A/N: Hi! Just a piece to help me get back into the writing groove. Reviews are appreciated :)
Disclaimer: Nothing. I own nothing. It depresses me.
1.
By the time he had gotten there, the blaring sirens had silenced and the blinding, flashing red lights had been turned off.
Nothing left, they had said.
His mama was gone, burned up and dead, nothing left. Erased. The only thing that remained was a half burnt house, with gray smoke still weakly attempting to rise to the sky.
It was better that way, they had said.
But as he sank down onto the grass, Daryl didn't see how that made it any better. His mama was still dead. She was never coming back.
A lump formed in his throat, but he quickly swallowed it back, seeing other people still around. He couldn't even count how many his daddy and Merle had told him not to cry in front of people, how many times they had reminded him what a weakness it was.
And even though neither of them were there, he still held it back. Because it was a weakness, and he didn't want to be weak.
Instead, Daryl resigned his mind to the bitter truth and let a raw numbness flow through him.
2.
The leather belt no longer rained down on his bare back, yet the blinding pain lingered. The lumbering footsteps had long since faded, but the clenching fear they caused still had a strong hold on him.
With his breath coming out as nothing more than shaky gasps, Daryl cowered in the corner of his room, farthest from the door, feeling the cool night air whip around him from the open window. From behind strands of long brown hair, Daryl's eyes peered out into the darkness. The moonlight filtered dimly into the room, faintly glistening on the blood spattered floor.
His blood.
A strangled sound tore from his throat and his hand immediately flew up to cover his mouth, remembering his daddy's words from minutes ago,
"One peep and I come back, y' hear?"
The memory of the words alone made him shiver.
He stayed quiet.
3.
No.
The single word was his mantra as he paced back and forth on the sun baked roof, looking like a caged animal.
No.
This wasn't happening, it couldn't be. Daryl spun around to face the pipe once more, bloody handcuffs still dangling, a hand laying underneath, next to a discarded, dull hacksaw.
No.
He swiped at his eyes viciously, turning back to face the three men he was with. Letting anger trump everything else, letting comforting, familiar rage sweep through him, overtake him, Daryl brought his crossbow up and aimed it dead center on T-Dog's head.
No.
Merle was gone. Not even a body to bury.
The barrel of a gun pressed firmly to the back of his head, along with a click that was audible in the choking, thick silence.
No.
Merle wasn't dead, there was no way. His older brother was the toughest asshole Daryl had ever met. He was still out there, all they had to do was find him.
"I won't hesitate. I don't care if every walker in this city hears it." Rick's voice cut through the silence like a knife.
Daryl blinked vigorously, lowering his weapon, silently willing the hard knot in his stomach to unravel.
4.
What drove Daryl to look for the little girl, he wasn't quite sure. He didn't know her, or her mother, that well. But something had gripped him when that little girl went missing, an invisible, unexplainable force, and it had kept him going. Kept him going out there every day, looking. Even after he took an arrow and a bullet, he still looked. Something he would almost describe as hope.
But as his rifle clattered to the ground, as his arm wrapped around Carol's waist and they both crashed to the hard packed earth, all hope vanished. Time seemed to move in slow motion as the smallest walker stumbled out into the Sun, milky eyed and rotting skin.
Sophia.
But it wasn't Sophia anymore. She was dead, gone. This thing was an empty shell, a monster.
Even though Carol felt so frail, so damn fragile in his arms, like he could snap her any second, Daryl didn't loosen his grip. He didn't loosen it for fear she would try to reach what had been her daughter, to try and hold her one last time.
He didn't loosen it for fear he would loose her, too.
Daryl watched Rick raise his pistol, painfully slow, and aim it at the walker coming at them.
The shot was almost deafening, and to Daryl, it was like a punch in the gut. For a moment everything stopped, and a tidal wave of unwelcome emotions crashed into him. But feeling the sobbing woman in his arms, he pushed it all back. He needed to be strong right now. For her.
But she couldn't be.
5.
It was a beautiful Spring day the afternoon Daryl stood in the prison yard, crossbow slung across his back, eyes intent on the three crosses in front of him.
The three graves. T-Dog, Lori,
Carol.
For awhile, it had bothered him how that woman had such a hold over him, such an affect on him. And while he still didn't have a damn clue as to why, he didn't let himself get so worked up over it anymore. There are just some things one can never understand.
As he stood with hands clasped behind him, regret was the main thing on his mind. Regret for never saying everything he had wanted to tell her. Regret for never allowing her to tear down all of his walls. Regret for not saving her daughter. And, most of all, regret for not being there to save her.
His eyes stung and his chest clenched, his vision becoming blurry as he stared down at the middle cross, her cross. Before any moisture could escape his eyes he blinked, willing it all away.
Carol wouldn't want him to cry.
Remembering that cheeky grin of hers, those sparkling eyes, and that friendly teasing, Daryl knew Carol would not want him to be sad over her. She would want him to cherish the good times, as he recalled her saying once. Those rare, happy moments they had shared in the midst of this hell.
Daryl took a deep breath and, reaching into his jacket pocket, took out a Cherokee Rose. Taking the fragile, white pedaled flower, he gently placed it in the dirt with a shaky hand. And turning away, he let himself smile, just a little.
He would always remember the good times. He would always remember her.
1.
The prison was quiet that night as Daryl sat on his perch, watching the woman next to him sleep.
Carol, the woman who had peeled back so many of his layers, the woman who never gave up on him, even when he gave up on himself. Carol, the woman who put up with his temper and saw right through his standoffish attitude. The woman who didn't care about the scars on his back, even if he insisted they made him ugly. The woman who was sweet and gentle where he was rough and cruel. The woman who understood him better than he understood himself at times.
Carol, the woman who loved him.
And he loved her too. And now, sitting here, watching her peaceful slumber, her face void of any worry or pain, he realized just how much.
The bundle in his arms squirmed and he looked down, greeted with a scrunched up red face and a tiny hand reaching up.
Carol, the mother of his child.
"Hey." he cooed softly at the baby boy in his arms, letting the tiny hand grab his index finger and squeeze. The baby's eyelids cracked open, revealing the brilliant blue irises Daryl insisted matched Carol's, while she asserted they resembled his.
Daryl felt wetness on his cheeks and his breath hitched as he looked down at his child, his blood. Instinct tried to force the tears to stop flowing but this time, Daryl pushed instinct back. Being with the group had taught him that crying wasn't a weakness, it was quite the opposite. Crying was something needed to maintain your strength.
Daryl smirked down at the baby in his arms, running a calloused thumb against the child's soft cheek.
Was it good or bad? Let me know! I really want to improve my writing because I am working on starting a Multi Chapter, so if you have any tips, please don't hesitate.