First Light ➳ Daryl Dixon

1. Restless

"When you live in the dark for so long, you begin to love it. And it loves you back, and isn't that the point? You think, the face turns to the shadows, and just as well. It accepts, it heals, it allows.

But it also devours."
- Raymond Carver. Late Fragment.

Maybe this is the day he's meant to die.

Fuck. He's tired. Tired of running, tired of being afraid of the dark. Ever since everything went to shit, it feels like he's just chugging through like running on borrowed time. He's got the scar to back It up. Maybe he's just running on borrowed fucking luck and he's finally run out. Just how many more sleepless nights is his body supposed to handle? Scared of every guttural sound that echoes from the shadows he can't see? Not many more, he figures. Especially given the situation he's stuck in.

His breaths come quick and ragged, and his legs feel just about ready to give out under him. Man. He'd been reckless. No - fuck - he'd been stupid. It's too fucking easy to become careless when the days start to blur into one unrecognizable memory. There really isn't anything to ground him to the now. Nothing but the bone-chilling fear of trying to make it through another day alone. Usually it's a quiet thing, like a whisper in the breeze, but... it isn't quiet now.

His heart's pounding in his chest. He can't... he can't catch his breath. Panic's starting to settle into his nerves. He wants to run - he needs to run - but his body just won't fucking move. He can't... He can't keep at it anymore. Not like this.

His hands are shaking something fierce and just how is he supposed to aim if he can't even keep them steady? He closes his eyes and tries to will his breathing steady. Three breaths. That's all he gets before he lifts his chin up and opens his eyes, letting the patchy rays of sunlight gleaming through the leaves warm his face.

The wind whips at the short waves of his dirty blond hair and just for a second he can mute out all the groans echoing around him. He won't go out like this. This can't be how his story ends.

Civilization might've gone to shit, but nature? Nature's still alive and kicking. If it can keep at it... So can he. That's the one thing that gives him comfort. Even if it's darker, even if it's quieter and scarier than any horror movie he might've seen when he was younger, the world's still going, and he has no plans of giving up just yet.

He has no plans of dying. Not yet. Not here. There's got to be more than just... this.

Everything snaps into focus then and he lets out one final shudder before managing to still his hands. There's a rotting woman snarling only a few feet ahead of him, but she isn't the only one, oh no. He hears more of them coming from all corners.

He takes a step back before lining up his shot and letting his arrow fly clean through its skull. That's one arrow gone. He reaches for the quiver on his hip and nocks another arrow before taking another step back, shifting his gaze around him. Fuck. This isn't good.

They're all round him. He turns in place, sizing up the challenge. There's at least six that he won't be able to outrun. Damn it... He'd fucked up big time. Fuck. Fuck!

Rage starts to stir in his chest and he narrows his eyes. It can't end like this. Not after all the paranoia, all the fear, and the loneliness, and the people he'd watched die without stepping in. He can't die with that on his conscience. He just can't. He refuses to.