7.
A/N: I'm so sorry for the delay in the chapter. I really struggled for a while with this and I so love the story I want to make sure I only update when I had something good to tell in the story. So thank you all for your reviews and for keeping the story alive. I hope you like this new chapter, which I offer up as a sacrifice to keep you all happy. :)
"Meningitus? That's really serious."
Glenn said as Hershel addressed the group about his suspicions on Daryl.
"I don't know for sure. Secondary infections can occur and the time we waited to get him the medicine just might have caused it. I'm not a doctor, I don't have all the answers. I'd like to spend some time checking through some of the medical books here."
"What can we do to help?" Rick offered.
"Not much. I'm not sure what I can do."
Maggie stepped up beside her Father. "I'll help you go through some of them."
"Me too" Beth added.
"How many books have you got, because I'll help too." Glenn offered.
"Well, with you three, that should be plenty. It's just finding the right book, with the right information," Hershel said.
Rick nodded. "Okay, well while you're doing that the rest of us can work out who's on watch between us. Do we need someone with Daryl?"
"I'd say just check in on him every once in a while. Make sure he keeps hydrated, and get him to eat if you can. And keep up with the medication and changing the dressing on his wound."
He woke up alone.
He could barely remember the last time that had happened, but then again, he could barely remember what happened any time he'd woken up recently. everything seemed to swirl together in a mesh of Hershel and Rick and blood and bandages, pills and water.
He was sick of this routine, sick of those same people in his space, sick of the prison, sick of the room. Sick of being sick. Of having no strength in him to do anything besides from lay in bed and be treated like an invalid.
So he needed to start getting himself out of this. He needed to work up his strength and stop thinking he needed to lay around and rest, stop listening to Hershel and Rick and thinking that they knew what was best for him and how he felt.
And it didn't matter how he felt, not really.
Just because he still felt like hell didn't mean anything. It never mattered when he was a kid and it meant even less now. To this group of strangers. Why should they care whether or not he was sick or not, no one else ever did.
He dragged himself out of his bed, pulled on a pair of trousers folded up on a chair near his bed and barely noticed the effort it took as his skin was wet with sweat. He'd been left to sleep in a vest and his boxers and he felt no need to change into a fresh top.
He staggered out and down the halls, barely noticing that all the rooms were occupied with the sleeping bodies of the rest of the group.
One of the girls was on watch, he didn't know which one but he could hear her sobbing and he went unnoticed. He had no real direction to head in, but decided the kitchen would be good. He'd remain unnoticed if he went in there and he could always say he was hungry if anyone asked.
Truth was, if he wanted to build his strength up, maybe he should try and force something down. He was sick of fucking soup all the time. He started opening a few of the cupboard doors.
The first ones he checked seemed to have leftovers from the prison, all industrial sized stuff. He kept opening doors and searching. He found one that had all the medical supplies in it and then finally found one that had the things they'd scavenged over time.
He wasn't to know that they'd decided to keep the smaller packets and tins so that if they ever were forced to leave the prison, they'd have things they could carry. He took out some biscuits and chips, looked at them, the idea of eating something they barely had was tempting but then he looked back at the other cupboard.
Opening it again he looked at the various bottles of pills. He started at them for a moment. There were so many. He stood there a long time, looking at those bottles before he grabbed a cup and started to open the bottles, empting the contents into the cup until all of the containers were empty.
Hershel rubbed the sleep from his eyes, yawning as he went to the kitchen.
Carol smiled at him as she set about making breakfast, Lori helping her. Hershel liked to change Daryl's bandage first thing in the morning and make sure he had the antibiotics as regularly as possible.
Opening the cupboard, he startled at the bottles that rolled out and managed to catch it before it hit the floor. It took him seconds to register that the bottle was empty and when he looked at the others, he realised that they were also empty.
"Lord, no..." he muttered.
"What's wrong?" Carol asked.
"Please, get Maggie, ask her to check on Beth for me," Hershel said and then quickly headed out.
He doubted Beth had been here, she'd seemed a lot better since they'd left the farm but he didn't want to take any chances.
There had been maybe twenty minutes that morning where things had been peaceful.
Rick had woken slowly, his wife in his arms, already awake and watching him sleep. She looked safe and secure when she was holding him, and he felt something close to peace with her in his arms too.
Carl had already left for breakfast, Lori told him, and they enjoyed each other in a way they couldn't when Carl was close by.
And then he talked about Carl needing his own space. He was growing, maturing, faster than they would like, but essential for him to survive in this world and he needed his own space. Lori tensed when he said it and he expected to have to fight for it, but she nodded her agreement. With the baby coming, it had to happen, they needed to have the baby with them then and seemed unfair to Carl to make him share a room with a baby as well as his parents.
Then the peace was broken.
Daryl's room was empty.
Rick had people off in all directions looking for Daryl, certain they'd find the man slumped somewhere unconscious from overdosing on everything he'd found in that cupboard.
But Daryl wasn't hard to find. He wasn't hiding, he wasn't unconscious, but what he was, from what Rick could tell, was very sick.
Daryl was sat in some old workshop the prison used to teach the prisoners skills, he sat on top of a workbench, legs dangling heavily. He eyed Rick dangerously, the way a cat would watch a dog, never daring to let it out of its sight in case it went to attack.
Rick made himself visibly relax, his tension at Daryl being missing causing yet more stress for him but he hoped Daryl might relax if he showed him he was no threat.
"Daryl, you need to come back to your room, okay? You're still sick, Hershel told you, right?"
Daryl narrowed his eyes at the man. "I know. I know why... all these damn pills, you think I ain't worked it out? Waiting for me to die? Hoping to cut me lose, put a bullet through my brain, huh?"
"You can't really believe that?" Rick asked. But he realised that Daryl wasn't in his right mind and reasoning with him would only get him so far. The man was sick and scared and probably been sitting thinking his theory through for hours now. He'd deal with the most pressing issue first. "What happened to the pills, Daryl?"
For the first time Daryl took his eyes off Rick briefly and looked off to a sink across the room. Rick followed the gaze and headed over to the sink where he saw some powdery remains on some pills on the counter as well as on the bottom on a cup. The sink was still wet.
Daryl had crushed the lot up and poured it all away.
Rick's heart sank a little because it meant that Daryl was screwed now. Everything was gone, and for the briefest second, he wondered whether it would have been easier if he'd just taken the pills and ended his own misery.
"I..." Rick faltered. For the first time, he didn't know what words to say, how to make Daryl listen any longer. Even if he talked him round, the man was in bad shape, worse since he'd just washed away the only thing that could help him.
And without another word, Rick turned and walked away.
TBC...
