Lost ; Daryl Dixon

Chapter 11

Being free of the fences of Alexandria suited Daryl. There was no one to judge him because he didn't talk like they did, or because he always had a fine layer of dirt covering his skin. It had felt to him a lot like being back in his hometown when he was a boy, on the receiving end of sideways glances and lowered voices, as he rode his bike along the street. Everybody judged the Dixon family. He'd left that bitterness and discomfort behind a long time ago, around about the time Y/N had accepted him unconditionally into her life, but it had come back with a vengeance in the suburban hell that was the Safe Zone. It had been all too clear to him what the place was on the second day, when he'd heard some lady whining at the group that had just come back from a run because they hadn't managed to find her a pasta maker. God, he'd wanted to but an arrow through her head, stupid bitch. Didn't she realised the world had ended? They oughta to send her out to find her own goddamn pasta maker if it was that important to her.

Out in the forest, he only had himself to answer to, to look out for. He hunted and scavenged while it was light, usually managing to find enough to make up one decent meal a day, and eventually he came across a little cabin that he set about boarding up and reinforcing to make it habitable and safe. It was empty of furniture, but he was comfortable enough on the floor, and he found a freshwater stream a couple of miles away, which he visited daily. To some he may have looked like he was thriving, and in survival terms, he probably was. Daryl had always been good at keeping himself alive. But mentally, he was shot. He'd suppressed his guilt and grief over Y/N, and they had festered inside of him, leaving him with a simmering rage that threatened constantly to boil over. More than once, he'd lost it in the middle of the night, striking out at the walls, the floor, his own skin, just to get the aggression out.

It was how he knew that he'd done the right thing in leaving Alexandria behind. Had he still been there, he'd be lashing out at his family, hurting good people, and he couldn't stand the idea of that. Out in the woods, he was isolated, completely alone. It was the only way he could trust himself, the impulse to kill coming too easily since the war. So, on the morning that he woke and heard voices from somewhere out in the trees, threatening to invade his privacy and destroy what he'd built, he saw red.

*****

'I got the area covered.' Daryl shouldered his crossbow, moving towards the door without a backwards glance at the hostage that he'd just secured to one of the wooden struts in the barn, hearing footsteps immediately behind him and knowing Y/N was close on his heels. He was glad. He could see what the tension in the group was doing to her nerves, and he wanted to get her alone, to check in with her and make sure she was okay.

Since their brief talk in the early hours of the morning, he'd felt a thaw set in in his heart. He'd been shutting his emotions down, trying to hide from his pain at Beth's death, but by doing so he'd pushed Y/N away too, finding comfort in her arms but unable to appreciate that she was trying to support him, to help him get through the loss. Carol had told him he needed to let himself feel it, and she was right. Last night, after he'd tried to make things right with his girl, she'd fallen asleep in his arms, and he'd cried silently into her hair until he felt purged, his soul raw and exposed. He knew it wasn't enough, but it was a good first step.

As he scoured the surroundings for a good vantage point, he heard the other members of the group follow them out, splitting off into pairs as they filtered off into the trees. The clearing around the barn was like something out of a disaster movie, the previous night's storm having caused a lot of damage, and the groans of trapped walkers filled the air. An uprooted tree provided some height, and he levered himself up on to it, shimmying along until he had a fairly good view of at least one side of the building, and reaching out to Y/N, who had managed to hoist herself up on to the lower end, pulling her along towards him, trying not to jostle her arm or her bruised ribs. The poor girl must just hurt constantly, he thought. She shifted so easily at the slightest force, weighing next to nothing in his arms, and his brow creased as he took in the gauntness of her face. The whole group had acquired the same hollow-cheeked, pallid-skinned look, and he knew that something had to give sometime soon or they were gonna be in trouble.