This is the moment, Dixon.
Fight or flight. You've heard it before. People have told stories for centuries about the moment they had to choose between standing their ground or fleeing the scene. Never looking back. But you don't see those options do you? Because you're stuck. You're frozen in time. Latched to the look on your girl's face, knowing that it's the last expression she's ever gonna make. You gotta do somethin', Dixon. You can't just stand here. Raise your gun, or run. Freezing ain't gonna do nothin' for ya, and it most certainly ain't gonna do nothin' for her. She's gone, man. It happened. You can't go back. But you can certainly make sure that other bitch doesn't survive to see another day. You can do it. Just move. Take out your gun and pull the trigger.
Three, two, one.
In a span of less than five seconds, these are the thoughts that cross Daryl Dixon's mind after the echo of Dawn's single misfired shot rings through the halls of Grady Memorial Hospital. After that, he doesn't think at all.
He's not consciously aware of drawing his weapon from the holster at his side. He can't feel the physical sensation of cool metal against pulsing flesh between his fingers as he grips the trigger. He doesn't tell himself to pull it, but he does. Mechanically. Like the gears inside of him were made for it. Slick, oiled up parts working seamlessly in place to do a job - one single job - and right now that means murder. Murder for another murder. The one he just witnessed. Fresh blood still splattered across his cheek. The metallic smell of it in the air. Copper. Sticky. Thick.
He thought her blood would be different. She wasn't like the rest of them. She was pure, made of sunlight and the best intentions. Some ridiculous part of him fantasized that her blood would sparkle like dew clinging to the leaf of a wildflower, cast within the first light of day. But it isn't. It pours out like syrup, and for some strange reason, his first thought after looking at her was of pancakes.
The second shot answers the first, but it signals nothing but silence to follow. The others have their weapons ready. Aimed. Prepared to start a war. But they're all frozen, just like he had been only seconds before. Just like he is again now. What else is he supposed to do? Dawn's body fell in such a way that her legs are crossed over Beth's, and Daryl can't stand the sight of it, so he immediately moves to reposition them and pull Beth away from her killer. Rick is speaking to the group, saying things that only he could find the words for at a time like this. He's being a leader… in the truest form.
Daryl holds Beth's body as if she's merely sleeping. He cradles her against his chest, strokes the matted bits of hair away from her face, and it's then that he realizes that he's been crying. His sobs are a natural force, and he can't control them. They propel him second by second into a future where Beth Greene does not exist. He wishes he could stop time from moving on without her, or at least stop himself from moving with the time. If there was ever a perfect moment in which to freeze, this was it.
Someone touches his shoulder, and he looks up to see that most of the others have scattered. The hallway is empty, save for himself and the body that lay in his arms. It's Rick that's placed a gentle touch of reassurance, and Daryl allows it, because Rick is the only one left that's brave enough to do it. She would have done it. She would have slammed herself against him in one fatal swoop. A smothering embrace of togetherness. Of hope that he was not alone. She liked to hug, and he isn't sure if he'll ever be able to accept something like that from anyone else again.
Rick gestures to the doors at the end of the hall, and Daryl sees the rest of his group hovering within the threshold. They're tear-streaked and battle worn, despite there being no actual battle. Physical, that is. The emotional battle within them all is probably one to be reckoned with at the moment. But no would could possibly understand what he's feeling. None of them. Not even Maggie.
Oh, God. Maggie.
He'd told Beth she'd never see her sister again. Had he cursed her? Was this the universe's way of laughing in his face? Be careful what you wish for, loser. He can hear the stars mocking him. Shaking their heads. They knew what was coming, and they didn't even bother to give him fair warning. Fuckers. Damn all the stars to hell.
Their would be no more light without her now anyway. A world without Beth is a world plunged in darkness, and he will have to call it his home.
He carries her. Out the doors, down five flights of stairs, and out into the imaginary sunlight. He's blinded at first, but he takes one menacing step at a time towards the rest of their family that has yet to see the tragedy of what's happened. He can't look at them. He can't lift his head. The weight of his tears keep his eyes pinned to the top of her head where the bullet left a trail of exploded tissue and brain matter. It's disgusting. And it's beautiful. And everything about it is her, but it's not. And the juxtaposition of it all leaves him dizzy and tongue-tied. He can't speak. There's no way to explain it in a way that makes sense, because it doesn't. It will never make sense. It wasn't supposed to happen this way. It wasn't supposed to happen at all.
After a long while, the day finally turns to night. They're all still there, surrounding the body of their beloved slain princess, and in their absence of words, Daryl hears their sympathy. They know. They can't not see his pain. They don't understand exactly what it is that formed between them, but they know his connection to Beth is something bigger, deeper than the one they had before the prison fell. No one else was there with them on the road for all those months. No one else witnessed Daryl's walls crumbling down around him like ash and fallen rock. She did that. She coaxed the humanity out of him with her words and her presence. Her kindness. Her simplistic, subtle beauty. She was unlike anything he'd known, and now she was gone.
Glenn is here. He tries to help Rick pry the lifeless form from Daryl's hold, but the broken man won't budge. He won't let go. Not in a literal sense of the word, nor in others. She's molded to him. Like dust on the pages of books. Like damp sand on the ocean's shore.
We have to go, they're telling him. The dead are coming. They've broken the fence and they've spotted their next meal. We can't take her, they say. No time. She's dead weight.
We'll have to leave her.
Bile rises in the back of his throat. Vivid imagery floods his mind. Blood-red stills of Beth's flesh being torn from her bones flash across his eyes, and he shutters. He pulls away from the hands that have been reaching for him, and he gets to his feet. He places her gently in a resting position, lying flat on her back, arms crossed over her chest for a wake that might not come. Then, he marches forward. Head held high. Knife raised. No other weapons to protect him other than the sheer will to get this over with. To do this for her, because she deserves this. She deserves five minutes of fucking peace, even if it's in the afterlife. Even if it's not with him.
He kills them all. Buries the hilt of his knife deep into their skulls, one after another, until they're all but broken bodies on the ground. Just like her. Just like Beth.
The others stare. Some lent aid where they could, but Daryl did most of the work, so they just stand there now, awestruck. They've never seen him like this. They've never seen him driven purely by this many raw emotions. Rage and vengeance. Heartbreak and grievance. He's no longer a man. No longer human. No longer what she taught him to be. He is savage fire, and he is pain.
Now that they have time, they help him move her body. They take her to a van at the far side of the parking lot and load her alongside themselves. It takes three vehicles to escort them all off the hospital property, and they drive in a processional to the outskirts of Atlanta. They find a clearing off the beaten path with patches of wildflowers, and Daryl decides that this is where she will be buried. This is where they will conduct a funeral. Because that's what they do. That's what they've always done. They bury the ones they love, and they burn the rest.