A/N: Hey guys Here's Chapter 11. Sorry it took so long :/ My internet's been down for a few days and I haven't been able to post this xP But I went to a Starbucks to post it so here is the next installment of my story! xD
Please remember to review! You guys are really good about that and I want to thank the people who reviewed last time from the bottom of my heart They really do make writing this story just that more enjoyable.
Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I don't own TWD, it's characters, or any pieces of literature/poetry this chapter mentions.
Chapter 11: Memories Pressed Between Pages
"So, what did you guys like best about these chapters?"
Carl and Sophia blink at me from across the table, hazel and blue orbs equally round. My question hangs suspended in the air for a moment before they fumble to respond.
"I like-"
"What is-?"
The two begin at the same time, questions blurting out and melding around each other. The kids stop for a moment, shoot looks at one another, and share some kind of understanding because it is Carl that speaks up again.
"What does it mean to 'release' someone?" he asks. "It seems kind of important but I don't get it."
I smile at the young boy, dog earring the page where we left off and setting down The Giver. "Well Carl, what do you think it means?"
Lori's son furrows his brow and frowns at me. "I don't know. That's why I'm asking!"
Beside him, Sophia slowly raises her hand, tentative and shy as she gazes at me below her lashes. "Yes Sophia?" I ask, giving her a gentle smile of encouragement.
She lowers her hand and tugs on a strand of her short hair. "Um…I have an idea what releasing is but I…I don't know if it's right," she says quietly. Sophia is always so hesitant about everything, so doubtful, so unsure. It makes something hateful roil in me, a burning, acidic feeling because I know exactly why she acts this way, can see the fucking bastard she calls father clearly in my mind, as clearly as I can see the bruises on her thin wrists. I don't say anything though. God knows I want to, God knows I have, but Carol has specifically asked me to stay out of it, a whispered plea at the quarry as we had finished up some laundry. I try not to think of Lori's I told you so face when I finally relented, the words sour and poisonous in my mouth.
So, biting my tongue on what I want to say, I force myself to return to the present. "That's ok Sophia. We are learning here. You don't have to be right," I tell her as softly as I can.
The young girl still seems uncertain but she clears her throat anyway. "I…is releasing like dying? It kind of sounds like it since they mentions it always happens to old people or sick babies." I'm surprised at her intuitiveness, feeling a grin blossom on my face and something akin to pride well in me even if she came up with the idea all on her own. Sophia really is intelligent. I just wish I could do something more for her.
"Ahh now that is a fine idea Sophia. Why don't you hang on to it for a while though? I don't want to ruin anything for the both of you. But that really was a very nice comment," I praise and Sophia blushes bright red as she smiles bashfully.
"Wait," Carl suddenly speaks up. "If releasing is dying, why is everyone happy about it? Shouldn't they be sad? I don't understand." He frowns again and places his chin in hand, pouting.
Reaching across the table, I ruffle his short hair briefly before he swats at my hands. "Just have patience young grasshopper. Good things come to the one who wait." Carl's pout intensifies and he sighs.
"Fine."
I smile, amused, and turn back to Sophia. "What did you like about the chapter Sophia? Was there anything else that caught your eye?" The young girl bites her lip and, even though the table blocked them from view, I can tell by the flexing of her arms that she is clasping and unclasping her hands. It is silent for a moment as Sophia thinks over her answer.
"I…I liked that Jonas has different colored eyes," she says finally, quietly, almost like admitting a secret. "They're blue right?" I don't miss the way her own gaze flickers over to Carl, shy and quick, before looking back at me. I force myself not to smile at the realization that someone seems to have a little crush. The notion makes me feel a little giddy and a little hopeful.
"Well you don't really know that this far in the story. People in Jonas' world can't differentiate between colors," I tell her and suddenly, Carl is speaking up again.
"Why can't they…what word did you use?"
"Differentiate. It means to tell the difference between."
"Oh…well why can't they diff…different…differentiate between colors," he asks, face scrunching as he tries to form his lips around the word.
Oh damn it. I just gave something away didn't I? Crap. I always do that. Sighing, I scratch at my left cheek, the scabs of my days old scratches itching like crazy. I've already reopened them more than once today. The skin irritation just drives me crazy. Fucking weasel hellion. "Oops! Seems like I gave something away," I admit sheepishly. "Forget you heard that. You'll learn about it later."
Carl looks slightly upset, face pinched and lips pursed. "Aww come on! Can't you tell us why?" I cock an eyebrow at his wheedling tone and, while Sophia doesn't say anything in support, I can see the same request in her expression. Why are these kids so cute? It is drastically unfair. Reluctantly, I consider his request for a moment, trying to come up with a response; something a teacher would of told me if I had asked the question. Suddenly, a reply comes to me.
"Well how bout this? You tell me some of your ideas as to why his eyes are different and, if you are right, I will tell you." Bam. Now tell me that did not sound like a legitimate frustrating teacher question.
"Oh! Oh! I know! I know! Pick me teacher! Pick me!"
The over enthusiastic comment comes from off to my left and I roll my eyes as I recognize the high, pitched tone. Sophia and Carl giggle as I turn in my seat to fix the newcomer with a playful glare. "Students will be silent unless called upon," I scold, wagging a finger as firmly as I can.
Amy smirks at me and plops down in the grass at my feet. "Yes teacher. Sorry teacher."
I force myself not to roll my eyes again and school my lips not to twitch into a smile. "Whatcha need Amy. I'm working here." And just because I am having fun does not mean I am not working. The blonde sighs and leans her head against my chair, looking up at me with those big blue eyes. Her pink lips are turned down into a pout to rival Carl's.
"Glenn's on look out again and I've finished most of the chores. Andrea's off doing something with our other tent mate Michelle and I'm bored."
"So…you decide to come bother me then?"
Amy blinks up at me, the picture of innocence. "Yes," she replies and there is not an ounce of remorse in her voice. I shake my head at her and laugh.
"Amy," I stress. "I'm having a lesson with Carl and Sophia." It's the third one we've had in as many days but we haven't done much. One reason is Sophia has limited time away from the thing Carol is regretfully married to. The second reason is…I'm trying not to rush things. I only have so many books. When we run out…there is nothing left.
The pout on Amy's face deepens. "So? Can't I stay and listen? I won't be a bother."
I send her a deadpan look, eyebrow cocked and her pout melts into a scowl. "I'm not being a bother," she says adamantly and I raise my hands in surrender.
"Alright, alright," I tell her laughing. "You can stay. But no distracting me or my students. I'm watching you." Amy nods in response and shuffles up to a tree stump that is about a foot away from the table, all wide eyes and expectant grins.
"You won't even know I'm here," she says. I highly doubt that.
Shaking my head, I turn back to my still giggling pupils. "Anyway," I tell them. "Where were we?"
"You asked us what we thought about Jonas' eyes," Sophia supplies helpfully.
Oh yeah. Shifting to make myself comfortable in the unstable folding chair I am currently sitting on, I lace my fingers on top of the equally rickety table. The motion is mainly to keep myself from picking at my scabs again, which are itching like nobody's business, but I hope it looks like I am giving Sophia my undivided attention.
"And what do you think?" I ask her. Sophia fidgets under my gaze and I try to keep my expression as kind and genial as possible. Coaxing, coercing; the tone of voice I used to use on my neighbor Mrs. Davenports crazed cat. Sophia scratches at the table with an overgrown nail, eyes downcast and cheeks flushed. I know this embarrasses her but I really want to her what she thinks. She's just so smart and endearing. She just reminds me so much of Irina.
"C…can Carl go first?" she asks. I'm not surprised by her request so I nod and turn to the young boy at her side.
"Carl?"
He furrows his brow for a moment, tongue peeking out of the corner of his mouth while he thinks. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Amy stifle a giggle and I shoot her a semi-stern look. She holds up her hands in surrender but continues to fight a full-blown grin. "I think," Carl suddenly says and I turn my attention back to him. His expression is hesitant but determined and he sits up a little straighter in his seat as he faces me. "I think that…are his eyes different because…Jonas is different?" What started out as a statement trails off into a question but he is on the right track. The proud feeling wells in me again.
"And how is he different? How do his eyes contribute to that?" I ask. Sophia abruptly jumps in and she looks just as surprised as I am when the words come tumbling out of her mouth, like they couldn't be contained anymore.
"It's because he sees things differently," she blurts and then blushes as she stammers out the rest of her response. "I…I mean like with the apple, the one he was throwing around with his friend Asher. He saw it differently. Is…is that why his eyes are different?"
And these kids are two for two. If I had any candy left I would be giving them out in my happiness. As it were, between Amy and I, and that one lollipop I had given to Daryl, I'm all out. So much for making them last. "That's exactly right Sophia. You too Carl. Jonas' eyes are unique because he is unique. Later in the novel, the way Jonas sees things will come more and more into play and shape what will happen," I tell the pair of them. I think that generalization is ok. It's not a spoiler if there are no details. Right?
Carl glances at Sophia with an impressed expression, a small smile tugging at his lips. "We're pretty awesome aren't we Sophia," he crows and raises his hand for a high five. Carol's daughter gives a shy grin and claps her hand to his lightly. I chuckle at them and lightly tap my hands on the tabletop.
"Alright. So now-"
However, before I can say what we are going to do next, a suddenly, shrill beeping noise cuts me off. Blinking, I glance down and spot the digital watch that Glenn had lent me, the timer screaming at me that my 45-minute session is up. What? I'm done already? Crap. Where does the time go? Sighing, I look back at Carl and Sophia with an apologetic grimace. "Ah well it seems like our time is up today." The two kids groan in real disappointment. "Sorry, sorry! We'll pick this up tomorrow. But, as homework, I want you guys to write a one-page essay on all the ways that Jonas is different than his family and friends. If you have trouble, come talk to me ok?"
Carl and Sophia nod as they start to slip out of their seats, ready for their free time that always comes at the end of our classes, the intrigue over The Giver already fading.
"Ok Audrey! See ya later," Carl calls and he's tripping over his feet as I watch him run over to Shane, the former cop chopping away at some firewood. I roll my eyes good-naturedly at the rush he's in but I can't really blame the boy. He looks up to Shane like father. I don't really know what happens to his actual father…but it's not all that hard to guess. Sophia, who isn't in such a hurry, casts me one last smile as she pushes in her chair.
"Thank you for today's lesson Audrey," she says, just like always. I wave her off.
"Don't mention it Sophia. Thank you for being such a good participant. You always have very good comments."
The girl ducks her head under my praise; her face red again as she kicks at the hard packed earth. "Well…I really like the book and…you read really nicely. You don't make it seem like work. It's…it's fun," she mumbles. Getting up from my seat, I move to stand in front of Sophia and squat so I can look her in the eye. She timidly bites her lip as she glances at me.
"I'm glad you think that Sophia. I'm really glad. I want you to have fun; I want you to like this as much as I do. To hear that you do…that makes me really happy."
Upon hearing my words, Sophia looks really shocked, like she's never heard that she's made someone happy. The realization makes me sad and angry once again. Suddenly, Sophia's name echoes through the camp and the pair of us turn to see Carol waving near the RV.
"Sophia! Come here sweetie," she calls out again and her daughter waves back in acknowledgement. Wide hazel orbs turn back to look at me in question and I nod at her before reaching out to turn her away.
"Go on. Your mom's calling you. We can talk more later. And remember, if you need anything, anything at all, even if you just want to talk, I'm always here." Sophia looks happy about that, her light brown orbs sparkling, and runs off to her mom.
However, as I straighten to watch her go, Sophia halts in her tracks a few yards away and suddenly whirls to run back towards me. I frown at her, thinking she might have forgotten something, a pen, a pencil, but before I can open my mouth to ask her what's wrong, her thin arms suddenly throw themselves around my waist and squeeze tight. I stumble under the impact, even if she weighs no more than ninety pounds soaking wet, and blink as Sophia continues to hug me. Bewildered, I slowly return the embrace and hug her back gently. The young girl pulls back after a second and grins up at me, open and bright.
"Thank you," she says again and then she's off again, running back to her mom. I'm left standing there, puzzled but with a warm feeling in my gut, until Amy comes up and hip checks me playfully. The motion startles me because, for a second, I had forgotten she was there.
"Wow. And here you couldn't get me to spit on one of my teachers if they were on fire," she muses as she stares after Sophia, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. "Tell me. What's your secret? Bribery? Do you still have more candy that you're dishing out without sharing with me?"
I roll my eyes at the sarcastic blonde and go back to the table that's set up behind us, reaching out to collect The Giver and the extra paper and writing utensils that are scattered around. "You're the one that ate the last jaw breaker Amy. You know I don't have any more candy. Besides, I don't need bribery. I'm just that good," I say smugly even though I lack the true confidence behind the words. It's not that I lack complete faith in my teaching skills, I know this book pretty well. It's just…well I'm only seventeen for Christ's sake and I've never actually had a teaching class. I'm basically winging this shit here and trying to remember all the things that made me like my favorite teachers.
Amy scoffs at me and sinks into the chair that Carl had recently vacated, dropping her chin into her hand. "So good that Morales turned you down flat when you asked if you could include his kids in your classes?" she says to me.
I look up at her across the table as I pluck the last pencil up, a frown etched on my lips. "I told you I don't teach Louis and Eliza because they are too young. Louis' only 7 and Eliza's 6. They wouldn't understand The Giver."
Sighing, Amy traces random patterns on the tabletop with her index finger, looking past me with a distant glaze to her eyes. "I know, I know," she mutters, still not looking at me. "Just trying to rile you up."
There is a quality about her tone of voice, a quiet and softness, a depth, which makes me pause. Something is up. Amy's been a little weird since last night at dinner, staring silently into the campfire and then flashing bright smiles all around when Glenn asked her what was up. Even when she had run up and interrupted me with Sophia and Carl a few minutes ago something about her was off kilter, her voice too bright, and her smile just a tad bit too strained. My lesson with Lori and Carol's kids fades to the back of my mind, replaced with worry about my friend.
"Amy," I venture, lips pursed as I slip into the seat across from her. "Are…are you ok?" The question is valid in this context but even now I feel stupid saying it. How can anyone be ok in an apocalypse?
The blonde sighs at my question, big and dramatic. "Yeah," she drawls and it doesn't take a genius to tell she wants me to press. So I do.
Reaching across the table, I knock her hand out from under her, causing her head to drop at the unexpected motion. "Hey!" she cries indignantly, her blue eyes pinning me with a half-hearted glare.
I ignore her annoyance and tilt my head at her. "Alright. What's up? And don't tell me nothing because we both know that's a lie. You've been acting funny since last night. Fess up already."
Amy retains the fire in her eyes for a few moments longer before she sighs again and her expression wilts. She drops her head onto the tabletop, pillowing the impact with crossed arms, and says something to be that comes out muffled and garbled. Frowning, I lean forward and turn an ear towards her. "What did you say?" I ask.
Huffing, she lifts her head and pouts at me but there is real sadness in her eyes, lurking behind faux irritation. "I said," she drawls with emphasis. "That it's really nothing just…" She trails off and jerks her head to the side, glaring off into the trees. I patiently wait as she chews on her words. "It's my…birthday in ten days and…well…I just never planned to spend my eighteenth birthday stuck in the woods with a bunch of strangers and eating squirrel for breakfast lunch and dinner."
Her tone is bitter and upset, like she's been dwelling on this for some time, but I have to say I'm completely surprised.
Her birthday? That's what she is upset about? To be honest, I had totally forgot her birthday is coming up. I mean there are a few more important things I have on my mind like…well like eating and surviving mainly. But I do kind of feel bad that I failed to remember as this obviously means something to Amy. What's more if Amy's birthday is upcoming…that means mine is as well, seeing is how I remember hers being two weeks before mine. Wow. I never really made a big deal about my birthday before, there was never really a time for it until I met Mom and by then I didn't much care either way, but I had never just forgotten about it. It makes me wonder as to what else I've let slip my mind.
Shifting in my seat, I try not to look as uncomfortable as I feel. "Oh…Amy," I begin, not really knowing what to say. Thankfully, she cuts me off before I can fumble for the words.
"It's not that I don't like you or Glenn," she suddenly blurts out, wide blue eyes turning towards me in amends as she realizes what she had said could be construed as a bit rude. "I love you guys but…you see…I just had different plans."
I try not to point at that, yeah Amy we all did, but the upset teenager keeps going, unable to stop now that I've given her the okay to start.
"My best friend Emma…she and I had planned this huge party. Her parents owned a summer cottage or something out on Lake Sydney. They said we could use it." Amy starts to gnaw on her lip as she continues to tell me her story, clearly becoming more upset, and her eyes are bright and clear…but I can tell they don't see me. They see this girl named Emma, they see a large lake that I've never visited, they see the shinning waters and the milling people of a huge party that was going to be but now never will.
"We invited all of our friends, and all their friends. One last party before everyone went away. One last amazing memory to make. We planned it all out. Emma's older brother, Michael who I might have had a crush on, was even going to buy the booze for us. It was supposed to be the best night of our lives. It was supposed to be…the best birthday I ever had," she finishes, her voice gone and tapering off into a hushed whisper, weighed down by the memory, of the reality, of days gone by.
And then, it hits me. In a way, I've sort of always known; it isn't that hard to tell to be honest. But hearing Amy tell this story, this…thing that's got her wound up and so upset, not the aspect of her lost friends but the reality of the lost party…I realize…she was, is, one of those people. The popular people. Who throw big parties and want hundreds of people they don't know jumping around them, loud, drunk, and obnoxious. One of those people that I never understood and, for the most part, never cared to look my direction. Now, I'm not saying I was some loner with no friends and I am not saying that I dislike Amy for the quality of personality that she possesses. I had friends and now, one of them is Amy. Simple as that. But before all this shit happened, before the dead got up and walked and tried to take a chunk out of me and every other living, breathing thing on the planet, I had never talked to an "Amy". I had my friends; friends who I had inside jokes with, who would rather have a movie night at their house than go out but still managed to have a social life and meet new people. But my friends and I...we weren't the popular people. We didn't go to parties every Friday night and wake up every Saturday morning wondering what the hell happened. We didn't need hundreds of people we barely know all drunk around us to have a good time.
But, apparently, Amy did. Apparently, she still does. Again, I'm not judging her because of this. Amy is my friend now, no matter what we would have been to each other weeks or months ago. The fact of the matter is…I just don't know what to say to consol her. I've been to a few parties before, and when I say a few I mean I can count them on one hand, but I never got the appeal of them. What am I supposed to say to Amy who is mourning the loss of one? I frankly don't know and I think Amy can see that because she suddenly frowns at me.
"Audrey, are you even listening to me?"
Balking at her sharp tone, I stutter for a response. "Y…yes! I just…I just don't really know what to say Amy," I tell her honestly, feeling blood rush to my cheeks in embarrassment, causing my scabs to itch again. "I'd say I'm sorry but that just doesn't seem like enough or…what you're really looking for right?"
Amy's eyes blaze bright and blue at my admission and all of the sudden they're wet and brimming with tears. "What I'm looking for is a little compassion but all you're doing is staring at me like I'm an idiot! You're supposed to tell me you're sorry and then come up with a plan to make it better! Tell me we will plan a better party!"
I'm floored and floundering because what the hell? She does realize we have less than twenty people up here and it's the end of the world right?
"Amy," I begin, incredulous and trying not to show it. "How…how would we even do that? There's not much we can do up here. If I told you we'd plan a better party…I'd really just be lying to you."
"So? Lie to me! At least make me feel better! At least talk to me!"
I sit back in my chair at her words, wide eyed and completely confused. I really am lost now. "I talk to you every day Amy," I point out to her. Hell, we talk nearly every hour. I don't understand what she means.
Apparently, my lack of understanding just pisses the unstable girl off more because she smacks a hand down on the tabletop hard, making it wobble.
"No, you don't," she hisses. "You prattle on about nothing for hours but whenever I try to talk to you about something serious, you make some excuse and walk away. You don't talk about your past; you don't talk about anything of importance. You're all business; all food this and water that and who's on lookout and when's your next lesson with Carl and Sophia. It's like we aren't even friends. I mean don't you care about me? I've told you all about me and I know nothing about you."
By the end of her tirade, all I can do is gape. Shit. How fucking long has she been waiting to say that? My mouth opens and closes and I'm sure I look like a gasping, dying, fish but Amy doesn't even give me time to draw a breath.
"You know what? Never mind. I was stupid to say anything." Getting up, she shoves back her chair and tries to fix me with a glare. The tears threatening to spill out of her eyes ruin the effect however. "You just don't get it. You just aren't…Emma," she says and the pain in her voice that lingers, even after she's stalked off towards her tent, makes me realize…this wasn't all about that party.
Success is counted sweetest
By those who ne'er succeed.
To comprehend a nectar
Requires sorest need.
Not one of all the purple Host
Who took the Flag today
Can tell the definition
So clear of Victory
As he defeated-dying
On whose forbidden ear
The distant strains of triumph
Burst agonized and clear!
I sigh as I finish Emily Dickenson's poem and close my book with a definitive snap. The worn black leather shines dully at me in the afternoon sun, the crevices and cracks shadowed. I frown as I see that my fingers have been digging into the warm cover, long nails creating grooves as I read. "Shit," I mutter to myself. Prying my hand open, I set the book down carefully beside me, shifting my tanto and katana over so that they lie between the edge of my perch and the book. I could dry the steel off fine; the book…not so much. Satisfied that the leather bound book wouldn't go tumbling into the water, I turn back to face the blue lake before me, arms crossed over the tops of my knees and my chin digging into my wrist. A headache thrummed at the back of my eyes but, seeing as nothing I had done in the last half hour had worked to get rid of it, I did my best to ignore the pain.
Instead, I just stare out over the quarry, listening to the water lap at the shore and feeling the sun burn the nape of my neck. The skin's probably already a bright pink leaning towards red but I don't really feel like moving. Besides, I more than likely only have thirty more minutes, at most, before someone comes looking for me. Might as well enjoy the peaceful silence. My temples suddenly give a sharp throb and I wince. Ok. Maybe peaceful is the wrong word. I haven't been able to find peace since Amy stormed away from me nearly an hour ago. After she had left me, dumbstruck and feeling guilty, at that table I had tried to find her to apologize but Andrea had said her younger sister had slipped into their tent and said she wasn't feeling well, promptly falling asleep. With that plan shot, I had then gone to Lori and Carol to see if they needed help with chores but the two older women said they had mostly finished. So, with Glenn still on watch for another hour, I had been left to my own devices. Dale had seen my wandering around and had flagged me down to talk but five minutes in and I found myself saying I needed to go down to the quarry, freshen up and all that jazz. Frowning, Dale had told me to take Abby or one of the other women just for safety's purpose and, while I had smiled and told the older man I would, five minutes later I was lopping down the dirt road alone, katana on my back, strapped under the familiar weight of my backpack.
The truth is…I just needed to be alone for a while. My conversation with Amy had unnerved me and the thought of listening to Dale talk about…I honestly can't even remember, or trying to make awkward small talk with one of the women, had only caused the tightness in my chest and the pulsing in my head worse. I had thought some time by myself, staring out over the cool blue mirror of the quarry's lake, a book in hand, might relax me.
However, nothing had worked. I had gone through all the novels in my pack, the seldom titles I still retained, but none of the stories held my interest like they used to. Like they were supposed to. Even poetry couldn't grab my attention. I'm too riled up, too…out of sorts with Amy's outburst. I feel like I failed her. In a way, I actually did.
Amy hadn't needed some profound words to make everything all better; I realize that now. What she had needed was an ear to tell all her problems to. She had just needed to talk everything out, get it all off her chest; all the pain that she has felt, all the sorrow at the loss of her friends, her family, all that anguish that had been channeled by the singular event of her impending birthday. She had just needed a friend, someone like this Emma that's more than likely long gone by now, but I didn't know how to be someone like that. I'm the exact opposite of Amy. And I just don't mean in regards to likes and dislikes or how we used to spend our Friday nights.
What I mean is, whereas the blonde wants to talk everything out, bounce her feelings off of people and sort through them in that way, I won't voice my problems unless it is absolutely necessary. I keep them to myself; swallow them down, trapped behind a wired shut jaw and titanium teeth. It's not that I'm conceited or anything; I don't feel like I am superior to people and as such can't share what I'm feeling. I'm not some cold-hearted bitch with a god complex. It's just…that is how I spent the first half of my childhood. From the age of 5 until I was 10, I had learned, been taught, through words and through actions, to shut my mouth and grin and bear it. Complaining got me nothing but more bruises and more things to grin and bear. So, I just learned to shut the fuck up. Even after years with Mom and Sensei, the habit of silence is a little hard to break. So hard, in fact, that I don't believe it's a habit anymore but rather just a part of who I am, just a part of the Audrey Bennett life has made me.
Which is why I hadn't recognized what Amy was looking for right of that bat. It stared me in the face and I just couldn't see it. Another world-weary sigh escapes my lungs and I lift a hand to tangle in the dry strands of my hair. I call bullshit on those people that said time healed all things and that it's just a matter of moving on. Well, I moved on. And yet that bastard is still managing to fuck up my life.
The wind starts to pick up and I relax a little into the semi-cool breeze, tilting my head back as the stifling Georgia air turns a little more bearable. After a few minutes of blissfully cooler air and soothing deep breaths, I decide that I'll head back to camp soon. I can't hide out here in the woods forever. I need to go and try and fix my cluster fuck with Amy. Plus, people are bound to start to worry, especially Dale if he finds out I came down here alone, and I don't need them to freak out on me again. Hell, a few days ago, the whole camp almost dissolved into WWIII when I came back with just a handful of scratches. And when I returned from helping Daryl clean the catch, sun already sunk below the horizon? Fuck. Shane had been livid, Lori too, and I don't think I can bear another lecture of responsibility from either of them. Hearing them tell me what I should and should not do kind of pushes my buttons, even if I know they mean well. I might understand where she is coming from but Lori isn't my mother and I am not a child and if she tells me one more time that I need to "think before I go off somewhere" and "consider other's feelings" I might just pull a Daryl Dixon and stalk off.
"Ya fuckin stalkin me kid?"
I start as the baritone drawl crashes into me; drastically loud for the former silence I was previously basking in. Well speak of the fucking devil. Craning my neck to look behind me, I see Daryl standing about ten feet away, his ever-present crossbow slung across his back as he directs his ever-present scowl at me. I try not to laugh at the déjà-vu of the entire situation because, really, haven't we been here before?
"Well, well. Fancy meeting you here. But, seeing as this is the, what, second…third time you've ran into me I'd say you're the stalker Dixon," I quip back, casting the man a smirk over my shoulder. The redneck rolls his eyes at me.
"I'd be half past stupid to stalk you. Yer more trouble than yer worth kid."
I cringe slightly at his words but I know he doesn't really mean them. They lack the heat that Daryl used to have when he talked to me. "Ouch. Fucking harsh man. Break a girl's heart why don't you." Daryl doesn't respond to my pained lament; he just fixes me with a level, inscrutable look as he continues to stand on the pebbled shore of the quarry. I frown up at him as the silence stretches thin between us.
Feeling awkward, I turn to completely face him, easing up on the painful position of my neck as I curl what used to be part of my bangs around my ear. When he still doesn't say anything, I decide to voice the question I know he knows I have to ask. "So," I suddenly say and Daryl's eyes are no easier to read when they lock onto my own. "Did you come down here to bathe again because, as enjoyable as that was the last time, I think I'll take a rain check and head back up to camp if that's the case." The sarcasm is pretty thick in my tone and Daryl's gaze takes on a certain annoyed sharpness as he spits to the side.
"Can't I get some fuckin peace and quiet without one of ya bastards climbin up my ass for it," he abruptly snarls and I blink at the anger in his voice. What the hell?
I hold my hands up in a placating gesture, mentally scrambling back, brakes locked and tires screaming. "Whoa whoa now! It was just a joke Daryl. No need to crawl up my ass about it!" Fucking hell. Why is it that every time I talk to this guy it's like dodging fucking bullets? Talk about more trouble than it's worth. I thought we were past this shit!
Daryl's mouth works as he glares at me but I don't avert my eyes or cower like other people do in camp. I'm not afraid of him. I know he's more bark than bite. I mean, out of all the instances where he's fixed me with his patent I will rearrange your face with my hunting knife and laugh while doing it glower, he's never actually, physically, harmed me.
Ok, the day that we met doesn't count. Those were extenuating circumstances.
Besides that day though, Daryl's never hurt me and I don't think he's going to, now that we have this tentative…partnership going on. I suck on my teeth at the thought. The word still feels funny, even in my head. Why the fuck can't I just call him a friend and be done with it? Jesus Christ.
The hunter still hasn't responded to me and, by the way he's biting the inside of his cheek, coupled with his rigid posture, I'm thinking he might just turn tail and stomp away in true Dixon fashion but suddenly, he spits to the side again and the words come grinding out.
"Just lookin for some fuckin silence," he growls, glaring down at the ground as his worn brown boots scuff at the grey-pebbled shore. It's like I pulled the words out of him, they are so forced and reluctant. I must be gazing back at him a funny way, maybe something akin to expectance or bated, because when Daryl lifts his head and meets my eyes, he spits his next words out like yanked teeth. "The stupid spics' kids are cryin up there, Walsh is bitchin about some shit, and Merle's on my goddamn last nerve, the fuckin asshole."
It takes me a second to process his words and when they do, surprise and concern flutters through me for just an instant, what was wrong with Louis and Eliza, but then it tapers off with the knowledge of, if something was really wrong I would have heard it by now. As for the other things Daryl said…Shane's current status isn't completely surprising; he is kind of our unofficial king boss so he has to make sure a lot of things are running smoothly. If he gets a little terse about it, especially towards Daryl, I'm not really one to judge. And Merle…well Merle is always on my last nerve, just for fucking breathing, so I'm not bowled over by the fact that he's managed to tick off his younger brother.
However, it sounds like I picked a pretty good opportunity to make myself scarce. If Merle's riled up and Shane's riled up, and there are upset children thrown into the mix too, shit's about to go down up the hill and I'm not sorry to say I really fucking glad I'm all the way down the quarry. In fact, I think I might just stay here for a little while longer.
"Sounds like shit's hit the fan up there," I muse out loud, not knowing what else to say.
Daryl scoffs. "Tch. No fuckin shit." Suddenly, he kicks at the ground again, hard, sending up a spray of rocks, and then squints past me out over the lake. As I sit there staring at him staring past me, I take in the sweat on his brow and the look on his face, equal parts hidden weariness and blatant irritation, and an idea comes to me. It's banging at the back of my teeth, rattling on my tongue, but I hesitate because I don't know if this is a partnerish idea or if it looms to close to that taboo word of friend that Daryl snarls at every chance he gets but, as the hunter shifts like he's thinking about leaving, I think fuck it, and the words come out anyway.
"Why don't you come sit down then," I say, motioning to the rock I'm lounging on, and Daryl, after a split second of surprise flickering across his face, narrows his eyes at me, orbs full of suspicion. Oh here we go again.
I roll my eyes at the accusing look. "Don't look at me like that alright? I'm just saying you should sit the fuck down instead of stalking off into the woods, pissed off and half-cocked. If a walker comes by and bites you in the ass because you can't see anything past the red haze you have in your eyes, I, for one, am personally fucked. How the hell else am I supposed to get food then? Merle? I think he'd rather stick me on a spit."
The words are half true and half tease. Wait…no they're all truth. If Daryl dies because he's too ticked off to see two feet in front of him, our whole group will starve. Not to mention Merle will more than likely go ape shit and kill us all if he finds out his baby brother is dead. Hm. Well I guess that means we won't starve. Silver lining. Either way, I'm really just looking out for the well being of the group here. And if I can kind of tolerate Daryl's presence more than most…that's neither here nor there.
For a moment, Daryl just stares at me in silence, which is half of our every interaction, the other half being the exchange of expletives, before he almost fucking smirks at me. Half way through the twitch of his mouth curls into a sneer though but his words are not nearly as acidic as his expression. "Merle wouldn't put ya on a spit," he says and I cock an eyebrow at him but he finishes his statement before I can challenge. "Ya ain't got enough meat on ya. Like I said, more trouble than yer worth."
Oh the motherfucker. My reaction is immediate and second his words reach me, I wrinkle my nose and simultaneously flip him off, already formulating a comeback. "Oh fucking ha ha. You're real funny Dixon," I jeer and then my retort comes to me and I'm eager to pay Daryl back. "But, if I do recall, I had enough meat on me to fuck you up pretty good." Lifting a hand, I rub at the bridge of my nose, mocking Daryl with the reminder of when we first met, more specifically, when my skull first met his nose.
The hunter scowls at me, mouth twisted all kinds of ways but a smirk pulls at my own lips and I turn to face the quarry again, seemingly without a care in the word. A childish sense of triumph settles in my gut because finally, I've rendered him speechless. Bennett: 1, Dixon…well it doesn't matter his score.
Daryl doesn't move for a few seconds, it's silent behind me but I can still tell he's there. I have a half an instant to worry that maybe I just pissed him off more and that he's going to leave, but soon enough he's curses something colorful and then there's the telltale crunch of feet on gravel as he approaches. My smirk widens as he gets closer. Hook. Line. Sinker. I think it's Bennett: 2 now.
A few moments later Daryl appears in my right peripherals, still scowling up at me. Biting my lip to hide the smirk that just won't fade, I collect my things-katana, tanto and book-and switch them to my other side, simultaneously shifting to my left to give Daryl some room. The boulder is a pretty comfortable size, about ten feet from side to side and six feet front to back, so there's enough room for the both of us. At least more room than that log Daryl and I used as a seat to skin those animals a few days ago. We were practically attached hip to shoulder. Kind of kept pissing him off since he repeatedly nicked himself as a result.
When there is enough space for him to sit down, Daryl hoists himself up; with some effort seeing that the boulder is a bit high off the ground, about mid chest for him. As he hauls his body up on the rock though, I catch a glimpse of a tattoo on the underside of his arm, a flash of black lines and sharp curves etched into his bicep. I only see it for just a second, he's already settling down by the time I blink, but I saw enough to wonder as to why Daryl has a demon, complete with a spiked tail and wings, carved into his skin.
Daryl grunts as he shifts into a cross-legged position beside me, making sure to leave a few feet of space between us, and pulls his crossbow forward onto his lap. Not even sparing me a glance, he pulls out a rag from somewhere, he never seems to be without one, and starts to clean his bow and arrows. His movements are stiff and mechanical; sure strokes against metal mechanisms and carbon bolts. He pretends like I'm not even here. I shake my head slightly at his continual standoffish exterior but decide to keep my comments to myself, settling for bringing my knees to my chest and just sitting in the silence.
I'm not really sure how long I just sit there, staring at everything and yet nothing in front of me. I know it's long enough for my back to become sticky with sweat under my green t-shirt, long enough for my legs to grow stiff and warm in my jean cutoffs, long enough for my brain to start to run, restless and jittery. The quiet starts to grind on me, oppressive now instead of soothing, and, soon, I begin to fidget as boredom taking its toll on me. My foot slowly starts to tap out a random rhythm, the sole of my worn converse scratching against stone and I absentmindedly scratch as my face. The sudden sting of a broken scab jerks me out of my listless fidgeting and I heave out a sigh before uncurling my legs and throwing them over the edge of the rock, letting the limbs swing over the precipice. The idea of returning to camp flits across my brain but remembering what Daryl had described its condition as, I think better of it. I don't really want to walk into a battle zone right now. It would be better to go back when things have settled down. Whenever that is. I'll give it another half hour.
Shifting to make myself more comfortable, my left hand brushes against something warm and soft and I look down to see my tanned fingers resting along the black leather of my book. I purse my lips at the sight, trailing fingertips across the smooth face before I think what the hell. Maybe I'll be able to lose myself this time, finally relax. Wrapping my hand around the book I pull it gently into my lap and let it fall open to a random page.
It's another poem, which isn't surprising since the book is full of them, but the content makes a smile pull at my lips. The twitch is a little bitter, a little ironic, a little sad, because the words I'm reading tell about a war and, goddamn, if my life isn't war of the worlds right now. Still, this is one of my favorite poems, full of powerful prose and a soothing rhythm, and I can't help but dive headfirst into the stanzas, feeling my tense muscles finally unclench and my jittery mind leveling out as I partake in the familiar past time.
Wonder of all wonders, the poem takes this time. It captures my attention like it's supposed to and I quickly find myself lost in the words. All to soon, I'm almost to the end, halfway through the last stanza. But, all of the sudden, Daryl abruptly growls under his breath beside me, an irritated jagged sound. It pulls me from the page and I turn to him in confusion, wondering what is wrong now. Not three feet from me, his serrated blue eyes pierce me with their glare. I blink at him.
"What?" I ask, the first words that have been said between us in a long while. Daryl continues to glare, brows scrunched and lips thinned, body quarter turned to face me. It's one of the few times I've been this close to him and looked him in the eye and I find myself looking at him without meaning to. I can see the individual lashes of his eyes from this distance, the few days' stubble on his chin and cheeks, the sweat that's pooling in the hollow above his upper lip. Everything is zoomed in and up close and everything about his face screams annoyed. It makes me distantly question whether or not Daryl knows any other emotions besides the range from irritated to infuriated and, if so, if he knows how to show it.
"Ya know how to be quiet kid?" he grinds out and I'm drawn out of my reverie by the accusation in his voice. My brown furrows in bewilderment. What the hell is he talking about? I've been fucking silent since he came down here. Is my breathing getting too loud now?
"Daryl," I start. "I haven't said anything."
The puzzled tone of my voice in tinged with the shadow of annoyance and, while I'm trying to be patient here, we're 'partners' after all, Christ knows I'm not a saint.
Daryl shakes his head sharply, beads of sweat rolling down his temples and scattering off the ends of his unruly, uneven, strands of hair. "Yeah, ya have. Been mumblin to yerself like some damn loon for the past coupla minutes. Christ on a crutch. Don't none of ya'll city folk know how to be quiet for a few minutes?"
I'm stumped as to what he's referring to and I know my face must show it. The last thing I had said to him was the mocking jeer about his broken nose. Mumbling to myself? I rack my brain for the memory. What the hell is he…?
And then the realization hits me, what he's talking about, a ton of fucking bricks, and I feel a familiar flush crawl across my cheeks. Oh son of a bitch. This again? Fuck. Biting my lip, I try to match Daryl's scowl to hide my embarrassment. For a second I think about lying, just denying the shit up front, but I immediately cast that idea aside because, really, he's caught me red handed.
"I know how to be quiet just fine okay," I snap at him, my ears burning what I know is a bright red. "I just…it's just a bad habit alright?" The admission comes out a little rough and I duck my head slightly. "Sometimes I accidently read out loud if I don't pay attention."
Sad, embarrassing, but true. If I'm concentrating hard enough, or if I'm tired enough, stressed enough, the words usually slip out, no longer just inside my head. It's gotten me in trouble a few times, teachers thinking I'm cheating in the middle of a test, but it hasn't happened in a while though and, stupidly, I find myself surprised that I've retained such an…ordinary, mundane, tick.
When Daryl just gives me this look like he thinks I'm crazy, dirty blonde eyebrows arched and blue eyes flat, my skin burns hotter and I sneer at him. "What? Are you saying you don't have some kind of tick or habit you can't break? Well, I'm sorry I can't be perfect like you Daryl."
Something in my response suddenly seems to cow Daryl, diffuse him, maybe the embarrassed hitch in my words or the words themselves, because the judging look leaves his face, and the irritation smoothes out of the lines around his mouth and eyes. He exhales harshly out of his nose and does it again before he lifts a hand to bite at his nails, the skin already raw and red around them. Distantly, I observe the dirt on his fingers, the dirt that's streaked all across his body really, and think that can't be sanitary, but then he's talking again and I focus on that.
"I ain't sayin I'm perfect," he grumbles around his thumb, eyes trained on my face for a moment longer before they skitter off to the side. He looks like he wants to say something else, I watch the curve of his Adam's apple bob once, twice, but he doesn't look at me again and a silence settles over us once more. The hush is tense now, however, not the slightly awkward but kind of okay one we used to have. It's full of a hollow and fading hostility, a charged chagrin, and the weight of words I can see the hunter trying to swallow down and forget. I wait with slightly bated breath to see if he will say them anyway but, after a few moments of watching Daryl glare out over the lake, obviously done with talking, I realize he's not going to and I slowly turn back to my book. In the back of my mind though, I find myself wondering why he and I always had these short, snippy arguments, without fail, whenever we were in ten feet of each other.
I try to lose myself in the poem again, however, as I gaze down at the words, I can't read them; they keep blending together, the loops of my handwriting melding and twining until it's an indiscernible mess. Something niggles at the back of my mind, making me frown down unseeingly at my lap. A thought keeps pestering me, nagging me, making me chance a glance at Daryl out of the corner of my eye minutes after we've fallen silent. Quietly, I gaze at his profile, all redneck sleeveless button down and worn out baggy jeans. I narrow my eyes as I continue to scrutinize him, trying to see something, something that I saw but overlooked and now won't let me go, and, suddenly, I notice a…discomfort in his posture, an uncomfortable hunch to his shoulders, and a tightness to his jaw.
I tilt my head slightly as I put a word to what I'm seeing. He's…upset; that's it. I can read his body language like an open book. And all of the sudden I realize, like the cliché flicker of a bulb above my head, that…it hadn't been my mumbling that set him off; he's been pissed since he walked up on me.
I thought it had just been his usual just pissed off attitude but now I see it's more than that. Deeper; darker. And it is really fucking obvious now that I think about it. When he and I had skinned those animals a few days ago he hadn't been like this. Yeah, sure he had snapped at me, harsh and curt, but not over something as small as mumbling; it was more over me bumping him repeatedly and causing him to cut himself or me hesitating and fucking up the meat. Today he is…sharper, his anger on a hair trigger.
What's more, if his attitude wasn't enough of an indicator, his mere presence here with me should have been. Daryl doesn't like anyone really; like anyone or anything breathing. Our partnership is tentative at best, despite my continual attempts to befriend this guy-why I keep trying is beyond me-so him actually agreeing to stay down here with me should have been kind of a red flag. The cogs of my brain turn as I try to reason why he did agree. In reality, I first assumed he'd just walk off, no matter what I said, in pursuit of the silence that only isolation seemed to bring him. But he didn't; he stayed. Why? I think about why he had come down here in the first place, why he is so pissed, and a notion comes to me, weak and fragile, but the more I think about it…the more it starts to make sense.
I might be wrong, there is a high probability that I am, but I think…I think maybe Daryl just didn't want to be alone? Maybe? Truthfully, he almost always is. I mean sure, there's Merle, but even if Daryl is his younger brother, I don't see the two of them really sitting down and shooting the shit for fun. And besides the racist, drug addict son of a bitch, who else does Daryl have to talk to? The squirrels?
Additionally, the memory of what Daryl had said about looking for some silence comes to me and I think… maybe…what he had meant was…peace. He was just looking for some peace and quiet. A place where kids weren't screaming and people weren't up in his face 24/7. And, I'm really going out on a limb here but, perhaps, more than just silence, Daryl also was looking for...someone that didn't get on his last nerve; that didn't yell at him like Shane, or demand things like Lori had, or just piss him off like I am so sure Merle does without even fucking trying. Just someone that…didn't expect something from him.
And here he is…sitting next to me.
That the person to fit this description might be me, because really, if I think about it, I'm the only one that doesn't expect Daryl to be the hunter and the provider or anything else really, besides just the smallest bit of decent towards me…the thought kind of makes me feel just the slightest but…happy.
I don't know why that is.
Unbeknownst to me, I've been staring at Daryl the entire time this revelation took place and the hunter must have felt my eyes on him because suddenly, he snaps his gaze towards me, blue orbs zeroing in on my face. I haven't been doing anything wrong per se but still, the second his orbs clash with mine, I immediately drop my gaze to my lap, trying to look engrossed in the same damn poem I've been trying to finish for the last ten minutes with mortification curling in my gut.
For a split second I think maybe I've pulled it off, that Daryl hadn't noticed I was staring at him, analyzing him, but then the bastard clears his throat and I know I've been caught. Fuck me. Tensing, I wait for him to call me out but the next words out of his mouth throw me for a loop.
"What's in that damn book of yers anyway? Ya read it like the damn Bible."
My head jerks up at his question, neck cracking and hair catching in my mouth, causing me to sputter and spit. "H…huh," I manage when I can breathe again, pushing my bothersome hair out of my face with forceful fingers. Did he just say…?
"That book," Daryl repeats gruffly, stabbing a scuffed up arrow shaft that he's picked up from his lap at me. "What's in it that make's it so damn interestin that ya fuckin talk to yerself bout it?"
My eyes fall to my lap again in confusion. The book? I lift my head and stare at Daryl with incredibility, thoughts thrown back to my previous contemplations, but the hunter must take my silence as something completely different because he grits his teeth and snatches up his soiled rag again. I think it's my imagination but…his cheeks look the smallest bit redder than they had been a moment ago.
"Tch never mind. Forget I-"
As he barks out the words, I snap back into focus. "N…no no no," I interrupt, waving a hand in the air frantically. "I…sorry. Your question just…caught me off guard." Way off guard. Like completely left field.
Hearing my frantic words, Daryl glances at me through the corner of his eye, just a sliver of wary and uncomfortable blue. He's silent for a moment, just staring at me. "Just askin," he mumbled and suddenly, like a defense mechanism, he's scowling again and I can see him about to get defensive and bark something at me in an effort to try and sound like his usual apathetic asshole self but I don't want that, I'm tired of that, so I interrupt him again before he can start.
"It's a journal." The words spill out of me, blurted and almost slurred, but I think they are understandable enough. I hope they are anyway. I kind of don't want to repeat it.
But when has the universe really catered to my wants?
"A journal," Daryl repeats, vocal chords drawling out the vowels nice and slow. He looks at me in disbelief. "What? Ya mean like a diary? Like lil girls write in and draw little hearts and ponies and shit?"
I color at his comparison. "No. Not like a diary. I'm seventeen not seven Daryl. I'm not a fucking little kid," I say to him and, god knows what drives me to do it, I must be brain damaged, but I fucking stick my tongue out at him. Like a damn five year old. Oh yeah. Not a kid at all.
Trying to cover up that embarrassing action, I decide to snap something back. "How would you even know what a diary entails Dixon?" I continue. "Have experience with one?"
Daryl just snorts at my attempted endeavor to save some of my dignity. "I ain't a sissy like yer Chinaman."
"Glenn?" I frown.
Where the hell had that come from? Why is he mentioning Glenn? "Ok one, Glenn isn't a sissy. He got out of Atlanta and manages to go there and back again unscathed," I point out, even though I didn't really condone this certain action. Risking his life like that for a few cans of…no wait. Stay on track Audrey.
"And two, he isn't mine."
I'm not sure why I have to clarify that.
Daryl shakes his head and rolls his eyes. "Yeah whatever," he says and I narrow my eyes at him, wanting to say something more, but I think better of it and decide to let it drop.
Sighing I get back to the original matter at hand. "Anyway, as I was saying, it's not a diary. It's a journal." I emphasize the word, trying to differentiate.
"What's the difference?" he scoffs and I purse my lips, letting my fingers blindly curl around the leather in my lap.
What's the difference…okay that's a good question. Valid. Substantial. Well…the difference is…this journal means a lot more to me than just some random diary. It's not just some scrapbook where I wrote about my day and how so and so was mean to me and other mundane, insubstantial things that teenage girls usually write about. This journal is, more than anything, a book of memories, of favorites, of everything that made me…me. Mom always joked that, if I ever lost my memory in some dramatic Hollywood car crash, this book would tell me everything I needed to know about myself. Funny thing is…that has never been truer than it is now. Because now, the pages are filled with dozens of poems that have spoken to me at one point of my life or another, poems that are more than likely lost, poems that tell my life in stages; now the pages hold accounts of a handful of memories that I've managed to scribble down since Dalton, memories I never want to forget because they are all I have left of the people I love; now, the pages hold the only pictures I had left of my family, wedged in between ink and paper and leather.
So…the difference between this journal that's as thick as any standard Bible and that bears so much more weight, the difference between it and just a diary is…this journal is the only sentimental thing, that's not made of steel and tainted with blood like my blades, that I have left of my past.
But I can't fucking say that. It's too deep, too personal, and seeing as Daryl is only my partner, it's way too intimate. So, I settle for the cut and dry, almost the truth but not quite, version of what I truly want to say.
"The difference Daryl," I reply. "Is that instead of hearts and ponies, my journal is mostly filled with writing, literature, specifically poems." Again, it's part of the truth. Most of the truth. I'm not lying in the least.
"Poems?"
I nod and turn so I'm fully facing him, neck stiff from its 90-degree angle I had forced it into to look at the man at my side. Crossing my legs Indian style, I set my journal in the cradle of my ankles. "Yes poems," I repeat. "You know, like Shakespeare, Frost, Wordsworth. I copied them down. Just my favorites though." I chuckle a bit and smile up at Daryl, trying to diffuse some of the awkwardness that's settled in my gut. "I'd need a whole library to write down even just Shakespeare's completed works. Not to mention a few new hands in the process."
Daryl's face has taken on an expression of complete disbelief and his eyes gaze at me like I just spoke a whole other language. "Ya wrote out…poems? The hell ya do somethin stupid like that?"
I shrug, not really offended by what he said because, frankly, I've heard the question many times now, if only the polite version. "Because I like a lot of poems but there was never one book where I could find my favorites. So, I decided to make my own. Kind of Audrey's Top 100 titles. It gave me something to do and…I liked it." To be honest, it's a little over a hundred titles but he doesn't need to know that.
"A hundred poems? What could be so damn good about some fancy words that ya'd take time to write 'em out when they was printed in other books?" he asks and I bite my lip at his question.
Huffing out a breath, I tugged at my hair again, strands already making their way back into my line of vision. "It's not just the words per se. It's the…emotion behind them, the story. I've always been fascinated with stories so I guess it evolved into a fascination, and a love, for literature," I answer truthfully.
The hunter in front of me still doesn't seem to get it, eyes narrowed, scrutinizing, like he's trying to see if there was something wrong with me, something wrong in the head, and I sigh, rubbing at my forehead. "Alright. Here, let me give you an example and maybe you'll see what I mean."
Dropping my gaze back to my lap, I pick up the book from its position against my ankles and flip it back open to the poem I had been previously reading; the one I had been mumbling, the one I never got to finish. The black lines jump out at me, the familiar words already lining up on my tongue, and I have a second to think what am I doing before they tumble off my lips.
The earth is full of anger,
The seas are dark with wrath,
The Nations in their harness
Go up against our path:
Ere yet we loose the legions -
Ere yet we draw the blade,
Jehovah of the Thunders,
Lord God of Battles, aid!
High lust and forward bearing,
Proud heart, rebellious brow -
Deaf ear and soul uncaring,
We seek Thy mercy now!
The sinner that forswore Thee,
The fool that passed Thee by,
Our times are known before Thee -
Lord, grant us strength to die!
For those who kneel beside us
At altars not Thine own,
Who lack the lights that guide us,
Lord, let their faith atone!
If wrong we did to call them,
By honour bound they came;
Let not Thy Wrath befall them,
But deal to us the blame.
From panic, pride, and terror
Revenge that knows no rein -
Light haste and lawless error,
Protect us yet again,
Cloke Thou our undeserving,
Make firm the shuddering breath,
In silence and unswerving
To taste Thy lesser death.
Ah, Mary pierced with sorrow,
Remember, reach and save
The soul that comes to-morrow
Before the God that gave!
Since each was born of woman,
For each at utter need -
True comrade and true foeman -
Madonna, intercede!
E'en now their vanguard gathers,
E'en now we face the fray -
As Thou didst help our fathers,
Help Thou our host to-day.
Fulfilled of signs and wonders,
In life, in death made clear -
Jehovah of the Thunders,
Lord God of Battles, hear!
The last invocation falls from my lips and ripples out over the water. I hadn't recited the poem very loud, no louder than the tone of voice I was using to just talk to Daryl, but for some reason the words seem to echo and linger. I continue to stare down at the poem even after the last echo has faded, my eyes glued to the title my own hand had inscribed at the top.
Hymn Before Action by Rudyard Kipling
For a moment, I don't even move. I'm apprehensive too because why did I just read this poem to Daryl? Why did I just read to Daryl at all? What am I trying to prove? But all too quickly, the silence becomes too much and I'm lifting my chin to see the hunter's reaction.
I find his blue eyes staring at me again, an arm's length away. They're bright as gems, as all blue eyes always seem to me, but his are sharp and fathomless, the deepest lake that has hidden dangers, and, try as I might, I cannot tell what he is thinking. Perhaps it is this inability to read him, to gauge him, that has me blushing to the roots of my hair and ducking my head, mouth already moving to explain, to qualify, to rectify.
"A man named Rudyard Kipling wrote this, early in the 20th century," I blurt out, words muttered and fast. "It's…it's about war, which I find kind of ironic now since our lives are kind of war of the worlds." I titter out a nervous laugh but don't look up. I just keep talking, trying to get him to understand. "But what I like about it, aside from the nice rhythm, is the emotion that Kipling put into the poem; the supplication and invocation. The narrator is begging God to help him and his fellow soldiers not to win, but to give them the strength to do what's right and, if nothing else, to give them the strength to die. I…I find the poem very…brave."
All my feelings and analysis of this poem that I've read over a million times...all vomited out in nearly one breath. When I'm done, Daryl doesn't say anything. Again. The crushing silence is the only answer I receive at first. But then Daryl makes a noise in the back of his throat, like an aborted scoff, and I look up at him through the fringes of my hair.
I still can't tell what he's thinking but his eyes aren't so…flat anymore. There is emotion behind them, waves on the water, and then Daryl's lips twitch is something akin to, a diluted, watered down version of…disdain? Oh fuck. I'm waiting for Daryl to say something hateful now, something mocking about my literature choice, but he doesn't.
Instead, his eyes just fall to the book still resting in my hands and he says, "That guy was an idiot. Bravery ain't dyin. It's fuckin livin."
"Bravery ain't dyin. It's fuckin livin."
Surprise makes my jaw fall open, gaping as my eyes bulge, Daryl's comment ringing in my ears. That was…that wasn't what I was expecting. A sneer, a jeer, sure. But not an honest to god comment…not an honest to god opinion. About the poem. Even if his opinion is different than mine…he actually gave his opinion. The fact fails to compute for a moment.
" 'Sides," Daryl continues and then his eyes are on mine again, commanding my attention. "Why's the dumb ass prayin to God when he has a war to fight? He shoulda been tryin to kill his enemies instead of cryin to someone who ain't there."
I stutter for a moment, trying to find my voice, trying to find the words to respond in my scrambled brain. "I…well…h…Kipling lived in a different time," I'm finally able to get out. "In his time, nearly everyone was religious as religion was a key part of life."
I sound like I'm regurgitating my history book but I can't find it in myself to care at the moment. Daryl and I are actually having a conversation. That isn't involving skinning techniques or me trying to calm him down. The fact is flooring me.
Daryl makes a noncommittal noise and licks the chapped skin of his lips. "Whatever. Still makes him an idiot. Tch. And that all ya got in there kid," he asks roughly, jerking his chin at my book. "Christ, it is a Bible."
A part of me feels the slightest bit offended, Kipling was a great writer after all and one of my favorites, but another part of me, a larger part of me feels kind of…giddy because Daryl's joking with me, in the loosest of terms, and we aren't at each other's throats. Talk about progress.
Returning to our conversation, I respond to Daryl's statement. "It's not a Bible," I tell him with a slight frown on my lips. "Not every poem is religious Daryl. This one just happened to be."
The man before me continues to look unconvinced, unimpressed. "And the rest are sappy love shit right?" he mocks and I narrow my eyes at him.
"No. I have all kinds of different writings in here. Over a hundred. Pieces about war and loss and power. You name it. Hell, I bet I could even find something you'd like Daryl Dixon."
I don't know why I said that last sentence; it just kind of slipped out. It's more bravado than anything, cocky words to make him shut up, because I don't know if I could find something Daryl identified with. I mean, prior to this point, has Daryl even read a poem? What's more, why would I even want to? The thought rings in my head for a moment and multiple answers jump to the forefront of my mind. Ok…maybe I just want to prove him wrong about something. The prick's always so self-satisfied, a little bit at least. And maybe, just a little bit, I want to prove to…someone, myself, him, that Daryl isn't some redneck, inbred hick. I think I've caught a glimpse of something deeper in him, that pity in his eyes the first day we met still haunts me. Why it's important to me…I'm not entirely sure but I think it has something to do with…with Sensei to be honest, Sensei and I and something he said to me a long time ago.
However, proving that is easier said than done and I think I might have bitten off more than I can chew with my smug statement. But I can't recant or retract my statement and the son of a bitch knows it. I can tell in the arch of his eyebrow, the taunting tilt of his lips, the cocky air about him.
"Yeah right kid," he sneers. "Ya'd be better off gettin Walsh in a goddamn tutu."
Oh really? All right. Fuck it. Something perks up in me at Daryl's statement, a part of Audrey Bennett that has never liked, never accepted, being told what she could or could not do. Smirking, I snap my journal shut, waving it in front of his face as I cast caution to the wind.
"Sounds like a bet Dixon. You willing to wager?"
Daryl scoffs and shakes his head, acting like he's dismissing me as he drops his gaze to the arrow in his hand, sighting along the shaft as he drags his rag along it. "Ain't a wager. I'm tellin ya," he drawls. "Ya won't be able to find no poem I like. I ain't a pussy."
Pursing my lips, I lean forward without thinking and push Daryl's arrow down, making his eyes snap back up to mine, making him look at me. "I didn't say you were. And poetry won't emasculate you all right? I still bet you I can find one, just one, that you can like."
Daryl meets my gaze unflinchingly and he seems to be weighing my words. It's the telltale smirk a few seconds later, the one that yanks up one side of his mouth and accentuates the mole on the left side of his upper lip, that gives him away.
"Fine," he concedes. "What are the stakes?"
Unbelieving that he has actually agreed, I don't think about the next words before I've already said them. "Doesn't matter. Winner's choice."
Wait. Oh shit. What did I just say! A little voice in the back at my head starts screaming for a full reverse Captain but I'm already charging ahead. I just hope this isn't Titanic 2.
The laugh that Daryl barks out is a smidge mean and sounds like he thinks he's already won. "Ya've got yerself a deal kid," he says and he jerks his arrow out from the hand that still has it pinned to the rock below us. "But just so ya know, bein nice to me doesn't mean I'ma go easier on ya when I win."
His words cause an involuntary shiver to run down my spine, for a reason I can't name, but a force myself to match his smirk. "We'll see about that."
You better watch yourself Daryl Dixon. I always liked a challenge.
TBC.
A/N: And there was chapter 11. Personally, I really liked this chapter because Audrey and Daryl are finally building some rapport so yay :D
But my thoughts don't matter. I want to know YOUR'S so please press the pretty little button below and review
OH! And TWD finale…I can't believe it's already here! D: What am I supposed to do for the next 8 MONTHS? DX Lol well I guess it will give me ample time to catch this story up to the end of season 2 but still…surviving this next 8 months is going to be .EARTH. T.T
Until next time guys!
~Shadows
P.S.: Hey my friend has a TWD story called Cold Hearted It's pretty damn good so please go check it out and show some love in review form.
P.P.S.: Ack! I forgot to tell you! I met Norman Reedus (and Sean Patrick Flanery if anyone knows who that is) last Sunday! :D It was literally the best day of my life X) Lmao. He is just the sweetest person in the world and, despite the fact that I was probably shaking like I was on meth (I can't really remember if I was because I was so nervous and happy xD) he agreed to take a lot of pics with me The pictures are like gold to me now lol. But anyways, that's the quick story of the best day of my life If you want to fangirl more with me, feel free to send me a PM and I will go play by play with you xD
Sorry for the long A/N. I'm really done now