ᴀɴɢᴜɪsʜ » ᴅᴀʀʏʟ ᴅɪxᴏɴ

{37} Broken

Daryl examined the necklace between his fingers, resting against the log near his tent. His nose wrinkled at the slightest imperfection of the hand-made arrow charm. It wasn't much, but enough to be considered a decent gift. Before coming to the farm, Daryl began to make the necklace. At first, to keep his mind together, but over time the necklace became a hopeful gift for Willow. After all, she gave him the shark tooth.

"That's pretty nice," Dale spoke from Daryl's left. "She'll enjoy it."

Taken by surprise, Daryl quickly hid the necklace in his palms. His fingers grip it tightly as if his life depended on it. Through gritted teeth, Daryl huffed, upset about Dale's unwanted visit. Every day it seems, someone wanders into his campsite. These people seemed to want something, and Daryl no longer wanted anything to do with their requests.

Every chore he had was already done. Sophia is home. Willow is safe. And Randal will be taken care of with or without Daryl's appearance. So what exactly could this old fool want?

"Willow sent ya?" Daryl says, wrapping the charm necklace into the red rag. Standing to his feet, Daryl gave Dale one look before pretending to search for something.

"Well, no -" Dale began, shifting the strap connected to his rifle. "Carol was askin' about you. Regarding your new role in the group.

Snapping his tired eyes towards the latter, Daryl shook his head and let out a frustrated sigh.

"Come on, old man. I don't need my head shrunk. This group is broken. I'm better off fending for myself."

"You act like you don't care, " Dale states, pulling at the brim of his fishing hat.

"Yeah, it's 'cause I don't." The redneck removed his challenging gaze from Dale and pushed the rag into his shirt pocket. Then, he snatched Merle's old vest that rests on an old beat-up firepit. A small home must have been here a long time ago, and the brick fireplace is the only thing that remained. Daryl silently wondered what it must have been for.

"So live or die, you don't care what happens to Randal?" Dale questions, seeing a glimmer of hope.

"Nope."

Daryl shrugged on his vest and snatched his knife out of a crevice within the log; he repeatedly placed the sharp end inside

"Then why not stand with me, try to save the kid's life, if it doesn't matter one way or the other?" Dale pushed.

"Peg you for a desperate son of a bitch," Daryl snorts, snapping the cover of his hunting knife holster and adjusting his vest once more. His fingers gently touched the outline of the rag to make sure his gift hadn't fallen out.

"Your opinion makes a difference, " Dale continues.

"Man, ain't nobody lookin' at me for nothin'."

Daryl picked up his crossbow, ready to leave Dale alone with his thoughts. However, the older man quickly stepped forward as Daryl turned away from him. This wasn't just about getting Daryl's vote on saving Randal's life; this moment needed to be done correctly for Willow's sake.

"Willow wants him dead, " Dale shouts.

Daryl, taken aback, paused. His blue eyes searched the grassy floor for a moment before he barely turned to face Dale. Out of anyone, Daryl assumed Willow would want to save the boy's life. That's what she did. Both men search the other, as the recognition of Willow's hidden trauma is far worse than they had expected.

"She ain't acting like herself, and you know it. In the beginning, I wanted Willow to stay away from you because I thought you didn't have her best intentions. But that opinion has changed. I trust her life with you and know you care about her more than you think. You know this isn't right. Not from her. I'm worried and maybe - maybe your vote could make her realize -"