poison heart
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The mistreated body in Daryl's arms was received with nothing but dread.
She was an ivory canvas splattered in red, a macabre piece of art painted in an ephemeral moment of pleasure, and the deep contrast between crimson blood and purplish bruises was a fresh reminder of mankind's decreasing humanity.
No one asked the redneck anything regarding the broken doll he had found in the middle of the woods, but he could hear a curious murmuring growing in the distance.
The first one to break the overwhelming silence was Andrea, who kindly offered her help and, followed by Lori and Carol, took the girl to the quarry where they usually did laundry to wash off the dirt and dried blood caked up on her pale skin.
An hour has gone by and the women have yet to come back, and a strange feeling of anxiety arises inside the younger Dixon. He chews on his thumb nail, silently wondering if she's still breathing, and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he should go and check on her. He nervously fidgets in place, trying to convince himself he doesn't care, but the vivid image of her wounds haunt him and he finds himself heading to the quarry.
There he sees her sitting weakly on the ground, half-numb, half-dead, but clean nonetheless. Her grubby attire is tossed aside on the ground, her scrawny frame dressed in clothes that aren't hers.
Andrea is kneeling in front of her, talking as softly as possible while Carol tenderly rubs a hand on her back, staring at her with sympathy on her crystal blue eyes. Daryl is too far away to hear what the sunshine blonde is saying, but he can tell her strives to interact with the stagnant girl in front of her are futile. She's quiet, lips sealed and eyes lost as pitiful words of support enter one ear and exit out the other.
"We should leave her be…" Lori suggests, aware of the dark smudges of exhaustion coloring the skin beneath the girl's aqua eyes. Carol seems to agree with the brunette, and realizing they wouldn't get any answers today, Andrea gives up with a defeated sigh.
Daryl watches as Lori and Carol help the girl stand on her feet, their grips on her sore arms prudent yet firm as her wobbly knees threaten to fail her. She's incredibly feeble, fragile as thin glass, but she manages to make her feet step forward despite the burning blisters on them.
As she walks with the aid of the women on her sides, she suddenly loses balance and her ankle twists in a flash of pain, a wince darting across her features as a shriek escapes her dry lips. Daryl feels relieved they didn't let her fall; he believes she might have broken like fine china on the floor if they did.
"Take it easy, sweetie," Carol tells her gently, "There's no rush."
Slowly, so the girl wouldn't trip on her flimsy feet, they head to the camp, all of them unaware of the redneck following them like a shadow.
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A few days have passed, days the girl spent inside the privacy of the RV.
The day she arrived was quite a turbulent one, her abused frame triggering sentiments of panic and distress in people. Her body, bloody and bruised, was hanging torpid in his arms as death mockingly dangled from her limp limbs.
Daryl thought she would die.
"Girlie won't last long," Merle had said.
"You think she'll be alright…?" Lori had asked.
"Hate to say it, but we probably shouldn't get our hopes up," Shane had replied.
She proved them all wrong, though.
Now she's finally healing, though laboriously like a dainty flower blooming in ice.
Throughout the week, Daryl has seen many people go in and out the RV, but only a few lucky ones of the thirty-three people in the camp — Amy, Andrea, Carol, Lori and Jacqui — have had the merit to hear her voice. Today, though, it seems another person was added to that small list.
"Hey, Chinaman!" Daryl yells, and the alluded asian boy jumps in startle as he steps out of the old vehicle. Once the boy turns to look at him, the redneck is quick to speak, "Ya talked to her?"
"Yeah," Glenn replies as he walks to stand in front of him.
There's a pause.
"…She alright?" Daryl finally asks.
Glenn blinks, dumbfounded. He finds it suspicious, the fact the younger Dixon is showing concern for someone other than his brother. "She seems alright… I mean, she talks now," he replies, "I think she needs some more rest but yeah… She's okay."
For some reason, Daryl feels oddly glad. "What'd she say?"
"She asked me to pick up some stuff for her," Glenn says, "Cigarettes, painkillers… Stuff like that."
Daryl stands silently, his expression unreadable as he registers what he just heard. An instant later, he gives the boy a silent nod and walks away, heading to the distant spot where his tent is.
He passes by the RV, and, for a fugacious moment, he considers going in, seeing her with his very own eyes to assure himself she's not the small ghost of someone they failed to save. He doesn't, though; he can't bring himself to go near her, probably because he knows the mere sight of her ravished skin would make a peculiar mixture of outrage and dejection erupt inside him.
"Her name's Billie by the way."
Daryl stops in his tracks, only to look at the asian boy over his shoulder. Once again, he nods and resumes his way, her rough name echoing in his mind like a mellow bell.
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The vast sky above their heads is tinted a flawless blue, and the blistering daylight from the sun gives the girl's — Billie's — tan skin a luminous glow.
Daryl is sitting in the distance, his eyes on her instead of the half-skinned squirrel on his hands.
Her bruises are now a shade of dim yellow, and her once bleeding wounds are slowly becoming scars. Just like her skin has regained its honey glow color, her aqua eyes have a bright glow about them, and there's a jovial sweetness emanating from her as she sits with the children.
Sophia's small hands are on her curly hair, her fingers getting tangled on its kinkiness as she clumsily tries to braid it. Carl is in front of her, a childish smile across his face as he talks, the plastic car he usually plays with forgotten on his grubby hands. Billie doesn't say much; she just listens to the little boy as she stares into his sky blue eyes, her full lips curved in a tiny, yet warm smile.
Billie seems comfortable, finally able to digest company, but the slight glee on her face vanishes away the instant she sees a tall, muscular man approaching her. She flinches as he stands near her, his dark eyes fixed on her.
"Feelin' better?" Shane asks, trying to sound as affable as possible. Daryl snorts at the whole scene, trying to put his attention back on skinning the small animal.
She forces a gulp down her throat and nods, her entire body tensed up in anxiety. Shane can almost smell the girl's fear. "Glad to hear that…" he smiles, but she doesn't return it. "You might want to change that," he adds, pointing at the bloody bandage around her arm, "You don't want that wound infected, now do you?"
Billie shakes her head, stiff like a scared child.
The panic Daryl discerned on the young girl's face is exactly why he didn't talk to her in the first place; he knew she wouldn't react well, and if someone like him — someone who isn't exactly the brightest crayon in the box when it comes to feelings — could see it as clear as water, then he expected the ex-cop to be a little more sensitive, and a little less nosy.
Not that he cares, though. This — or rather, Billie — isn't his problem.
When Shane leaves, a relieved sigh escapes her mouth, and Carl notices it. "Don't worry," he reassures her, "Shane's nice."
"He's your dad?" Billie asks, and her heart throbs when the boy's expression falls.
"My dad's dead," Carl mumbles, his eyes downcast.
Billie presses her lips into a thin line, not sure what to say. She has lost people too, people she adored, people she needed to keep going, and couldn't bring herself to lie to the boy, saying that the pain of losing loved ones would go away when she's still mourning the dead.
"Mine too," is all she says.
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Night has fallen, and the forest is alive with the sounds of wildlife.
The entire campsite is pitch-black except for the fires, and though she's not particularly fond of darkness, she prefers it to having to endure being around strangers. People drain her, always have, and she knows herself well enough to know she can't deal with others right now.
Smoke escapes from her mouth as she exhales, sweet nicotine rushing through her veins. There are only two cigarettes left in the ragged packet inside her pocket, and for a chain smoker like her, such a small dose of tobacco isn't enough.
Billie brings the cancer stick to her lips and sucks in, savoring the taste of smoke in her lungs before breathing out through parted lips.
Cigarettes have always been her precious source of pleasure, her irresistible vice, her only indulgence. Today, though, she doesn't enjoy them. She can't, because she feels ruined, wrecked, sad to the core, and not even a million cigarettes can cure the poisoned wounds in her heart.
Her trail of thought is broken by the feeling of stares, and she looks up to see a pair of rednecks sitting away from everyone else in the campsite. For a second, aqua green meets cobalt blue, and she has the feeling she has stared into those eyes before. She doesn't dwell much on it, though, because the older one of the duo is looking at her with a smirk across his face, his hungry eyes sending a chill down her spine.
Her heart starts pounding hard, dread quickly overwhelming her system, and she just escapes from there. She rushes and gets inside the RV, disappearing just like a phantom, and she's already gone when the older Dixon lets out an amused laugh, while the younger one remains silent, his gaze lingering on the vehicle's door.
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no one
ever thought
this one would
survive
helpless
child, gonna
walk a drum
beat behind
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