Flames and Fires
He was always looking ahead. The next meal. Next place to sleep. Next step on the path. I was always stuck behind. Stuck in my dreams of home, the outbreak and everything that happened. Stuck in the memory of my father's head detaching from his body. Stuck in everything that once was with no hope of anything ever being again.
It's been days.
Weeks.
A month. Who knows?
We burned down the memory of it all. We gave it the finger. I held him when he cried. That's the past I'm stuck in now; the feeling of his warm, firm body being so tender and in need of comfort. The feeling of his salt soaked tears dripping onto my arms.
He is a wild fire. Moving swiftly through the fields. Raging. Consuming everything in his path. He is hot, bright, anger and power. Burning, smoldering, everlasting heat.
I am not even a flame.
I walk behind him, as if he is my shield. I cower at the noises and shake on the inside, though I don't let him see. If I let him see then I'm admitting my weakness to myself as well.
I can't be weak.
There is no time for weak girls at the end of the world.
"Stop here for the night," he says in the shortened version of communication we now use. We spend so much time in silence, talking with our eyes, that speaking out loud feels cheap. He drops his bag to the ground. He already knows I will stay, my back up against a tree, and he will go and find wood and food. The fire will be small and put out quickly, but he will build it stronger than I could. I am not even a flame.
I am solid minded and smart. I am not quick or strong or elegant with a bow and arrow or knife. I am not always thinking ahead.
It only gets worse at night. The past seeps into my brain through all the cracks in my skull. One crack for each time I cried. One for each loved one I lost. One for every time I couldn't feel. My body is covered in cracks. Covered in loss.
We sleep a few feet apart and when I wake up, shaking, crying, bleeding through my cracks, I try to stay quiet and think of the next thing. I don't know what he sees in the future. More running. More fighting. More trying to survive.
I feel a hundred years old in this body of mine. I feel like there was no life before this strange, dangerous world. Was it always dangerous? I have memories of school and boys and momma and normal. What is normal now? Sleeping five feet from a human I barely know anything about. Being afraid of humans I once would have smiled at on the street. Having no family. Blood. Death. Running.
I shake. I cry. My cracks bleed. I press my hand over my mouth.
It is his turn to put his arms around me. It is my turn to drop salt soaked tears on his skin. I turn into him, press myself against him as much as I can. I want to burrow into him and become someone who can fight. I want to be more than a flame. I want to rage and consume and be powerful like him. But I'm crying on the fire now.
I push away. Mad at myself. Mad at him for waking up and seeing me cry. Mad at Daddy for dying. Mad at Rick for thinking he could reason with mad men. Mad. Mad. Mad.
I stand. I walk. I'm still crying.
He's following behind. I have no shield, no armor. Just cracks and salt soaked tears and everything I don't have anymore and no hope of anything again.
"Beth."
I can't stop crying and I hate myself.
His hand is on me again, grabbing my shoulder, pulling me back.
"No," I say. But I don't fight him. He takes me back to camp. He grabs his bag. He loads his gun. We walk.
The sun rises an hour later and I'm tired and hate myself for doing this to him. He is tired. He needs sleep. I am a selfish, stupid, weak little girl. He doesn't have time for me.
I should have just let him hold me.
We stop sooner that night. The sun has barely touched the horizon. But we've found a small shed and the doors shut tight and we feel safe for now. We barricade the doors with shelves and tools. We leave a window for a quick escape. We eat left overs and he lays on his back on the wooden floor.
There are thick, itchy blankets on the lawn mower. We lay them down one on top of the other in some semblance of a mattress. We have to sleep closer together because our make shift bed is small.
He scoots close and puts his arm around my waist. "No runnin' off in the middle of the night."
"I'll be fine," I say, "you don't have to baby me."
"I ain't babyin' you." He pulls me tighter against him. "I'm comforting you."
I wake up in Daryl's arms. His breath tickles the back of my neck. My head rests on his arm. We're both smelly and dirty but it's beautiful. And nice. And comforting.
The next day he kisses me. I'm mad and walking away and he grabs me and throws me up against the tree. He holds his crossbow in one hand and presses me back against the tree with the other.
He kisses me. And suddenly. All I know in that moment. He is what's next.