The Archer and The Airship » 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕨𝕒𝕝𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕕𝕖𝕒𝕕 «

Chapter Fourty Six

'there is a place in the heart
that will never be filled,
and we will wait,
and wait in that space.'

-charles bukowski

⤐

  More time passed, an unrecognizable amount with only that damn song playing over and over any indication that time was passing at all. Daryl was surprised his ears hadn't started bleeding by now, though he doubted he'd feel it anyhow.

They want you to break, Daryl told himself. And you won't give them what they want, will you? Hell no. Just keep thinking about her.

  He won't let himself forget; he can't forget the color of her eyes, his favorite shade of green, the same shade of green as the dappled summer leaves in a forest coated in Georgia sunshine.

  He let his mind wander, floating aimlessly between memories and imagination. He wondered what it would've been like if she had stayed all that time ago, if they could've had a few months of extra time to get a head start. Or if he had grown up and confessed his feelings for her sooner, what then? What could life have been like if he had met her before the world folded in on itself? Back when he was just a drifter, and she was just a bartender, would she have given him the time of day?

  He liked to think that she would. That what he felt in his bones, in his veins, the magnetic field holding them together would've been there even in the beginning.

It worked for a while, cycling through his 'happy thoughts' on repeat as often as the song did, though after what he was positive was the hundredth time, his strength was starting to dwindle both physically and mentally. He wasn't sure how much more he realistically could take.

The door flung open suddenly, the dim fluorescents outside his cell searing his retinas, and he waited for the plop of his sandwich smacking against the concrete. Only this time, it didn't come.

  After a moment that didn't really seem like a moment at all, Daryl looked up to find it wasn't a face he'd expected to see above him. The heavier man who held the gun to him after his excursion to the doctor stood before him in the doorway, his sweaty expression a mix of barely-there pity and half-ass strength. Daryl tensed, waiting for whatever game this was to begin.

  Then, another surprise. Instead of tossing the sandwich, the man stepped into the cell and handed it to him. As if Daryl was still a human, and not some mutt covered in his own feces.

  Daryl ripped the sandwich out of the thick, meaty hands, his hunger overpowering his disgust as he tore into the stale bread. The man watched him, almost as if waiting for Daryl to say something. If he was waiting for a thank you, he could find one shoved up his ass.

  Disappointed, he turned and shut the door.

  Daryl paused his devouring, swallowing the lump in his throat. There was no click of a lock, the distinct ping of metal he had heard every single time Dwight shut the door. This time, silence.