even get to one knee. To even be near her was an aching pain in his heart, ringing of 'should haves' and 'could haves'. It hurt. She shifted and pulled her Smith and Wesson from her hip, handing it over to Daryl. He hesitantly took it, trying not to look at Carol. He couldn't bring himself to make eye contact with her because he knew that if he did, he wouldn't have the courage or strength to pull the trigger. He'd puss out over his feelings. He had to do it. It had to be him to end her life. He wouldn't allow anyone else to do it.

Carol's teeth chattered as she drew increasingly haggard breaths with each passing minute. She gazed at Daryl kneeling in front of her with her gun in his hand. He never looked at her; just stared at the gun. She began to cry. He could hear her sniffling and he wanted to tell her that everything was going to be just fine, that she was going to be okay, but the words were not true. Carol wasn't okay. She wasn't going to get better. This was the end. Daryl swallowed the lump that filled his throat, brows furrowing. Shakily, Carol took his hand in hers and positioned the barrel to her forehead. Daryl's gaze finally met hers and she could clearly see the fear in his eyes. Her eyes were misty but kind and unafraid. He felt a little at ease by her eyes and what they conveyed. She spoke.

"Don't be afraid for me, Daryl. I'm going to be with Sophia. My baby is waiting for me," she murmured, smiling once more.

Daryl shut his eyes and nodded, pulling the hammer back. His finger on the trigger began squeezing little by little. He just needed to pull it a little more and this nightmare would all be over. He wasn't sure if he could do it. He released his finger and the breath he had been holding. He shook his head vehemently. He had never been so unsure of anything in his life, more scared and angry at anything.

Carol gently touched his hand, "You have to let me go now," her voice was hoarse but still so gentle.

She was waiting. Almost as quickly as she had laid her hand on his, he pulled the trigger, the noise echoing throughout the prison like a death rattle. Her hand fell limply against his and it was suddenly over.

Daryl had been in the guard tower with his back against the wall, legs coiled beneath him while balancing on the balls of his feet, his arms poised over his knees. His crossbow lay abandoned against the wall next to him as a pile of cigarette butts accumulated about the floor next to his boots, scattered haphazardly. He was down to his last cigarette. He swore under his breath as he took a drag, letting a steady stream of smoke out his nostrils.

He'd withdrawn from the group and hadn't come down since Carol… That had been four days ago. He hadn't eaten since then, almost refused to do so. Only when Rick came to hand out his portion of rations did he consider eating. The others had tried to get him to eat but to no avail. He didn't want to be near people, he wanted his solitude. Daryl didn't want them around. Their presences just pissed him off. He felt as he had when they had found Sophia, except somehow this seemed much worse.

A gentle knock on the door interrupted his thoughts and he looked only to see Beth peek around the corner. She had something in hand, but it looked old and ratty: a book of sorts, perhaps?

Her brows were furrowed and her usual thin-lipped smile was missing. She bit her lip, sucking in a small cry as she handed the book out to him. Daryl quirked an eyebrow at the sudden gesture, wondering why she was even offering the ratty thing to him in the first place. What use did he have for some stupid Bible, anyway? Not like he had ever been a religious man to begin with. He wasn't about to start now.

"It's yours. I mean—it's for you," the blonde said softly, "we were going through Carol's things and w-we found this. It was addressed to you."

Daryl shook his head, growling "I don't want it."

Could she not see that this hurt him just as much as it hurt her? Hell, what was she so upset about anyhow? Beth had only gotten to know Carol better after the farm had fallen. She hadn't been there when he was trying to find her little girl in the Georgia woods, nor had she held the grief-stricken woman back when she was running to death itself. She wasn't the one who had gone into the tombs to find Carol and bring her back. Beth hadn't even been the one to hear Carol's cries when the farm fell and he'd rushed to grab her out of harm's way. What could she know about his grieving? Carol had been his only real connection to a family that relied on him and cared about his well-being. None as she had.

"B-b-but," the blonde started, fidgeting, "Carol," the girl swallowed visibly, "sh-sh-she wanted you to have it," Beth finally stammered out.

He huffed. Beth was beginning to get on his nerves with her sniveling. At this point, he just wanted her gone.

"Give me the fuckin' thing then," he snapped, snatching the book from her hands and slamming it next to his crossbow.

Beth stopped chewing her lip and turned to leave. She knew he didn't want her there and took heed of it.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Daryl," she whispered before closing the door and leaving him to wallow in his misery.

Daryl snorted. He continued to sit until the sun started to creep over the tree line, but his attention kept returning to the book Beth had given him several hours ago. He picked it up by the top cover and a petal fell from its pages. He creased his brow and carefully picked it up. Was this a Cherokee rose petal? Curiosity got the better of him and he opened the book to the first page.

• It's the end of the world and still I feel a need to chronicle the occurrences of my day to day life. If I can at least keep this little bit of humanity left, I think I can hold on and deal with this new world.

Ed died yesterday. He deserved it. I at least believe he did, laying a hand on my daughter as he did. That hurt worst than all the bruises and cuts he left on me.

Those things, those walkers got to him. Tore him up like I wished I could. They stole so many lives last night. If we had the other men there, our losses would have been minimal. But we lost them, all for a bag of guns and that redneck, Merle Dixon. Perhaps there would have been more casualties had they not returned at all or with that bag of guns. It's hard to say.

Ed was one of our losses. As much as I hated Ed, I loved him. I loved that he gave me my baby. He gave me the only thing I have ever cared or loved more than myself. He gave me my Sophia.

I put a pickaxe through Ed's head today. To take care of our dead, to keep them from coming back as walkers, we have to sever any connection with the brain to the body. At least that's the rationale behind it. Saw the Dixon boy taking the pick axe to the heads of our dead. He struck them with ease. Ed's corpse was next in his row of bodies to take care of and I couldn't bring myself to allow him to do what I should. In love and death, in sickness and in health: those were the vows I took. It had to be me to sever ties.

I thrust that axe over and over again into the remains of his head. I may not have seen his face, but I knew he watched me, that Dixon boy. He probably thought 'this mousy housewife is going to town on her dead husband.' That's fine. He can judge all he likes. He would never understand what I went through or had to go through. I could feel all my anger, hatred, sadness being let loose each time I brought that axe down. I cannot deny that I felt a weight being lifted from my shoulders but I feel that somewhere deep inside I was mourning him, despite all he'd done to me. I loved him for what he gave me, my Sophia.•

Daryl remembered that day. She'd come up to him so meekly, asking to do it herself. He didn't deny her request. Who was he to do such a thing? He may have been an asshole, but not that kind. He'd said not a word and handed over the axe. He'd watched as she slammed it into the bit of head that was left of his corpse. Walkers had made sure to tear his worthless body apart until you could neither recognize nor deny it had been a human being. Carol let out angry grunts as she repeatedly swung the axe into his head.

He understood. He had wanted to do that to his daddy all the years he had been stuck being beat after Merle had taken off and his Mother had passed. He was the only one left for his daddy to take his anger out on. Daryl had seen himself in Carol in that moment, except she had done what he never got to. In that moment, she'd stood out to him. He had never paid her much attention, a quiet mousy thing just as she had mentioned in her journal. But the moment she had asked for that axe and repeatedly swung it into her abusive husband's head until there was nothing left, she had blipped onto his radar and he assumed he had on hers, too.

She always sought him out amongst their group. Her eyes always meeting his, a gentle nod of her head to acknowledge she saw him or soft smile from across a room. That's all it took, but a swing of an axe and an act of relinquishing old turmoil. They were gravitating towards one another and he never thought for one second that it would evolve beyond a kinship of sorts. A mutual understanding that they were both survivors of the abuse by the ones they thought they loved and reciprocated the sentiment.

A/N: please let me know how you liked it! Feedback is always welcome, especially on a prompt based fic. Thanks! Also this isn't the only chapter. More to come! Stay tuned and thanks for reading!