White Blank Page
Edited by: Amputation
I've spent the latter half of today (4/9/13) creating a list of ALL Caryl moments in Season 2 and Season 3... Holy hell is there a lot. So hopefully this can sustain you all for the next few months. Suggestions are always welcome. Let me know if things get stale or Daryl or Carol's characters get too OOC. That's the last thing I want is for Daryl to not be Daryl or Carol to not be Carol. Any-who, summary... Daryl reads more and gets another visitor to the guard tower.
Also: I own nothing in regards to The Walking Dead. All rights belong to the copyright holder.
Chapter 2
Another knock resounded against the door to the guard tower. He'd heard the gate from down below and knew that someone was coming up to bother him. Again. Daryl looked up from where he sat against the wall and shot a glare at the door. Why didn't he just lock the fucking thing? He had the keys to do it. That would keep them all out of his hair and he would have his time to be alone. No one to bother him, harass him to eat when he didn't want to, or try and ease him back with the rest of them, carrying on as if nothing happened.
Rick stepped through the door and looked to Daryl. His scowl softened slightly, glad it wasn't Beth. He wasn't sure if he could handle having her come up to the tower again, sniveling and begging him to come join them for lunch. Rick dipped his head to Daryl and handed a water bottle out to him. His eyes fell to the water then back to Rick who quirked an eyebrow at him. Daryl sighed and set the arrow bolts he had been whittling down next to his crossbow. He took the drink. He was thirsty, that he couldn't deny. He could deal with hunger, but water he knew he had to have. He'd die of thirst long before he starved to death. He unscrewed the cap and took a long swig of it.
"You've been up here, what," the deputy paused, clearly counting, "almost a week?" he asked cautiously. He had to choose his words carefully; Carol's death was still a fresh open wound for Daryl. He was still volatile. Rick didn't want to say anything that might make him snap, "You ever gonna come down from here?"
Daryl wrinkled his nose in protest. Perhaps he wasn't being clear enough about how serious he was of removing himself from the group temporarily. He screwed the cap back on the water bottle.
"Nope."
Sensing the conversation would get nowhere with Daryl's current attitude, Rick stopped trying to speak any more on the subject.
"Fair enough," he drawled.
Rick moved to the guard rail and leaned against it, admiring the expanse of woods and foliage of the Georgian landscape before him. The cool breeze licked at his face as he watched the walkers clawing at the gate below them, trees talking out in the distance. The two stayed quiet, taking comfort in the others' silence.
"I wasn't there," Daryl said quietly after a brief pause. Rick barely heard the words leave his lips. He turned, and leaned against the rail, back to the woods, facing the brooding redneck.
"It wasn't yer fault," he replied clasping his hands together over his belt buckle, "we both know that. It couldn't have been prevented. Things just happened."
"I should have been there with all of 'em: Asskicker, Carol, Maggie. I should never've left 'em."
Rick shook his head, "You had to. There was no other option. You saw an opportunity and you took it. If it hadn't been for you," he paused sucking in a breath, "the Governor would still be alive and worse things would've happened. Maybe we all would have been killed. Point being, we may have lost more than just Carol. Maybe even Glenn had you not gotten there when you did."
"No one should have died b'sides that sonovabitch and his fuckin' brain-washed cronies!" Daryl snarled in retaliation. His eyes narrowed at Rick, the deputy suddenly feeling uneasy by the hunter's swelling temper.
"Carol knew what she was doing. She was protecting the group. She knew the consequence of her actions. She took a risk, knowing full well the repercussions," Rick placated softly.
Daryl shrugged his shoulders and pulled a knee up. He knew what Rick was trying to do, but no words could ease his troubled mind. Make him feel that what he had done was the right choice in that moment. He felt responsible no matter what he had done to stop this Governor-Mickey Mouse bullshit. Despite having given Rick an opportunity to shoot the Governor when he did, he had left Carol and the others open to walker attacks. Forget the human threat they were facing, walkers were more devastating than people; at least he felt they were. They stole your very essence, made you a soulless monster. He gritted his teeth thinking back on that moment, the many moments he had had to witness people he had grown to care about turn.
"We need you Daryl. You've gotta' come back," the door shut with a soft snick and just like that Rick was gone.
"I ain't gotta do a damned thing," he replied to the empty air, letting out a long sigh.
He brought his fists to his head and began raking them vigorously through his hair. He was a mess. How could he let himself be so torn over a woman? What did they even have? It's not like they had some kind of relationship. They were just—they were just Carol and Daryl, wounded people that gravitated towards one another. There for each other when their wounds needed licking or for a shoulder to lean on. That's all. They weren't a couple with that lovey-dovey bullshit like Glenn and Maggie. They'd never kissed, never hugged. Their arms and hands would brush against one another at times. A gentle squeeze of one's shoulder or a reassuring hand pressed against the small of one's back; nothing more. They could share the same space without saying a word and yet there was that mutual understanding of one another. Words weren't needed to get a point across. They both just knew. Everything was simply unspoken.
His blue gaze fell to the journal that lay by his side. What did she want by giving him this thing? What was her point? Daryl picked it up again. His fingers moved along the cover, the worn leather catching on his rough fingertips. If he hadn't flipped through the book, he would have guessed it was a Bible with its tanned, leather face and strong, thick binding. The pages were uneven, jutting out in thick reams as if hand-pressed. Not one of those factory printed copycats that they mass-produced. The craftsmanship of such an article really appealed to the eye.
Daryl flipped the book open and thumbed to the next page. He was mildly interested to know the inner workings of Carol's mind. They may have been part of the same group for the past year and half, but it did not mean he knew everything there was to be known about her. They spoke, but it was nothing deep. They didn't exchange war-stories, just small anecdotes of their used-to-be lives before all this. Perhaps an 'I-used-to-do-this' kind of story, mostly on Carol's part rather than his, but nothing more than that.
Come to think of it, most of the times they spoke, it was on Carol's accord. He rarely if at all said anything to her. Daryl just listened. He had always been good at that. Wasn't big on talking or particularly big on expressing his feelings either. He was simply a born listener. Carol somehow made him change that, made him begin to shed his aloof demeanor. She made him feel at ease most times they spoke. Perhaps it was her gentle tone or her knowing eyes, but she made it easy for him to learn to speak up. He had slowly begun to warm up to her and chime in with his own story, but that was always few and far between.
Daryl's eyes roved over the page he planned to read, his fingers lightly tracing her words. He admired her penmanship. It was loopy as if half the time she wasn't sure if she wanted to write in print or cursive, a mix of print with the looping of cursive. His writing looked like your typical male chicken-scratch when he wrote in print, which needless to say he almost always did. Daryl was afraid to write in cursive. He'd been told on numerous occasions by his teachers in grade-school that he had such beautiful handwriting for a boy and received a good lick or two from his Daddy when chided about it.
"I ain't raised no female, son. Them teachers tryin'a tell me I raised some faggot, huh?" he remembered his Daddy tell him.
His fingers flew to his scalp. Under his hair high above his left ear, he could still feel the shape of the two-inch crescent scar that he had received from the comments on his writing that time. Daryl huffed and ignored his rampant thoughts. He quickly went to the top of the page and began to read once more. No reason to dwell on old ghosts. Not like they could do much to him now.
•We made it to the CDC, but just barely. The doors were shut and walkers were starting to move about the parking lot. I guess the scent of the living roused them from their catatonic state. Everyone was panicking. The doors wouldn't budge. Rick said he saw something move. The camera lens, he claimed. I didn't believe him until the doors opened and we were let inside.
Edwin Jenner. He is the last living person inside the CDC. There is no one else. This bothers me some, but what can we do? There was nowhere else to go. I don't know what would have happened if Jenner had not opened those doors for us, but I don't want to think like that. I can't. I have to believe that we will find some place to survive. Maybe even thrive.
Jenner is kind. He's allowed us to stay. I don't think we've eaten this good since the fish fry that night at the quarry. Everyone's drinking and having ourselves a good time. It's been so long since I've had a glass of wine. It feels like none of this has happened. That the dead aren't walking around and we are just in good company. But I know this isn't true. I know this cannot last.
There are so many books here in the CDC. I still can't believe this place exists. I wish we could make this our home, but the fact that it is underground makes me uneasy. It makes me keep Sophia close. This place makes me realize how small I really am.•
So she had been claustrophobic? Daryl found the fact surprising, seeing as how she hadn't tried clawing her way out of the broom closet she found herself stuck in when walkers had been let loose into the prison. Perhaps she had forgotten that fear with walkers being a more imminent? It was possible, but he was sure the phobia still lingered in the back of her mind that she would perhaps die in the small prison.
Daryl skimmed a few pages, turning up nothing particularly interesting. At least nothing he found interesting. Carol mentioned the things she talked with Lori and Andrea, her worries for Sophia, the things she dreamed about. His eye was drawn to one excerpt.
"That Dixon boy."
She was talking about him this time. His curiosity piqued at the find, he began to read.
•A herd of walkers scared my little girl away. Lori held my mouth shut as we hid under the graveyard of cars we had been scavenging in. I knew I shouldn't have let Sophia wander off with Carl; I should have kept her in my sights. Ed hasn't even been gone for long and already I can't do anything without him. Despite his ever watchful eye, he always kept us close. Never out of sight. Why couldn't I have just kept her by my side? I was so engrossed with admiring the clothes that Ed wouldn't let me wear that I had ignored my Sophia.
And she was gone. Just like that. We had thought all the walkers had passed by, but no. There were stragglers. Two of them chased her down the ravine and out of sight. Rick followed after her, didn't even hesitate. He just took off, but after awhile he returned with nothing. Sophia wasn't with him.
He'd said she had been safe when he found her. He'd told her to make her way back after a period of time, keep the sun to her left shoulder. She's only twelve! She doesn't know any better! How do you expect a scared child to react in that kind of situation? He left her out there on her own. How could he do such a thing?
That Dixon boy offered to try and track her. He knew how to track. He's hunted most of the meat we've been eating since we met him, and his brother at the quarry. He left with Rick and Glenn, said they would be back soon. I stayed. Lori and Andrea kept holding me, rubbing my back. As much as their touching was meant to comfort me, I wanted them to just leave me be. No amount of consoling could make me feel any better about the situation. Their touches wouldn't bring me back my Sophia.
I don't know how much time passed but it seemed like hours. Glenn came back after a time. He said the Dixon boy and Rick were on the trail and that they would be back soon. I felt a bit more at ease, but what more could be done? She was already lost and what if something happened to her? What if she ran into a walker? No. I can't think like that. She'll be okay. She has to be.
Rick and the Dixon boy came back. They found a walker. The blood on their pants and gloves confirmed my worst suspicions. I wanted to vomit. How could Rick just leave her there? Knowing what was out there, how could he just...
Where are you Sophia? Please come back.•
Daryl felt a lump in his throat as he finished the passage. He remembered that day vividly. He'd gutted the walker, splitting it from sternum to navel with his buck knife and finding nothing but an old woodchuck skull. He remembered the look on Carol's face when she had realized that there had been a walker in the woods. He couldn't imagine the pain that she was going through or the worry that she must have dealt with. But that look of a concerned and fearful mother—it spoke to him in some way.
He felt obligated to find her missing little girl. He knew what it was like to be lost, but in his case there had been no one to go searching for him. He'd been out in the woods nine whole days and somehow he had survived. But Sophia wasn't like him. No one would be.
He flipped to the next page. Spots on the pages were somewhat hard to read as if the patter of water droplets had ruined the ink, causing it to fade and smear. He wondered where this had come from. There had been no rain during their stint on the farm or prior to. Not a single drop had fallen. It had looked to start storming the day Dale had confided in the group to reconsider the execution of Randall, but even then nothing fell from the sky. Daryl ran his fingers over the spots where the pages warbled slightly, the usual condition of water meeting a paper-based article. He drummed his fingers along the pages, wondering if he should continue. His stomach was beginning to growl and as much as he didn't feel like joining his group-mates to eat, he knew he needed to get something in him. Pausing for a moment, he contemplated eating over reading.
•I haven't been able to sleep since Sophia went missing. I can't keep from crying. I'm worrying to death about her out there. I know it bothers the others, but they don't know what it's like to have your loved one out there missing and you don't even know if they are alive or worse. Maybe the Dixon boy knows. They never did find his brother beside his severed hand. How unfortunate.
Our group is split up. Carl was shot this afternoon, some sort of hunting accident. I can't imagine what Lori is going through right now. Perhaps maybe I can. But it seems like things can't get any better for us. T-Dog and Glenn went to the farm where the others are, waiting for word on Carl's recovery and to get T-Dog help for his blood infection. Andrea, Dale, the Dixon boy, and I stayed with the RV in case Sophia made it back. I hope that's the case.
The Dixon boy went in the middle of the night with Andrea to go search for her. I don't think he did it because he wanted to. I think my crying was bothering him and he was just tired of hearing me blubbering half the night. I don't blame him, and to be frank, I didn't even thank him for doing that either. What an awful thing for me to have not done. Andrea and he could have been hurt going out there in the dark. There's no knowing what's been lurking out there or currently is.
Daryl. That's right. That's his name. Despite his gruffness, he actually tried to offer words of comfort to me this afternoon. He said that hoping and praying was a waste of time. He said that we would find Sophia and that she'd be just fine. I hope he's right. I'm not quite sure what he meant about him being the only one 'zen' around here, but it made me smile even for just a little bit.•
Daryl snorted, a crooked smile creeping on his lips. He shut the book and stood up, stretching out like a large feline, arching his back long with arms outreached, book in hand. He made his way into the cabin of the guard tower and set Carol's journal on the console panel. He slung his crossbow over his shoulder and left to hunt.
It probably wasn't the best idea he had had in recent memory, but he wanted to avoid dealing with the others as much as possible. He needed his space to clear his clouded mind. A good hunt could do that for him. He quietly stalked through the woods, crossbow drawn up, buck knife loose at his hip and ready for surprise close encounters. His mind sinfully clears in the moment. His ears attuned themselves to every sharp noise permeating through the listless chirping of birds and symphony snapped brambles as woodland creatures traveled the branching highways above. He felt at home, at ease in the woods. The last little bit of comfort he had felt in the prison had gone away like everything else he kept close to him.
There was no getting that back.
Still Daryl couldn't quite figure out why Carol had left him her journal of all things. Why leave anything to him at all? Why not leave it for someone else? Hell, perhaps Hershel or maybe Beth. Why him? Maybe Carol wrote something about her reasoning in the journal? Maybe.