RIDE OR DIE | DARYL DIXON

feel something

SHE CARRIED HIM out to the grave Michonne and Rick had began to dig. 

"We'll make this world better, Carl." She whispered. "We promise."

Her muscles burned as she carried his dead weight in her arms, but she pushed her mind elsewhere. She didn't want to think about his arm hanging down, limply. She didn't want to think about the blood that had stopped pumping through his body. She didn't want to think about the soul that was no longer behind his blue eye. 

She blinked rapidly, trying to clear her eyes that still cried. 

Gone was the boy that lit this world up with a single smile. Gone was the boy that still cared for peace after the world burned down. Gone was the boy that helped her feel alive again.

She crouched down and gently laid his body down in the grass. She did her best to clean him up before she brought him out. She used whatever water was left in the bottle to drench the cuff of her jacket and wipe away the blood on both temples where the entry and exit wounds laid. It had killed something inside of her to see him that way, and she knew it would further kill Rick and Michonne too. She parted his hair the best she could to cover the wounds, and she gently brought her palm over his eye, his eyelid closing with her motion. 

She grabbed the white sheet one of them had set in the grass at the foot of the grave, and she unfolded it. She tossed it over his feet and his legs, slowly bringing it up, and stopping at his neck. She looked at him closely, forcing her tears to stop just long enough to study his face one last time. 

She never, ever wanted to forget it.

She pulled the sheet the rest of the way up, his head covered once she let the fabric slip out of her hands. 

She helped them finish digging out the grave, and the three of them lowered him into the ground. They couldn't find the words to say their final goodbyes, so they opted to stand in silence. Perhaps if they didn't say anything, they didn't have to face the final goodbye. Though when they began refilling the grave with dirt, the reality of it set in more, and regret crashed into them. Willow clenched her hands around her shovel, afraid that if she didn't, she'd be digging out the dirt with her bare hands to say everything she had ever wanted to say to him. 

Rick dumped the last of the dirt onto the grave, his shovel sliding along the top of it, flattening the mound. 

-

They grabbed the remaining guns from around Alexandria, and anything else they could find. 

They were all relieved when they saw that their house was completely in tact. Not a lick of flame scorched it.

Willow stood in her and Daryl's room, stuffing a duffel bag with a few shirts and pants, toys and books for Judith and Sienna, the extra clips and magazines her and Daryl kept under their mattress, and the revolver Daryl kept from the Savior that she had killed. She stuffed that into her back pocket alongside her pistol.

She heard a gentle knock on her door, but it had been open the whole time.

"We've got to go." Michonne whispered, only peeking her head in to tell her.

Willow nodded and pulled the zipper along the duffel bag, swinging it onto her shoulder along with her backpack.

She shut the door behind her when they got out onto the porch. Rick and Michonne were already down the steps, and Willow followed behind, but she stopped in the road. She looked at the small group of walkers further down the street. She could smell them from inside the house. Her hand went to her side, pulling out her knife, her knuckles nearly white from the tight grip she had on it. She didn't want to use her gun, even if it was the smarter and safer move. She wanted to feel the burn of each thrust and swing. She wanted to feel her muscles screaming at her to stop. She wanted to feel.