dear fairest
.
.
It is not guilt or sadness that he thinks of first; it is shameful envy.
It's not fair, Daryl thinks as he delicately picks up the corpse of his almost lover.
Even with the crimson river flowing down her golden locks, even with the rouge disappearing from her cheeks, even with the empty look in her blue eyes, even with her ashen, parted lips.
It's not fair that you flew away.
Even though it's all a mess, he presses her against him. He is too numb to feel, and now, he is forever damaged for anyone else but her. He wishes that he had broken her fall from grace; wishes he could just stop living like the dead: empty and hollow.
It's not fair that you flew away to a place that I cannot follow.
.
.
It is a nice day when they dig a hole six feet into the ground.
It's not fair, Maggie thinks when she looks into the void.
She imagines that she would have liked it out here, deep in the woods. It is peaceful, and the sunlight is not too penetrating; the trees block out the harshest of the suns rays, only letting in slivers of soft, warm light.
It's not fair that I wasn't given a chance.
She imagines that her sister isn't dead, that she had protected her like big sisters should. Instead, she is left with a hole six feet deep, and memories she is finding hard to recall. It is terrifying when she realizes that she is already forgetting her little sister's face.
It's not fair that I wasn't given a chance to love you one last time.
.
.
It is a shrieking cry that wakes him from his nightmares.
It's not fair, Rick thinks as he tries to calm Judith.
Two weeks have passed since her death. He is trying to cope, trying to lead, trying to live. He is always trying, when all he wants is to grieve for what once was, for what he has lost, for all that he will inevitably lose.
It's not fair that your voice has faded.
Two weeks have passed, and he remembers her the most when Judith cannot sleep. He can tell she longs for the love and songs of her surrogate mother. And he thinks that it is like daughter like father, because his nightmares were only ever soothed by her little lullabies.
It's not fair that your voice has faded into a silent song.
.
.
It is pouring rain on the day of what she thinks is her birthday.
It's not fair, Carol thinks as she watches the world continue to spin.
All she does now is survive, but she cannot die. She's not afraid, she just isn't ready to look into the blue eyes of the girl who saved her; of the girl she could not save in return. She wants to stay lost, and not be found.
It's not fair that you left me.
All that she was, all of her mistakes, she has to put away. She returned to this group, saved them, because in spite of all her wrong doings, all she wanted was to protect them. This is how she will repent, so that when she dies, she can look into her blue eyes and say she tried.
It's not fair that you left me pieces of you that I cannot put together.
.
.
It is still a long way to go until he reaches Richmond.
It's not fair, Noah thinks as he and the group trudge along.
What he will never know are the little things: her favorite color, the food she missed the most, if she were right-handed or left. He will never know anything of the brave girl who protected him from this cruel world.
It's not fair that I have only one memory of you.
What he remembers from the exchange is her courage, her embrace, her choice, a bang, and then white hot pain. It plays like a goddamn movie reel, forcing him to see all his mistakes; forces him to see what he could have done instead, but didn't.
It's not fair that I have only one memory of you: sacrificing yourself to save me.
.
.
It's not fair that I am here, and you are nowhere near.
