It made him sick, sick like the nauseating dog food he ravaged everyday on two pieces of soggy bread, otherwise starvation.
It made him sick like the over bearing smell of urine and shit the cell carried, which he slept in and ate in.
It made him sick like the sick he vomited up frequently, from the thought of the act, no, even the slightest reminder of that word- his name.
It made him sick, sick to know, sick to even imagine, let alone witness what his idiotic, insignificant, irrational action had caused.
A punch. One punch.
And now, all he can do now is drown in his own regret and guilt in the dark, musty prison that is the cell. All he can do is stop himself from crying, stop himself watching and re watching the image of his friend-
no.
Someone that he had truly loved.
be brutally murdered in front of him. In front of his wife, his fucking unborn child!
All he can do now is try not to remember his laugh, his intoxicating scent, the way he smiled at Daryl when he did something dumb, the way his eyes lit up when he saw Maggie.
Daryl shivers at the memories, his skin crawling. An overwhelming sense of guilt enveloping him to his core. He can't sigh anymore, he can't scream, his eyes are so swollen, no more tears will fall.
All he can do is fall back down onto the rough cool concrete ground, grazing his cheeks, ignore the Polaroid picture that is sure enough to make him sick, and go back to sleep in the cell.