The first time she woke up there was fear - dark and primal - the instinct of survival; black spots eating up her vision until there was nothing left. She wanted to scream. Knew words, some, that came to her as flashes: Go! Help! Let me go! Die! It hurts!

She tried, but nothing came out from between her chapped lips. Almost immediately she sunk back into fever dream where everything was burning. Sometimes they were different - sometimes she was running - but they always hurt her lungs, which ached with every labored breath.

The man who hovered above her and the man in her dreams, the one that she could never quite see, only spoke to, seemed to morph together - trading this feature for that, melting at the edges, and washing away until she was alone - always alone - wishing she could just... change. Inside her mind there were popping embers and collapsing walls, but she could tell it wasn't real. Wasn't true.

That she couldn't stay.

She had somewhere to be.

The table was set and filled with people. Morgan, Rick. Sitting next to her was Maggie - her husband Glenn. Rick's son Carl, who watched her intently, as though she was a mirage that might disappear. She wondered if this is how it would be from now on. Adding one person at a time until she knew them all again by name. And there, at the other end of the table, was the archer's empty chair. She knew her gaze was lingering, but couldn't stop herself.

"Daryl left," Maggie told her quietly. "Just for a trip with Aaron, to get supplies, hunt, that kind of stuff."

"Because... me?"

"Maybe," Maggie said. "I don't know what is going on between you two."

"Nothing," she said, moving around the canned green beans on her plate with her fork. "I yelled... at him."

"Isn't anyone in this room who hasn't had a shouting match with a Dixon at some point."

"Di... Di...?" she tried, mouth not wanting to co-operate.

"Oh, that's his last name. Daryl Dixon," Maggie said. "He had an older brother, Merle, who was a real piece of work. Daryl lost him to walkers."

"Sad," she said softly, trying to picture a man she could not remember, being lost to the only man she could.

"We're all better off without Merle, in my opinion," Maggie said, bitterness lacing her voice.

"Still," she said. "Fam... family."

"Yeah," Maggie agreed, smoothing her hand over the length of her sister's blonde ponytail. "Family..."

"You gotta have more than that in you!" Morgan shouted at her.

Her head was pounding. Always pounding. The pain made it hard to see - so did the sweat dripping down into her eyes. Everything in her body was telling her to stop. Stop. Lay down. Every muscle screamed for mercy, but still she pushed, because this was not a world where you could stop. Where you could lay down. Or beg for mercy.

She set her jaw, lifted her chin. Pain was only in the mind. There was so much pain in her mind there was no room for anything else - clawing, biting, scratching at her grey matter - begging to be cried out. But she didn't cry. Not anymore.

"They're come atcha," he told her. "What you gonna do?"

"Kill," she snarled, knees shaking, wanting to collapse.

"What we gonna do?" he demanded.

"Clear!" she shouted, knife ready in hand as the walker staggered towards her, picking up its clumsy speed - smelling food - she was not food. She lodged the knife in its head deeply, pushing with all her strength. It was not a clean kill. Not her most graceful - but it was a kill. It was kill or be killed, and she was not the killed. "Clear!"

"Again."

She sat in the empty house. Morgan was outside. She could hear his voice through the open window - the deep, compelling swell of it, carried on the night wind. And inside of her, she ached for something she could not name. Maybe what had been before, or what could never be now - she wasn't sure - she only knew her heart, which had felt dead for so long, was filled to the brim with something.

"You alright?" Morgan asked when he came inside, seeing her sitting on the couch, face contemplative.

There was a long stretch of silence. She considered lying. Morgan could always tell though, and there was no reason to lie to him. He had seen her - every broken bit of her - every fucked up piece of her - and there was no where left to hide.

"No."

"What's wrong?" he asked, sitting in the armchair facing her.

"Me," she said quietly.

"You'll get used to the hang of things around here, P.," he told her, "it's just going to take some time. Hell, I still sleep with my knife under my pillow. It'll get better."

When she didn't respond, Morgan only sighed heavily and left her to her thoughts. He knew enough not to press. Not with her. Through the window she could see glimpses of the sky, but there was no moon tonight. Only a deep, dark void that seemed to grow deeper and darker the longer she looked at it.

She dreamed of white keys. Black keys. Her fingers understanding, and stroking, filled with knowledge and something else - something she had lost the word for - maybe passion - maybe soul. The flickering of candlelight, and a voice, that must've been her voice. She could feel it falling out of her, like rain from a cloud.

"And we'll buy beer to shotgun
and we'll lay in the lawn
and we'll be good..."

And somewhere, in the space that existed behind her, she could feel him watching her. His gaze warm and open. Daryl and Beth. Her hands clammy with the effort not to ruin it - this moment - because this was so clearly a moment - so clearly something - and she wanted it.

God, how she wanted it.

"Now I'm laughing at my boredom
And my string of failed attempts..."