"We have to come to terms with what we are. We fight the dead, we fear the living, because in the end, we're all just a dead man walking."
~
REPUBLISHING!!
「t.walkingdead Daryl Dixon ff
between S3+
WARNING:
Gore, Death...
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𝚒: 𝚂𝚃𝚁𝙸𝙲𝙺𝙴𝙽 𝙱𝙴𝙶𝙸𝙽𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶 ༒
A starry night filled that was surrounded in darkness. The night hid the predators that lurked. Bears, Snakes, the dead and the living. Unfortunately for three they didn't seem to be protected from the darkness. A cloth that covered their eyes, the shaking of the the truck they were kept in. "Anka? Michonne?"
The white woman called out, waiting for a response. "Right here." The African American mumbled, Anka letting out a little hum, reassuring the lady that they were with her. Loud high yelps called out from above, a smirk falling on Ankas lips. Nodding her ahead, simple thoughts in her head. I'm coming my babies.
Scrunching her facial features she managed to move the cloth, tilting her head at an angle to observe around her. Looking around, she looked at Andrea, the white maiden who sat beside a man. A metal wrapped around his arm. A redneck or hillbilly, shouldn't couldnt quite tell because of the black night. He smirked placing his index finger on his lips, pushing air last his puckered lips. His cracked fingers reaching for the clothing on her face pulling it down past her eyes.
Anka could tell a few things about the man name Merle... he held a grudge. A strong one at that. Pure hatred running through his veins for Andrea and her old folks. The tension surrounding them was too strong to pass off as a 'I'm upset with you' kind of situation. It felt more like a 'I can't wait to chop your head off and feed you to the walkers". Anka could also tell his missing hand had something to do with her as well... but if he dared try to touch any of them, she'd make sure to chop of his only hand. All she could do was sit there patiently and silently. Her actions would also reflect on those two as well. While waiting, her thoughts wander to the deepest darkest depths of her mind.
The tall grass the waved with the wind, the floors that carried its scent in the air. How much she wondered what the feeling is the prickly green grass under her feet would feel like. The beauty of the outside world she dreamed of being in contact with... but that's all it ever was. A dream. She watched through the windowsill. The animals sleeping, eating, shitting. Young Anka covered my mouth with her elbows, looking towards her bedroom door. Pulling the door open, walking down the steps with her teddy bear held tightly in her chest. The flowers planted all around the house, plants hanging from the ceiling, on the floor, on the fall. Everywhere possible. Despite the beautiful and peaceful flowers, this house was far from beautiful and her family was far from peaceful.
The sound of glass shattering at female cries. Anka the 8-year-old stood behind the door, hearing the cries of the women she calls mother. Hearing the yelling of her father, more glass shattering and the sounds of pain. The abusive alcohol father, failed to notice the bedroom door creak open. The small child hiding behind it, staring at the half naked women bleeding around her face, tears falling from her eyes. The glass bottle of whiskey in his hands. Glass flower pots on the floor, the dirt staining the white carpet beneath its splatter.
