Chapter One
"Just hold on," Daryl Dixon whispers as he lift Beth Greene's limp body off the floor.
"Daryl, it hurts," She groans quietly, raising her gaze off her injured thigh and into his eyes. Crystal blue meeting a dark ocean.
"I know, but I'll take care of it. Don't worry, just relax." Daryl says as he hoists her bag over his shoulder. Then, swiftly scoops her up into his tense arms and begins to jog.
Thankfully, it's only a quick mile from the house, a short distance. Daryl easily moves by lame walkers who stumble over tree stumps and fallen branches. Beth cringes whenever Daryl's body bounces over the rough terrain, but her whispers of pain keeps him going.
They arrive to a two-story stone cottage with wooden shutters, and carved door knobs. The kind of home Daryl always wanted as a child, but never had. It was almost ironic, how he had the childhood home he wanted now, especially since the world had gone to shit. But maybe it took the world going to shit to get everything you wanted.
He ducked under the homemade walker detection system he and Beth always strung up before crashing at a new place, and trudged inside. It was late afternoon, and the midday sun was just starting to duck behind the clouds. Daryl jogged through the house and set Beth down on the beat-up sofa he had been sleeping on since they arrived last week. She moaned softly, and Daryl snuck a peek at her wound.
Blood was all over her faded jeans, and the wound site was a dark red. Daryl sucked in his breath, his heart tugged from side to side. He couldn't lose Beth.
"Where's the knife?" He asked quickly, plopping on the hardwood floor by the couch. He wanted the knife that had stabbed her thigh. He wanted to throw it against the pale gray walls and curse its existence.
Beth looked down at him, blue eyes filled with pain. "I-I think I left it there."
"Don't you worry." He mumbled and grasped for his own pocket knife. He carefully cut the denim around her stab wound and tore off the surrounding fabric. Daryl then rushed up the steps and searched for the bandages they had found upon arrival. He grabbed a few, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and darted down the stairs, taking the steps two at a time.
He hastily unwrapped the gauze and looked at Beth. She was watching him, her eyes closing and reopening. She had lost so much blood, and could barely keep her eyelids up.
"This is going to hurt like a bitch," He said, trying to lighten the mood. She smiled weakly and surprised him by reaching for his free hand. He took it, and wrapped his fingers into hers, and poured the antibacterial into her gash.
He expected her to scream, but this was a wail. Her eyes flew open and she sat upright. Daryl tightened the grip on her hand, but she was already passed out cold before she could feel it.
Sighing, he moved quickly. Searching the house for a needle and thread, and more bandages. He returned to her side, and awkwardly began stitching her thigh up. Daryl was no doctor, but he had seen enough of Merle's bar fights to pick up on basic medical care.
Taping bandages to her sewn gash, Daryl went to rise off his hands in the pond outside. The sun had gone down, and the hazes of sunset were dancing yellow, pink, and purple across the Georgia sky. Daryl breathed deeply and crouched down, shaking his hands in the water. Then he rose, wiping his hands on the worn fabric of his pants. Looking around, he noticed an overgrown garden in the corner. Cherokee Roses swayed left and right in the breeze. Daryl reached for his knife and walked over to the flowers, cutting a fistful from the ground. Grunting, he trudged back inside.