Ed lay on the ground in a bloody heap, recognizable only by the tattered remnants of his shirt. Her hands shook as she looked at him, more tired than she'd ever been in her life. She couldn't tell the others about the tangled ball of emotions fighting for dominance in her head and heart. There was grief. He was the father of her child and her husband of fifteen years. There was anger. She and her daughter were alone now. How could she keep Sophia safe? And there was relief. She was free. He would never hurt her again. He wouldn't look at her baby with that malicious gleam in his eyes. She let out a shuddering breath, putting the thoughts aside so they wouldn't see. They'd never understand and she didn't have words to explain it.
She made her hesitant way over to the young man holding the pick ax. Glenn, a small voice prompted in the back of her mind, his name is Glenn. He straightened as she drew closer and eyed her uncertainly.
"I'll do it," she mumbled as she held out her hand. "He's my husband." The boy wordlessly surrendered the ax and stood aside.
She brought it to her shoulder, the handle warm and sweat slick as she wrapped her fingers firmly around it and swung with all her strength. The meaty thud as it connected with Ed's skull roiled her stomach. She tugged it free and hefted it again. Thud. Blood and bits of bone arced through the air, peppering her hands and arms in gore. Thud. Tears misted and made burning tracks down her cheeks. I hate you, she swore furiously in her head. I hope you're rotting in hell. Her shoulders burned with the force of her swing. I hope you rot in hell.
Her eyes flew open, the dull thrum of the ceiling fan the only sound in the room besides her rapid breathing. Her heart pounded furiously in her ears as she looked hurriedly around. She raised her hands, eyes widening as she took note of the crescent-shaped tears in her palms. She flexed her fingers and hissed as the torn flesh protested.
"Carol," a raspy voice came out of the dark and pulled her head around. "You alright?"
Her tongue knotted as she tried to formulate an answer to his simple question. Was she alright? She shook her head and dropped her gaze to where her thumb kneaded her palm. Crimson beads dotted the stinging cuts. She hissed as she inadvertently brushed one and again when he caught her hand, swearing softly under his breath. "It's okay," she assured him. "They're not deep. Don't worry."
He pushed aside the dark hank of hair that perpetually fell in his eyes and shot her an exasperated look. "It's not okay," he growled. "These damned dreams are getting worse. Dammit, woman, you're tore all to hell." He tossed the blankets aside and rolled to his feet. "Don't move."
"Daryl," she called after him. "I'm fine. Really. I can take care of it."
He stuck his head through the adjoining door, bristling with annoyance as he leveled a finger in her direction. "Just hush and sit still. I'm gonna take care of you whether you like it or not." He nodded for emphasis before disappearing into the bathroom.
She huffed out a laugh as she listened to him open cupboards, muttering to himself. Four years of marriage and he still treated her like a porcelain doll. Daryl Dixon might look like a badass but underneath the rough exterior beat one of the softest hearts she'd ever seen. She settled against the pillows and closed her eyes. Tonight's dream was the worst of the lot. They came almost every night and the circles under her eyes showed the toll they were taking. "You have a warped mind," she muttered to herself. "Dreaming about the dead walking and the end of the world. At least its original."
She shivered as those images rolled through her mind. She could still feel the weight of the ax in her hands and hear the sound it made as it sank into pale, pallid flesh. "Sophia," she mouthed, passing her hand over her swollen belly as she remembered feathery blonde hair and blue eyes the shade of a warm summer sky. "Is that your name?"