...to every story.
Daryl
"Daryl?" He jerked awake, panting, sitting bolt up in bed. He looked around, panicking, sweating. A hand rubbed his back and she sat up next to him, a mixture of concern and amusement on her face. "What the hell is wrong with you? You kicked me. LOTS!" He stared at her for a moment, taking her in, and then grabbed her in a hug.
"Jus a dream," he blurted out. It was just a dream. She was here with him, she was alive, she was fine.
Except...
Since when had she agreed that it was ok for her to stay over? She was so mindful of Sophie and Harry. The furthest they had ever gone was making out on the couch. He held her at arms length and stared in horror at the blood seeping out from her stomach.
"Daryl?" She looked at him, puzzled. How could she not feel the blood? Could she not see? She put her hand down onto the bed, into the pool of blood, her blood. He didn't know what to do, his mind was blank. She was looking at him, reaching out her blood covered hand to touch his cheek. She was still alive, if he could think what to do she would be ok. But there was just so much blood. He blinked, trying to clear his head.
He opened his eyes and she was gone. He was in his house in Alexandria. He was on the couch.
Georgie was dead.
He cast a bleary eye over the small front room of the house he'd been given. Better clear all the bottles up before Andrea came over. She had been on his case ever since they had gotten to Alexandria. What a stupid name for a place. If she came over and saw he'd been drinking again...well she'd go on another day long rant. He stood, swaying slightly, and made an effort to collect the bottles. Throwing them into the trash, he turned on the faucet in the kitchen and filled the sink full of cold water. Taking a deep breath, he plunged his head into the water, in an attempt to clear his mind and wake himself up.
Pulling his head out of the sink, he leant over the counter and stared blankly ahead. For a moment, he was confused as to why he couldn't hear Matthew and Harry upstairs, then he remembered that they were with Andrea and Dale now. He'd sent them there. And he was here alone. He shook his head like a wet dog, and made his way to the bedroom. He was still wearing the clothes from yesterday, and if he wanted people to leave him alone, he had to look like he was ok. Like he was getting up and functioning like a regular person.
Not the truth. Not that every waking moment, he was plagued with guilt-guilt that she had died, guilt that it was Merle that did it, guilt that he hadn't been able to protect anyone he cared about. That he had practically kicked the boys out because of fear-fear that he wasn't capable to look after them. That he had to drink himself to the point of passing out every night to get any sleep. To avoid the dreams.
They had started as soon as they left the town. They varied between memories of her, real memories of things that had happened, to dreams where she had never been hurt, and she was still there, to dreams where she sat screaming at him, hating him, blaming him. He didn't know which ones were worse. Where he knew he was dreaming, and he wanted to wake up before the pain started, or when he didn't know, and for a moment, he was happy again.
He pulled off his vest and rummaged in the drawers. He didn't know who had lived in the house before him, but they had owned some fucking awful shirts, covered in stripes and flowers. He finally settled on a white shirt and pulled it on, rolling up the sleeves to his elbows. He wondered briefly about breakfast, whether to drain another glass of whiskey, and decided against it. No point giving Andrea any chance to pick up on anything. He made his way down the stairs, grabbing his crossbow and arrows. Standing in front of the door, he steeled himself for another day of disapproving and pitying looks.
"Fuck em," he muttered to himself. "Fuck em all. Don't need em, don't care about em."
Didn't matter how many times he said it, he still couldn't make it true.