Hello all. So I haven't written in a while but I've been working on this fic, between the thoughts, notes and drafts for the past couple months. Its different. Its dark. Like…pretty damn DARK. And I am trying my absolute best to keep the characters in-character, but just with the subject matter alone, I know its not going to be right on track. Concrit is appreciated.

Major TRIGGER WARNING. This fic deals graphically with self-injury. It jumps right in and I don't shy away with descriptions so if this is a sensitive topic for you, you may want to not partake. This used to be a major issue for me and it was a little triggering writing it, but I officially stopped self-harming 11 years ago, with a few relapses over the years. Once something like that becomes your go-to coping mechanism, the urge never 100% goes away when stress hits, but it gets better; it gets manageable. And you learn healthier coping skills. For me, it was meds and therapy. If its something you struggle with, there's hope, my friends. There's help out there. Also, try out some replacement activities: snap rubberband, rub ice on skin, cold showers, drawing on skin (check out the butterfly project), putting face in sink of cool water for 30 seconds at a time, strong smells and textures, grounding exercises, deep breathing exercises (box breathing or 4-7-8 are good), meditation, journaling, etc. This has been your public service announcement.

Rating: T (may go up later)

Warnings: Once again, Trigger Warning for self-injury.

Pairings: None, as of right now. Fic focuses on Carol and Daryl, just as friends. I am a Caryl-shipper but I haven't decided if I'm going to do that at any point in this fic.

Timeline: End of Season 10, shortly after Leah's cabin. I mess with the timeline by having a MUCH longer period before the Reapers and Commonwealth comes into play. In this fic, they're just chilling in Alexandria, fixing things up.

Italics = thoughts, ~ signifies a scene in the past, so as to be less confusing ~

Please review. I really would like feedback as I move forward with this.

LINELINELINE

Carol stared absently at the blood dripping onto the floor, a thin razor blade held loosely in her right hand. She had been disappointed to find that her old box cutter had rusted at some point, and she had been concerned enough about the possibility of lockjaw to search for an alternative. It had taken a bit of patience, but she had finally been able to free a blade from a disposable razor that she'd rarely used anyway. Call her lazy, but she hadn't found much point in shaving any body hair in quite some time. But she hadn't accounted for how thin this blade was and had gone a bit deeper than she'd meant to.

What did it matter?

Carol watched the drips build a small crimson pool, about the size of a fifty-cent piece, onto her bedroom floor. She found herself being thankful she didn't have carpet in this room. Carol looked down at her thigh, swiping away the already clotting blood with her left hand so she could see the marks more clearly.

Only a little left

Gripping the blade tighter again, she focused as she carefully carved into her thigh once more.

Sting. Burn. And then blood. She let her head fall back a little and shut her eyes, letting the pain ground her, letting herself disappear into it. After another moment, she opened her eyes again and looked down at the still bleeding marks etched into her pale skin.

MONSTER

She took a deep shuddering breath, pressing a thumb into the deeper cut on the M to pull more blood and heighten the sting. She knew she was fucked up for it, but it helped. It hurt but not in the same way anything else hurt. It was a better hurt. She could take this hurt.

She looked down at her thigh again, watching the letters blur as the edges smeared over with blood. She had not intended to ever do this again, but Jesus, it was all she deserved. She looked over at her other thigh, where the thin, silvery letters were still able to be seen despite the scars being almost a decade old.

MURDERER

~She still didn't know what had possessed her to do it. She had tried so hard to find some kind of peace in her heart after Lizzie but none was to be found. She watched the marks in her notebook go up and up after everything, and after the Wolves came, she couldn't bear it anymore. Leaving Tobin in their bed, she'd searched through the house for alcohol, for pills, for anything to numb the pain, the guilt, the insane weight on her chest that made her feel like she could never pull enough air in. And then she'd found the box cutter in the back of a drawer. It had not been a plan, not like this time, it had just happened.

She was a murderer, she was a terrible person, and she couldn't escape it. It had only taken a minute from when her hand closed over that old box cutter to when she was sitting on the toilet with the bathroom door locked, her pants pulled down past her knees and the blade pressing into her skin. Before she realized what was happening, she was slicing letters, a word forming rapidly in blood MURDERER. Because that was the only thing that made sense, the only thing she knew with certainty. And because she deserved to be marked.

She deserved this, too.

She had left only hours after. It wasn't like she ever ran around in short-shorts or a bikini, so no one ever saw the scars. She had taken the box cutter with her but hadn't felt the need to repeat this then. It wasn't about coping; it was about punishment. She imagined that if tattoos were still a thing, she may have done that instead. Then again, the self-cruelty was meaningful in a way, too.

Ezekiel had only asked about the scars once. She knew he wondered but he had assumed that someone had done it to her, and she had given a vague response that confirmed this belief for him, and he never pressed for details. The King was always so focused on moving onto the future rather than dwelling in the past, so it was easy to pretend it wasn't there. While in the fairy tale. ~

Carol hopped up on the bathroom sink, dipping a washrag into the basin of water she had already prepared, and then using it to scrub at the blood smeared over her thigh and the dried rivulets that had coursed down her leg. Although she had cut deeper than she'd intended, and more blood had come than expected, she was satisfied to see that all of the cuts had almost stopped bleeding.

Finishing up cleaning all the blood off her leg, Carol looked in the cupboard next to the sink for bandages. She was relieved to find that she still had a few bandaids and some rubbing alcohol. She maneuvered so her leg was over the sink and quickly poured a stream of the alcohol over the cuts, eyes shutting and hissing slightly from the sharp sting. She focused into the pain until it passed and then wiped up the alcohol and fresh blood with the rag before bandaging the angry red letters.

Satisfied that she wasn't likely to get an infection, she went and cleaned up the blood spots from her room and pulled on her pants. Fixing her hair in the mirror and checking over herself to make sure there were no stray drops of blood, she practiced pasting on a smile until she felt she looked normal. Like no one anyone would suspect had bloody bandages hiding their shame. Grabbing her bag, she hurried out of the house, set to find a mission.

She was meant to help with the wall today, but she was already behind for it. She felt her stomach rumble and her thoughts went to the rest of the survivors. Particularly the children. She couldn't let them starve. She had thought about it yesterday but decided that she needed to get those horses today. Maybe if she could do that, maybe it would be enough. Maybe if she could do that, people would stop looking at her like they could see what she was. Maybe Daryl would realize she was here for them. Maybe she could feel like she had a purpose again, help instead of hurting those she loved. Maybe she could even believe that she was a person.

Instead of a monster.

LINELINELINELINELINE