Hello everyone! Here is another chapter. Happy Saturday, enjoy! I brought up Daryl's uncle, Jess Collins, an original character in The Walking Dead: Survival Instinct. I don't plan on building the story toward the game backstory. Maybe down the line, I might use Jess, or maybe not. Not sure yet.
And you don't turn away
Gonna feel this magnetic force
Pull my eyes to yours
Pupils dilate
No, I can't fight it, I can't fight it
Don't want to
ultraviolet by freya ridings
Chapter 10 - Crave
It's the last week of school and the atmosphere held finality and liberty. As you walk towards your classroom, you see students cleaning out their lockers, and laughter echoes throughout the hallways as seniors are signing their yearbooks.
There is a bounce in your steps when you walk into your biology class.
Mr. Lanigan is at his desk, eyes planted on the papers in front of him, his glass sitting low on the bridge of his nose, his mind centered on grading papers. He's hardly paying any attention to the shenanigans taking place in the classroom, as some kids are throwing paper balls at each other.
"Good morning, sir." You greet in a singsong voice. When you notice the pile of essays sitting at the edge of his desk, you drop yours and Daryl's on top.
"Good morning, Ms. Hart." Mr. Lanigan briefly looks up at you, fingers pushing his glass up back in place.
When he spots your essay on top, he reaches for it. You hold your breath when he also grabs the one with Daryl's name on it. It only takes him a few seconds before he makes a face, his eyebrows pinching. He glances from one essay to the other, as if comparing. You take a cautious step back, regretting the day you decided to sit at the front.
You look anywhere but at your teacher, all of the sudden interested in the spitballs sticking to the ceiling. In your peripheral vision, you can see Mr. Lanigan giving you a disappointed look.
"Ms. Hart, a word after class." He tells you. You let out a sigh, nodding. You already know what is coming.
As the class proceeds, you look behind you towards the back of the class. Daryl is nowhere to be seen. You roll your eyes waiting for him to show up late like he always does.
The class ends with you watching the door. Every time a person walks by, you eagerly look, thinking it's him. Of course, he doesn't show up.
At the end, you tuck in your tail and head up to Mr. Lanigan's desk.
He sits there staring at both yours and Daryl's essay on the table in front of him.
"Instead of an equal split of cell contents during mitosis, strange phenomena cause the size and shapes of the cells to be unequal." He reads out loud, and you cringe at his sarcastic tone. "You want me to believe Daryl wrote that?" He questions, eyebrows raised incredulously.
You bite your bottom lip. You are totally busted. Why are you always such an over achiever, you think to yourself. Why did you put so much effort into his paper? You wanted him to get an A, but you made it too obvious.
"Ok, I admit," You confess, stepping closer with a deep sigh. "I wrote the paper, but honestly Sir, he really did put an effort. He showed up every day. He tried, he really tried." He looks at the paper, flipping through the pages. "I would not have gone the extra miles for him, if he didn't." You lied through your teeth. You would have even if he hadn't put the effort. You would have done all his papers for him.
Mr. Lanigan takes his glasses off and pinch the bridge of his nose. "You deliberately ignored my instructions." He sighs.
"I'm really, really sorry," you whisper when you have nothing to add. You've been caught. Your teacher doesn't say anything else; he just sits there weighing his decisions. After a moment, he just picks up his red pen and write 'C' at the top of Daryl's essay. He hands you the essay, and you take it with an astonished look on your face. He doesn't even read the entirety of the paper, but has taken your word for it, grading him for his effort. You can't help but give him the brightest smile you can muster. Daryl gets to pass to his senior year.
"Thank you, sir," you say, but he doesn't give you any reply, just shoos you with his hand. You don't need to be told twice. You grab your backpack and dash out of the classroom. As you move to your next class, your eyes constantly search for the boy you have been hoping to see.
You like Daryl.
You are romantically interested in Daryl, that's the only thing that made sense, the only conclusion.
Daryl is nowhere to be seen, he just stopped showing up to school.
The days kept on moving, and you feel this panic in the pit of your stomach. None of the teachers seems to notice, nor care. You've looked for him every day, with each passing day, hoping today would be the day, he decides to show his sorry ass. Your eyes constantly searched the hallways, principal office, parking lots, with no avail. You were even desperate enough to go to the back of the school, where all the hooligans smoke. They looked at you like you've lost your mind when you asked for Daryl. None of them have seem him, nor do they know where he lives.
Your mind is consumed with endless thought of him. You moved through your day with a constant feeling like you forgot something, like something hovering in the air.
You have a hard time sleeping, wondering if he is ok, if something happened to him, if someone hurt him. You've seen him with bruises so many times, he is no stranger to pain. Every night you are in bed simmering these thoughts, wondering why you are so worked up over Daryl. You only truly knew him for two months, yet he gotten under your skin. You are genuinely yourself around him. He has an effortless way of making you feel safe and warm. Even when he calls you goofy, he's the first person you think to share all things that interest you.
It takes a lot of assessing of your own feeling, to realize you really like him. Why else would you ache at the thoughts of not seeing him. You are so drawn to him, like a magnetic force. You've never seen kindness forged by fire, selflessness like he's never been hurt. You refuse to let him out of your site, you wish to be around him, in any form he allows you.
Tomorrow is the last day of school, and you know if you don't see him tomorrow, then it's highly likely you won't see him for the summer. That thought tightens in the center of your chest…
A large hand slams on the table, and you jump out of your skin, suddenly brought back to reality. In front of you sits your father, thick Cuban cigar on his lips. He has that look again, the look of absolute fury. Eyebrows pinch, forehead wrinkled and eyes roaring.
Your father is a big man, tall and built like a linebacker, intimidating figure. His thick salt and pepper hair is always combed back, and his blue eyes so light, it looks like lightning in a bottle. He has a permanent frown, lines perpetually itched on his forehead and between his eyebrows. Your father is a critical thinker, man of a few rules, and that's how he moved in every aspect of his life. Always a head of everyone in the room, and with no quorum stepping on anyone.
At several of the political dinner parties you have attended with your father, you have heard some of his friends refer to him as 'David the Conqueror'. Perhaps suggesting that he once had a holy cause when he first started in his political journey, but just like King David, power is what he seeks now, implying his eventual downfall.
"Why would you make that move!" He always has an intense voice, but when he is angry, it gets deeper, like a lion ready to roar. You look down at the chessboard sitting on the table in front of you. "Explain yourself." He enunciates each syllable at you, waiting for your answer.
Of course, you have no answer. You were purely playing on muscle memory. Your mind has been occupied by a boy you haven't seen in almost a week. "I…I, I was…I was thinking..." You stutter, your mind completely blank. You don't even know what move you made, let along explain it. You look down, quickly trying to reassess what you may have done. You run your eyes on the board, predicting the possible moves you may have made, and realize you had allowed him to take e5-pawn with a check.
"Go back," he tells you, and you move your chess piece back with a shaky hand. "Think again. And remember, think always five moves ahead." You nod your head. The moment stretches as you both stare at the table, and he casually sips from his bourbon, the smell of his cigar very different from Daryl's. You shake your head, as if to clear your thoughts. Don't think about Daryl, you tell yourself.
Recapturing your queen seems like a logical move, and it will also mean that's what he would expect you to do. You decide to take the gutsy and more creative choice. You let the queen be sacrificed, and play move 6. Your father sits there and continue to stare at the move, analyzing your possible outcomes. He lets out a heavy smoke, before placing the cigar on the ashtray sitting next to the chessboard.
Your father is a chess master and played in the national games long before you were born. "Vladimirov's thunderbolt, 1987." He states the name of your move. "Good." He nods at you, "Good, sometimes winning requires sacrifices. By any means necessary."
"Yes, father," you acknowledge.
"We always think we can invent new moves. But I've yet to see a problem someone in the past hasn't already solved. You must look in the past, to see the future. The answer is always there. You understand?"
"Yes, father," you nod your head. He leans back on to his favorite chair, cigar back on his lips. with the hand that's still holding his liquor, he waves his finger, shooing you away. You are dismissed. Quickly you get up, picking the expensive marble chess pieces, gently packing them back in its leather case.
Desperate times call for desperate measures.
The Idea of getting caught scares you enough to almost hold you back, but you made up your mind.
Today is Friday, last day of school and if you can't find Daryl today, you are going to break into the school system, and get his address. It won't be hard, you are the student body president, it's not unusual for you to be in the admin office. You just have to physically break into the file cabinet or find a key. Probably the best day to do it, since it's the last day of school, and most of the staff members will leave early.
One last check, you tell yourself as you decide to look for him one last time.
You skip lunch and walk the school ground; cover all possible place he might go. You made your round at the usual spots you think he might go, and eventually you end up on the track field. As you about to turn and walk away, you see someone at the far end of the bleachers. It's only when you move closer, you noticed it's Daryl, casually seated, looking out into the empty field. You let out a laugh, excitement rejuvenating you, and you start jogging towards him.
God, you almost committed multiple crimes, you could only imagine what your father would say if you've gotten caught. The DA's daughter, breaking and entering, destruction of private property, burglary with a possible identity theft…
"Hey!" you holler at him, "where have you been, I've been looking for you everywhere?" He looks surprised to see you. He is in the prosses of rolling a joint, and on his lap set a small Ziplock bag of the leaves. You quickly scan him. He looks ok, no new bruises, at least ones you can see.
"I thought the project is over." He tells you, like he's unsure of why you're seeking him out. You stumble in your step, deflating like a balloon.
"ah, yea…yea, you passed by the way." You hesitatingly pull your backpack from your shoulder, digging to pull the essay out. You have been carrying it around, hoping to be the one to tell him. But now you are not sure, if he really even cares. He takes it from you non-the-less. "Mr. Lanigan totally knew I wrote it, but he was willing to grade you on the effort you made." Daryl nods.
You continue to stand there unsure of what to do. You shift on your feet before sitting next to him on the bleacher. "Where were you the last few days?" You ask watching him roll his weed, before bringing it to his lips and licking the paper. "I was worried something had happened to you," you admit your concern.
He looks at you funny, as if wondering why you would even worry about him. "I went hunting with my uncle Jess."
"Hunting? Like hunting, hunting?" Georgia is no stranger when it comes to hunting, known to locals as the Goober State, an old man's sport. It just never occurred to you this might be something Daryl might like to do.
"What else kinda hunting is there?" He questions, raising his eyebrows at you derisively.
"Bounty hunting." You are quick to answer.
"Don't be a smartass." You stick your tongue out at him mockingly.
"Maybe you can take me hunting sometimes," you speak your thoughts out loud. He huffs at you as if you told him the funniest joke. "What! I can do it." You exasperate. When he chuckles, it only gets you worked up. In a childish manner, you pout, sitting there with your bottom lip sticking out dramatically, arms folded over your chest. You watch him bring the cannabis to his lips, followed by a lighter. He holds it between his thumb and index finger, taking a deep drag. Your mouth is suddenly dry, your eyes running over his face, something about that action is extremely attractive. Or perhaps you are just fascinated by everything he does.
"You said… you said you are willing to fix my car. Does that offer still stand?" You are throwing him a rope, hoping he would agree, an excuse to hang out with him.
"You wanna..." He offers you the joint. You have never smoked anything, let along weed. You have never even been curious.
"Ah, nah, I'm ok." He snorts at you, before bringing it back to his lips.
"Pussy," he calls you. You squint your eyes at him in annoyance.
"You know what, give it here," you thrust your hand out to him, he smirks as he hands you the joint. "First of all, being called a pussy, is not an insult. There is nothing more resilient than a pussy. It should be an honor to be called one." You rant, bringing the pot to your lips. You take in a deep inhale, like you've seen Daryl do.
"ahhhhhagg," The first hit is overwhelming, and immediately you regret it. You thrust it back to him, as the coughs hits you. Your throat feels like you inhaled ghost pepper powder. Your eyes waters, as you grunt trying to clear your airway. "What the fuck!" You can tell he's trying to stifle a laugh, but he can't keep the chuckles at bay. "How could you smoke that." As you hack trying to clear your throat, he lightly rubs your back.
"God, I need water," you tell him, anything to get rid of the taste and burning sensation. You get up, taking the few steps down, "So tomorrow, you fix my car? I'll meet you at the park, 3pm?" You question. "It's the least you can do after you just tried to murder me." You massage your throat for the dramatic effect.
"Yea, yea," he rolls his eyes at you, though there is a smile on his face. You walk backwards, when pulling away from him becomes a challenge. You shake your head, giving him the middle finger, his smile infectious. He returns it, with a puff of smoke on his lips.
Oh yeah, you totally like him!