RECAP - Chapter 21: Hershel to Alice - "I know my girls look up to you. Bethie said she wants to be like you, and I'm glad they have a female figure to look up to." You smile, and his face reflects yours. Beth is only seventeen, and she reminds you of yourself at that age. Young and naïve.

When I was a child, I heard voices
Some would sing and some would scream
You soon find you have few choices
I learned the voices died with me

When I was a child, I'd sit for hours
Staring into open flame
Something in it had a power
Could barely tear my eyes away

All you have is your fire
And the place you need to reach
Don't you ever tame your demons
But always keep 'em on a leash

Arsonist's Lullaby by Hozier

Chapter 35 - The Storm Within

As your gaze fixates on the slow, rhythmic drip of glucose connected to Merle's arm, a whirlwind of emotions engulfs you. It's the last pouch of glucose, and there's nothing more you can do for him beyond this. Seated on the floor opposite the sofa cradling the elder Dixon, you clench your fist tightly, feeling your nails dig into your skin. The possibility of losing Merle, too, hangs heavily in the air. Each drop, each passing second, amplifies the helplessness that gnaws at your core.

But it isn't just helplessness; seething anger merges, intertwining and simmering into a fierce rage that courses through your body as you stay awake night after night, entertaining the thought that you may have lost Daryl forever as well. You resist accepting it, vehemently refusing, but logic stares you down, examining the chess pieces of your life.

Regret sits beneath all the emotions, gnashing at your heart at a slow pace, tormenting you with questions. Why did you let him go that day? Why didn't you stay back and fight alongside him? Now he could be dead, and because of that decision, you will never know.

"I've got the potatoes," Jamie's voice interrupts your thoughts. It seems that potatoes are the only thing capable of growing in winter, even in an unprotected environment. Miraculously, the small Woodbury Garden managed to survive the fire, perhaps due to its slightly separate location. Now, you have the opportunity to preserve your cans of food in exchange for the potatoes.

Jamie lets out a sigh as he places the basket near the small kitchen and sits down next to you. "What are we going to do, Alie?" he starts, leaning his head back against the wall. "Without Charles, we're lost, and I can't be what he was to you."

Jamie's usual cheerful personality has been replaced by an uncharacteristic silence. You know that his jokes and goofing around are his coping mechanisms for dealing with the horrors of the undead and the crumbling world, but his current somber demeanor only adds to the helplessness that weighs heavily on your shoulders.

Every few hours, you walk the perimeter, dealing with the occasional walker that stumbles onto your path. Despite your efforts, a sense of desolation lingers within you. Determined to maintain hope, you mark every tree near the area with Daryl's hunting signature, praying that he will come across it.

But four days pass without a single sign of life.

Without a single person from the prison making their way to Woodbury, and it doesn't make sense to you why no one has arrived yet. It seems like the logical choice. You at least expected familiar faces like Tyrese and Sasha to choose this route, considering that Woodbury was their last refuge before the prison. As far as Rick and the group know, Woodbury still has running water, untapped solar power that Rick hasn't figured out how to dismantle and relocate, and fortified walls. So why aren't they here?

"We are not lost, and you don't need to be anything other than who you are," you say, turning your head to look at Jamie, noticing the charred ash on his face, likely from climbing the burnt rubble. "It's always been you and me, Jamie, long before Charles, and Daryl will be here soon. I know he will find us," you speak softly, even though doubt eats at your heart.

"What if Daryl can't find us? Have you considered that?" Jamie questions, his face showing that he has been wrestling with this thought. "How long are we going to wait?"

"He will..." you begin to respond, but Jamie cuts you off.

"But what if he doesn't?" he interrupts, and a surge of heat rushes through your body. "I know Daryl is great out there, but you know who else was great out there? Charles, and you saw what happened. Alie, I'm just saying if you have considered the possibility... anything could happen out there."

"You don't know Daryl like I do, okay?" you say, aware that this world is unforgiving. You fight back the emotions as your heart tightens, almost halting your breath. "He is not built like us. He is a survivor, and this is nothing compared to the shit he's been through." You repeat to yourself over and over that he's out there looking for you, desperately clinging to that belief.

"Okay, let's say he's out there. You saw the herd heading towards the prison, all those explosives and the damn tank. What if he's been pushed away from this area? He could be anywhere by now," Jamie pleads, his voice tinged with desperation.

"Then we've got the next best thing," you say, motioning towards the sofa where the older Dixon is resting. "Merle is a great tracker too, and once he's up and about, we'll look for Daryl." It's another lie you tell yourself because you're not even certain if the older Dixon will wake up from his coma or survive without proper medical treatment that a place like a hospital could provide.

"Even if Daryl gets pushed out of this area, he will return because it's our last known location," you reaffirm, biting your lip to suppress your tears, determined to think like Daryl and anticipate his moves. "He'll start from the beginning."

"Okay, but what about after that?" Jamie persists. "We only have six bullets left, and you know a knife ain't gonna cut it out there."

"Jamie..." you begin, wanting to assure him that you'll find a way.

"I'm just thinking—even if we have Daryl and all the weapons, where exactly in DC are we going? Charles is the one that has the coordination, without him we're just moving blind—" it's your turn to cut him off.

"Stop!" Your voice is firm, and your hands shake as tears finally stream down your cheeks. "I know you're looking at me for direction and leadership, but I can't even breathe right now, Jamie. I can't breathe without him." Your shoulders tremble as you weep. "You don't have to tell me these things, I've already played out all the scenarios in my head."

"Oh, Alie, I didn't mean to upset you. I take it back, okay? Don't worry about it," Jamie says, his eyes wide with concern. He tries to reach for you, but you shake your head, backing away from him. Right now, you don't need comfort. You need clarity. With that thought in mind, you rise to your feet and stride out into the bright afternoon, leaving Jamie with his hand raised and a desperate gaze following you.

Outside, you stand in the middle of charred ground, taking a deep breath, your hand clenching around Charles' dog tag that hangs around your neck. Closing your eyes, you listen to the faint whisper of your father's voice, a distant echo in the back of your mind. "Mia figlia, look at the chessboard and think. What is your next move?" You know you can't simply sit and wait. Just like in a game of chess, you understand that to win in life, you must move your pieces… you must use that rage to fuel you, let it become your guiding force.

Beth recalls her father's haunting words, echoing in the back of her mind, how alcohol made him feel present, cleared away the chaos in his mind, and numbed the unnecessary. But those were the words of an alcoholic, when drinking at 9 AM was a regular occurrence. Now, all she craves is that same solace, the touch of alcohol to dull the pain and helplessness consuming her.

In the days before their world crumbled and the Dead roamed, she had never touched a drop of alcohol, not even when her friends mocked her as the "church girl." How could she, after witnessing the distress it caused her mother when her father stumbled around in a drunken stupor?

But now, all she longs for is a temporary escape, a chance to be an ordinary teenager, curious enough to taste alcohol. It has been four agonizing days, and Beth can sense that Daryl is barely clinging to sanity. Four days without any sign, not from Alice or any member of their group. Four days of sleeplessness, with Daryl barely managing a few minutes of rest.

She had hoped for a chance encounter with someone from the group, perhaps taking the same path to the Terminus. However, it is beginning to feel as though none of them have survived. Hope—she keeps repeating the word to herself like a mantra, but all she wants to do is curl up and weep. To grieve for her father, her sister, and the family they had built together within the confines of the prison.

She isn't sure how she managed to persuade Daryl to help her find alcohol. For a fleeting moment, she fears he will abandon her out there as she threatens to venture out alone. Yet, as she follows him into the abandoned Country Club, she realizes that this might be his way of diverting his mind from the relentless thoughts of the one person who consumes him wholly: his wife. The mere idea that she might be lost forever, or worse, dead, is evident from the tormented expression he wears as he moves about.

And it becomes all apparent as she simply observes him with a mix of sympathy and horror as he relentlessly swings a golf club, striking a walker over and over again, screaming at it in a desperate manner that resonates within the depths of her soul.

Once again, Beth witnesses that same familiar rage and insecurity directed at her as they indulge in moonshine within a house that resembles Daryl's childhood home. It starts innocently enough, with her asking if he has ever been to jail during a drinking game she has learned from one of her friends. But in an instant, he explodes, unleashing his fury upon her.

"Everyone we know is dead!" he screams at her, but she knows this is more about himself than her. "Might as well be 'cause you ain't never gonna see 'em again."

In that moment, it dawns on her that he blames himself for everything that has unfolded. He holds himself accountable for no longer searching for the Governor, the role it might have played in the loss of their friends, their home, and, above all, his Alice. As she clings onto him from behind, she can feel the intensity of his trembling body as he cried in her arms.

Now, Beth finds herself seated across from Daryl on the front porch of the house, her senses dulled and intoxicated by the alcohol. The moonlight casts a gentle glow upon the still night, serving as their sole source of illumination. The chorus of crickets fills the air, their chirping providing a soothing backdrop, while the coolness of the night air brushes against her flushed skin.

"I was nobody... nothin'," he softly utters, interrupting her thoughts, as he begins to reveal a glimpse of his past before the world fell apart. "Just some redneck asshole with an even bigger asshole for a brother."

"That can't be entirely true. You had Alice back then, didn't you?" she replies, her eyes fixed on his fidgeting finger, toying with a ring he had discovered at the Country Club. It had struck her as odd watching him hastily stuff bags full of jewelry and money, as if there was a purpose for it. Now, having peeked into his humble upbringing, perhaps it stirred up a sense of being looked down upon by the wealthy and privileged, especially in a setting like the Country Club. But later, within the same bag, he stumbles upon something—a ring.

"We were only together for about a year," he states softly, and her heart shatters as she observes the way he gazes at the ring in his hand—a delicate gold band cradling an oval-shaped moonstone. The stone emits an ethereal glow, casting soft, ghostly hues, while small diamonds grace each side of the band, adding a touch of subtle elegance. "But it didn't feel that way at the time. It felt like I had known her mah whole damn life, you know." Beth nods, acknowledging the immense void, like a gaping crater, that Alice has left in his life.

"Yeah, I understand whatchu mean. She's kinda unforgettable like that," Beth begins, finally revealing the reason behind her desire to find her. Of course, she wants to help Daryl find his wife too, as she had promised him, but it runs deeper than that. "I used to watch her all the time, wanting to say somethin' to her, but she could be intimidating." After all, what is she supposed to say? 'Hey, Dr. Alice, you're like the coolest person I've ever met.'

"But I told my daddy that I admired her and wanted to be like her," she sighs, shaking her head at the memory, raising her eyes to meet Daryl's curious gaze. "She's strong, smart, and beautiful. People listen to her, and her words matter. I want to matter like that," Beth confesses, feeling a lump forming in her throat. She averts her gaze and reaches for the crystal-clear glass filled with moonshine, taking a sip.

Beth was acutely aware of her dissimilarity from her sister and everyone else in the prison. People viewed her as if she were a "dead girl" walking, someone who lacked survival instinct or didn't even notice her existence all together. She felt invisible, always lingering in the shadows. Unlike Carol, she didn't clean or cook, nor had she been on any supply runs or made any meaningful contributions to the team. She lacked true usefulness, feeling like nothing more than another mouth to feed. Even Carl, who was five years her junior, had a voice and a place within the group. No one paid attention to her; she was merely a babysitter, responsible for looking after Judith. That was her only role, while others risked their lives around her.

"You do matter, Beth," Daryl's gruff voice interjects, shattering her thoughts once again. She lifts her gaze to meet his, her eyes glistening with moisture. "And if ya wanna, you can be like Alie. She was just like you when she was younger... she changed, and you can too, if that's whatcha want," he says with a reassuring tone.

"She was like me? Really?" she inquires, a smile forming on her lips as her blue eyes sparkle with the shimmer of tears. She can't imagine the doctor being anything like her. Alice walked with a certain grace, and as Beth watched from the sidelines, she noticed how people just gravitated toward her.

"Yeah, she was 'bout 17 when I first met her, just like you are now, all sheltered and innocent..." he pauses, a nostalgic expression crossing his face. "She thought... She thought she was funny back then."

"I bet she was," Beth replies, her smile widening.

"She really ain't. She would just crack up at her own goofy-ass jokes though," Daryl scoffs, rolling his eyes.

"I bet you laughed," Beth teases, unable to contain her laughter at the reaction on his face. "You did laugh!" she exclaims, causing him to huff and turn away from her.

A moment of silence hangs in the air as Daryl carefully places the ring into his chest pocket, close to his heart, while Beth takes another sip of her moonshine. "She loves you, you know," Beth starts again, her eyes following his hand as he withdraws the knife he had previously lodged into the wooden porch. "The way she looks at you, she never lets you out of her sight. I know it might seem foolish to think about this now, especially considering everything, but Maggie found Glenn," she explains, using that as evidence to support her belief.

"I want to find someone like that, someone I can look at the way she looks at you, and then everything will be okay," she confesses. She had tried to establish a connection with Zach, and she genuinely liked him, but she realized there was no spark. He was just a guy who offered her attention when she faded into the background among the group.

"I thought we would all live in that prison forever. Maggie and Glenn would have a baby, and Daddy would be a grandpa. Then one day, peacefully, he would pass away in his sleep," she continues, reminiscing about the pages she had written in her diary, now lost with the prison, just like her fantasies. "And everything would be okay because I would have my person, someone who loves me, the way you love her. The person who would search for me when I'm lost... just like you're trying to find her now," she adds, biting her lip, desperately holding back her tears.

"That's how it's s'posed to be," Daryl replies, observing her with a contemplative gaze, his fingers idly toying with the knife's tip.

"No, that's just how unbelievably naive I am," Beth utters, her voice cracking as tears finally stream down her cheeks. "I don't wanna be like that anymore; I don't wanna be weak. We're going to find her, Daryl. I know she's alive," she declares, wiping away her tears with frustration. "And when we do, I'm going to finally have the courage to ask her to mentor me. I want to change, and I'm gonna be just like her."

"You did change," he states, recalling the girl he knew back at the farm, who wanted an easy way out from the world of the undead.

"Not enough, not like you," she responds, shaking her head as her hands instinctively move to her wrist, feeling the raised skin of the scar. "It's as if you were meant for the way things are now."

"I'm just used to things being ugly, growing up in a place like this," he remarks, gesturing towards the old house that echoes his former home.

"But you got away from it," she says, her voice brimming with optimism as she gazes at him intently.

"No, I didn't," he replies with a sigh, averting his gaze. He had once dreamed of a future, filled with children, chicken and goats, but he never had the wings to soar with the one he loved.

"You did," she insists, as if knowing it to be true. "You have a real chance now, Daryl, a possibility waiting for you. Just hold onto that, hold it tight," she encourages, nodding her head eagerly, her eyes gleaming with the sincerity of her words.

"I'll be gone someday," she begins, but Daryl interrupts her.

"Stop," he interjects, unwilling to entertain thoughts of losing more people.

"I will, but that's okay," she counters, as if she has come to terms with the reality. "You're gonna be the last man standing, and I bet she will be there with you."

As you stumble through the dark and deserted house, your eyes strain to discern what lies ahead, while your feet shuffle cautiously, attempting to move as quietly as possible. Your heart races in your chest, and the sound of your own ragged breathing reverberates through the empty corridors.

Turning a corner in search of a hiding spot, your attention is caught by a movement beneath the stairs. Frozen in terror, you realize that the person who has been hunting you is here, in the house with you.

"Claim!" bellows the tall and menacing man from the first floor, his face shrouded in shadows. He moves with a confident grace that indicates he has done this before.

A surge of adrenaline propels you into a nearby room, and you swiftly slam the door shut, hastily securing the lock. Taking a quick survey of your surroundings, you realize you're in a bedroom and swiftly scan for all possible means of escape. The stranger's heavy footsteps echo through the abandoned house as he follows closely behind. Moments later, the door is kicked open with force.

Prepared for a confrontation, you tightly grip your empty handgun in one hand and your machete in the other. The intruder, with his rifle aimed at your head, comes into view. He has a rugged lumberjack appearance, sporting a leather jacket, thick boots, and a beard. With deliberate slowness, he sets down the large duffel bag he carried on his back, a slow smirk spreading across his face as he scrutinizes you from head to toe.

"Well, well, well, ain't you just a fine piece of meat," he remarks, his voice deep and menacing, resonating through the empty space that envelops you. You meet his gaze, the hand that holds the blade trembling.

"There was this rule with my last group," he begins with a scoff, stepping into the room. "If you see something you like, you gotta say 'Claim' first. That's how you get to keep it." He kicks the door backward, forcefully slamming it shut, the broken lock rattling. "Though I still enjoy saying 'Claim' every now and then, they were a bunch of fucking assholes, if you ask me. There ain't no way I was going to fight for scraps, so I ditched them and have been flying solo ever since. Now, everythin' I lay my eyes on is mine."

"Please, I mean no harm to anyone. I got separated from my friends, and I'm just trying to find something to eat," you say whatever that comes to mind, your voice soft, desperately pleading, but the man's menacing presence blocks your only escape route.

"Oh, sweetheart, I'm hungry too," he retorts, his tone mocking as he steps closer. "And it's been a while since I had anything that looks as good as you. So, we could do this the easy way or the hard way. Which one do you choose? I like it either way."

You gulp, tears welling up, fear transforming your face as he holds you completely at his mercy. "Please, don't do this. I'm begging you, please, don't hurt me," you plead softly.

"Oh, you're beggin' already," he chuckles, his face devoid of any genuine humor. "Believe me, you'll be doing a lot more of that later." As another step brings him closer, and you retreat a step back. "So, what's it going to be... die here or survive another day to see your friends?" He motions with his fingers for you to lower your gun.

His expression speaks volumes, and you realize that attempting to fight your way out of this room is futile. Carrying Jamie's empty gun, a mere token of false security, now feels feeble in your trembling hands. Reluctantly, you lower the gun and the machete, placing them on the ground. Taking a step back, you raise your hands in surrender.

"Oughta girl," he smirks, taking a quick step forward to kick your weapons aside.

A tense moment passes as your eyes lock, one filled with fear and the other with triumph. He, too, lowers his gun, placing it by his feet behind him. Shaking, you try to reason with him, hoping against hope that he might show mercy. "Please, my friends, we have food and medicine; you can have it all. Please, just don't... please." Your voice breaks as he invades your personal space, pushing you hard against the wall.

But the man simply chuckles, his eyes gleaming with predatory delight. "Awe, don't cry now. We haven't even started yet," he says, running his fingers slowly across your cheeks before his hands move to frisk your body, his touch unnecessarily groping you in the process. "Listen, I'm not gonna kill you, okay? I'll keep you for a few days, and when I'm thoroughly satisfied and done, I'll let you go. Capisce?" He whispers with unsettling nonchalance.

You exhale sharply, turning your head away, your body cringing. His sinister grin widens as he grabs the zipper of your jacket, slowly pulling it down, the air heavy with tension as his gaze fixates on your breasts visible beneath your tight shirt. "Damn, look at that. You have the nicest rack I've ever seen."

You close your eyes and brace yourself. The sudden shift within you is unsettling, even to your own awareness, but you feel your chess pieces falling into place, as you give yourself to the darkness, and everything you have learned from your father takes over.

A chilling calmness envelops as your body goes cold yet steady. His touch lingers on your breasts, but you remain unaffected, emotions dissipating as if they were mere illusions. Raising your gaze to meet his, your eyes narrow, and a slow, sly smirk creeps onto your lips. He catches your gaze, and there is a pause, like he saw something that jolted him.

Suddenly, you tap your wrist, and the piercing sound of screeching fills the air as your hidden knife slides out, and you jerk forward swiftly plunging into him with all the force your body can muster. Stabbing a living body is a far cry from dispatching the undead as their decaying flesh offers less resistance to the blade. This, however, is different, and your entire body is tense as you hold the knife steady.

"You thought you had me trapped, huh? But in reality, you're the one trapped here withme," you purr, your voice carrying a sultry edge, a wicked grin spreading across your face as the man gasps for air, his eyes wide. "In chess, there is a strategy called 'the poisoned pawn.' It's when a player intentionally offers a seemingly weak or vulnerable pawn as bait to lure the opponent into capturing it. This allows the player to gain control of the game and exploit their opponent's weaknesses."

You let out a chuckle, closing the distance with a stony expression. "You thought you were slick, but I saw you awhile back. I knew you've been following me for a while, so I lured you into this house and put on a show, pretending to be the scared pawn who couldn't defend herself." He opens his mouth to speak, but only a strained noise escapes his lips. Leaning in, your nose almost touching his, you continue, "You see, this whole time, I was the predator, and you were the sheep. Now, I'll do to you what most lionesses do when they catch their prey: play with it before tearing it to pieces."

He growls, attempting to lunge at you, but his upper body fails him, only his legs jerking forward. You push your blade harder, as if it could go past the hilt, his warm blood running down your fingers where the blade connects to your wrist.

"How many girls have you done this to? Hurting them because they are weaker than you and couldn't fight back?" Your voice drips with coldness and cutting intensity.

"Karma is a bitch, ain't it? And now you must answer to a woman," you tease with a tsking sound, your laughter resonating through the room like a bell. "I guess should mention I'm a doctor, and the human biology happens to be my expertise." Glancing down at where your knife is still embedded inside him, piercing past his kidney at an odd angle, you continue, "For instance, there are 31 pairs of spinal nerves in the human body, divided into 5 branches, and my 12-inch blade is currently buried deep in your thoracic nerves, which control most of your upper body. That's why you can't move a finger." You explain matter-of-factly.

Without waiting for a response, you swiftly withdraw your blade with a wet, noisy sound, only to thrust it back in with another forceful motion, this time angling it lower. "Now, I'm in your lumbar nerves, which control your lower body," you state calmly.

"Please," he begs in a broken whisper, his voice barely audible as his lungs fill with blood.

"You're begging already? You had your chance, but now, you'll be doing a lot more of that later," you retort, echoing his own words. With a screech, you pull back your blade, letting it slide back into its sheath, before stepping away from him. He crumbles to the ground like a felled tree, unable to move his body from the neck down.

Maintaining your calm demeanor, you casually move around the room, pulling open the closet and scanning the available clothes, checking their sizes. "What do you think?" you ask, holding up a pair of black jeans and a plain black shirt. Though slightly small, it would still fit you. "I mean, black is flattering on anyone."

You strip off your dirty clothes, wiping your bloody hand with the shirt you had worn through the blood and gore of the prison. Standing completely naked in front of him, you rifle through the underwear drawer, silently appreciating the previous occupant of this house for her great sense of style and class.

"You know, I was on my way to the prison—that's where I was with my last group," you begin, putting on the clean clothes while his twisted body and wide eyes serve as your captive audience. He struggles to take shallow breaths, unable to speak.

"I needed to find my husband, and to do that, we needed weapons. I was going to hike back to that piles of shit to search for guns... I mean, what was I thinking? But I guess love does that to you, poof, and all logic goes right out the window." You had hoped there would be walkers with guns on them, especially the governor's men. You were prepared to peel the weapon off the dead, praying you wouldn't get overwhelmed.

"And then you came along," you remark, gesturing towards him and picking up his rifle that lay by his feet. "I mean, look at this—Mk22 with a custom scope. Where did you even get this? Did you steal it from someone?" It's a slim black rifle with a blood-red scope mounted on top. You shake your head, surprised at your own unexpected knowledge in firearms.

"Spend some time around soldiers, and you'll learn a thing or two about guns." You stride towards the door and drag his duffel bag closer, the one he had carelessly tossed upon entering. Opening it, you let out a whistle of surprise. "Look at you, you've got enough artillery to take over a small city," you joke, marveling at the assortment of weapons within.

With a sigh, you rise to your feet and zip up the bag, slinging it over your shoulder. Peering down at the man lying before you, you see fear, panic, and pain reflected in his eyes as he gazes back at you. "It would be a real shame to die here, unable to rise and join the ranks of the other walkers," you muse aloud. "I wonder if it's even possible under these circumstances...all fucked up from the neck down."

Lost in thought, you stroke your chin, contemplating aloud, "This virus is tricky. It can do things that are nearly unimaginable, and we still haven't fully understood the science behind it," you mumble to yourself.

As your musings fade, you pivot and start walking away toward the exit. "Well, it's been a pleasure doing business with you, Tootles," you call back over your shoulder, waving nonchalantly. He emits a rumbling noise as you leave him behind, his fate sealed.

Notes: We get to see Alice's darkness in this chapter, what lay beneath. The remnant of her father.

Recap - Chapter 13- Carol's thought: It's right then, right at this moment, Carol realizes something. The look in the doctor's eyes… perhaps, this whole time, she is only seeing one side of the coin, to the sweet, cheerful woman. There is something beneath the fluff, something dangerous lying underneath.