Nine steps by four steps. Eleven or twelve steps diagonal. He thinks. Lost track.

His forehead is aching from the times he managed to ram himself against the wall in his nearly silent pacing. The circles help him think, help him gain a grasp on what was happening to him. His shoulder is reduced to a throbbing pulse along with his heartbeat, but no longer bleeds. Unless of course he collapses dead on his feet like the last six times.

Daryl didn't even know why he was walking around so endlessly that he fears he will leave rut in the stone. He had ran his fingers against every slight crack, crevasse, split and knot in the wall. He had already felt down the entire door, top to bottom, for any crack to work his way out, but even the bottom was sealed off, probably having something blocking it on the other side like more stone.

Unsurprisingly, it's cold. There are times that he just sits in the corner and huddles up for warmth. Other times he tries to soak up the heat at the other side of the door.

That's when he would hear the footsteps. The whispers. The grumbles and yells. As if he had any doubt before, he knew that he was surrounded by the Saviors. The very thought made his hair stand on end on the back of his neck, cringing up whenever one stepped past the door. Every now and then someone would pause, stop before his door, before letting out a series of whistles. Like an upbeat tune.

Do do dee doot doot

Do do deeee doot doot

Do do deee doot do do do

Do do do

Dee Dee Dee

Well maybe it wasn't all whistles. There would be hums too. Apparently you didn't have to be able to whistle to be a Savior.

The tune had stirred him awake again from his sleeping corner, opening his eyes to black. Daryl still wasn't sure if he was blind or if it was dark, but he had a feeling he wouldn't find out. Not if they continued to keep him locked in here. In near silence, his stiffened body began to peel itself off of the only warm spot in the room, wincing from the loss. Daryl wasn't one who needed the comforts of a warm bed, but sleeping on stone... Not even on grass or even hay, just stone.

Even sleeping in a tree hadn't been this bad, but he didn't have too much choice. Hiding from Pa and all.

Not much of a choice now, not as his fingers felt across the ground, barely moving up to his hands and knees at this point. It took longer to find it than he thought, making his heart clench up in his throat until he felt the cold liquid.

He had been in too much of a panic the first time to realize that there was a leak in the roof. Or a pipe, not like he could check. It was his source of water in slow drips from the ceiling. Carefully, his calloused hands cupped, attempting to catch the water droplets, but just when he managed to find the drops, it would slip through his fingers.

A growl rumbled in his chest, even if tired and aching. They wanted him to lap it up like a dog... No, he wasn't that desperate yet.

Daryl had grown relatively calmer in the past... however long its been since he first got here. Knowing that there was no escape, he had realized it was no use wasting his energy. Instead, he would use the time to think, to conserve his energy to keep from growing hungrier than normal.

Damn he wished he had one of those granola whatevers from Denise-

...Denise.

A hard lump grew in his throat that he wasn't able to swallow down, even as he licked away the water that remained on his fingers. He could taste his own blood crusting on his nails as well as the dirt, but also the disgusting taste the water held by itself.

Chances are this shit is from a fucking toilet. Would be his luck.

But the taste couldn't distract him from the dread that was filling his empty stomach. Denise... Right when he fucking needed her, she gets an arrow to the head. She promised that she would help, and that she would be there for when he'd have to tell Rick...

Now she was dead. Because why would he be allowed to have nothing in his life. Didn't have Ma, Merle, Beth, Hershel... Glenn... Try as he might, he couldn't swallow down the ache not coming from his shoulder. Loss was always a part of being a Dixon. Didn't deserve nothing good. Was about time that it all came crashing down again.

After a few licks of water, he was already starting to feel the brunt of the cold. The hunter retreated back to his corner, grumbling at the heat that was now gone. Rick was always such a damn furnace... Didn't think he'd ever sleep cold again.

Well fuck it.

But of course right when he began to curl himself up with his back against the stone, here came the footsteps again. His body practically bristled as his arms curled defensively around his stomach, staring to where he guessed the door would be. His hands kneaded into his sides, flexing and ready to move if needed. There was the sound of grating, stone against stone, and it wasn't until there was a pinprick of light that he realized they were unblocking the door.

Someone was coming in.

But while he was prepared for someone to open the door, he wasn't prepared for the practically blinding light that poured its way in.

The arms tucked around his sides immediately covered his eyes as he gave a startled hiss. It was as if his eyeballs were being scorched out of his head, leading to the idle thought that he must have been in the room a lot longer than he had anticipated. His body faintly shuddered on the ground as he tried to adjust to the light, only hearing that the door had been pushed open completely.

"...Shut up and eat."

The voice alone forced any sign of weakness to be pushed back, only to squint against the light. The outline of a man managed to stand out against the light, almost a glow. But his teeth clamped shut, a low growl rumbling as he managed to focus onto the horrid scar that still looked fresh on his shit-eating face, and the sillohuette of his crossbow hoisted over his shoulder. The same one he used to murder Denise in cold blood. The same he had pointed to his head threatening to spill his blood.

Any retort that tried to come out of his mouth was replaced with a rasp that didn't even sound like his own voice, worse than any amount of smokes he had inhaled at once. This obviously seemed to both amuse and frustrate his captor, yet made no motion towards him.

Instead, his still burning eyes managed to catch sight of something being held out to him. It looked like a ball of something. It was wet, and it reeked of rot. Whatever it was, it was soon dropped before him and make a sickening sloppy noise when it hit the ground.

"Eat," the gruff voice spoke again, his shoe nearly prodding the mess that was now on the ground. Of course they would expect him to eat slop... But it seemed like they intended to keep him alive.

His eyes flicked from the unfamiliar mass on the ground to the captor, then down again. This didn't appear to please the man as he gave a groan, only to start to move.

A strong hand grabbed onto his chin that had been resting onto the floor, instead practically yanking his head off his shoulders to look at his ugly mug.

"You should be on your knees groveling for what Negan is doing. If it was up to me, I'd have your brains splattered right fucking now. If I come back and you haven't eaten what Negan provided for you, I will slam that shit down your throat."

His head was thrown back to the ground, smacking against his temple hard enough for his head to ring. The form of his captor split into two and swirled in his eyesight, but he wasn't staying to make sure that the hunter ate the slop. Instead, he was already out the door, cursing under his breath before slamming the door behind him in a noise so loud it made the floor vibrate.

The lock clicked. Then the stone was shoved. It blocked out the only light on the floor, and cloaked him once again in darkness. Now it was only him, a nine by four foot cell, and whatever the fuck that was on the floor. The smell alone made him wish to gag, but that wasn't anything new. Every scent was bothering him. Bout threw up gutting a deer. He was already sick of this.

He stared at the ground where he was sure the 'food' still sat, as if at any moment it would either attack or slither away. The only sound was his own quiet, if not a little ragged, breathing and the drops of water falling into the center of the floor.

His stomach was heaving now and then, and the familiar ache in its pit wasn't moving. He hadn't eaten in a while. However long a while is. And he knew better than to let his own pride get in the way of not eating and not giving his body something to chew on. Had to keep them fed...

Fingers slowly reached forward and prodded into the wet substance. It was a mixture of chunks all slopped together, managing to stick by who knows what. If it was poisoned, he was about to find out. Didn't make much sense to kill him this way, instead of making him starve... Would be more painful, take longer, and they'd think they could make him beg for food.

No, he was already accepting this fate, whatever it was. He just had to hold out, just long enough for someone to find him. Rick had to be looking for him by now. They'd be back.

They wouldn't leave him... unless they blamed him for Glenn. Wouldn't be wrong either, he wouldn't blame them.

His thoughts quietly circled around his fate as he grasped the slop, as much as he could between his slightly trembling fingers, before pushing it into his mouth before he had a chance to stop himself. He tried not to taste it, tried to swallow it down as soon as it hit his tongue, but already he knew this would be a struggle...

Not as moments later, he began to gag, and his body decided that this just wouldn't do, instead deciding to splatter it back out. Great.

Now he needed a new sleeping corner.