"In a real dark night of the soul it is always three o'clock in the morning." - F. Scott Fitzgerald
He comes up clawing for air, his heart stuttering in his chest, a shadow sliding out of his mind and back down into the darkness it came from as he recognizes his surroundings. Just a dream. A nightmare, okay. Nothing new there. He slips the knife back into its sheath beneath his pillow, hilt toward him. Doesn't remember grabbing it, but it's not the first time he's woken with it in his hand. His heartbeat slows; he swallows thickly and tries to let the dream's tendrils uncoil before he closes his eyes again.
It should be walkers invading his nights, but it's not. To be honest, the walkers don't scare him as much as anyone might think. As much as might be reasonable. For him it's just a test, most of the time - keep on your toes, be faster than they are; aim, squeeze, retrieve your bolt if you can, and move on to the next. He likes testing himself, staying sharp, staying focused. The adrenaline keeps him sharp. The focus keeps him from thinking too much.
The thing that scares him, when he's awake, is the others - the ones who rely on him to keep them safe. They have people who care about them, and it's his job to take care of business, shield them from danger, go with them out into the godforsaken world and bring them back safely. He can't stand the thought of meeting yet one more set of confused and shocked eyes, wondering where their loved one is, wondering why he's still there when another is not. It'll happen - he knows that in this world it's inevitable - but he'd do just about anything to avoid seeing that look in someone's eyes again. Their pain cuts too deep, stirs up things inside him that are best left dead.
If it were just him, it wouldn't matter one way or the other - he never figured to live this long anyway - he could go down fighting, or lay his wrists open with a blade, or just fade away, and it's not like anyone would mourn him. Well, maybe they would regret losing the meat he puts on the table.
There's a few who might miss him as much as their dinner, at least for a while. Rick, for one, who now comes to him to hash out plans for runs, debate staying or going, or get his feedback about people problems, although lord knows he has little enough patience for that. Rick seems to trust his input, though. That's kind of nice - for someone to want his brains for a change instead of only his quick hands, his strong back.
And Carol. Quiet, pale, blue-eyed Carol, with her unexpected mischievous streak and an equally unexpected, diamond-hard core to her, whose sleep is often more distressed than his own. She's the only one who refuses to let him block her out, who pushes past his silences, won't back down from his snarls, reaches out to him, actually touches him. She seems to think there's something in him that is worth spending her time getting to know. She must have been a schoolteacher or a social worker before, or maybe a horse trainer. She has that caution, that soothing voice you use with an injured or skittish animal, or a scared kid. He isn't going to ask, though - if you ask, you have to be prepared for them to ask back, and he isn't about to reciprocate. It's too hard, letting someone in, even harder than closing them out. Easier, simpler, to keep the door shut.
He turns his face to the wall, waiting for the dark to take him back in hand, not thinking about her, not wishing he could do the normal thing and just talk to her without strangling on his own words. Not wishing he could take her down with him into his dreams and shelter with her, keeping her safe. Keeping focused, keeping away the demons. For both of them.