𝕃𝕠𝕧𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝔽𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 | Daryl Dixon

49 | MOONSHINE

Sifting through the mess of paintings, artifacts, ornaments and wads of cash, Daryl took it all. Shoving it all into a large plastic sack and throwing it over his shoulder, only to move to the next room and pick up even more. Beth questioned him, wondering why he would take so much pointless, worthless stuff. Yet, he ignored her, in his own world, doing his own thing.

Something in Daryl's messed-up head had snapped, reverting back to his old ways. The way he was brought up, barely scraping by, he took whatever he found, and he kept it. Be it money, gold, anything somebody like him shouldn't have, he took.

It took the childish term finders keepers to the next level, as taught to him by his brother. They were always moving, always struggling to get through the week at whatever shack or motel they holed up in. If they saw something shiny, it would belong to them now. If they saw some dumbass drop his wallet on the street, it was theirs now.

It was an empty lifestyle that Daryl only picked up because that was his roots – it was what he knew. No emotion, no guilt. Just scraping by. That's what it was... back then.

Now, it was an escape. He hadn't cried in the days since losing the prison. Any time he felt the sting in his broken heart throb hot like a bruise, he numbed it by getting up, distracting himself any way he could. If everyone was gone, there was no point being sad. Life was life. And Daryl's life was lonely. Always had been before, always would be from now on.

The bar area of the country club was somehow even more trashed than the rest of the place. Shattered glass dusted over the navy carpet, which was covered in stains from various alcohols that looked like they'd been tossed around the room. As if a toddler had a tantrum and threw out anything it could grab. The bar was covered in dust and empty glass bottles, some of them in-tact, most of them cracked, if not shattered like the ones on the floor.

Beth went straight over to the bar in search of her first drink, whilst Daryl wandered the room, casing the place for anything he could add to his collection of worthless, expensive crap.

His eyes scanned over the portraits and paintings on the wall, coming across a small, framed drawing. It looked like a map, but an outdated version. Daryl could name some of the areas labelled on it, but on the paper, they had different names – older ones. The drawing was done in pen, very neatly, and signed in the corner. Something that probably took a lot of time and effort to create and display.

The back of his crossbow easily broke the glass of the frame, and he took the drawing out carelessly, shattering any worth the item might have carried in the old world.

"Did you have to break the glass?" Beth asked.

"Nope," Daryl mumbled, folding up the paper unevenly, scoring the folds with his nails. "You have your drink yet?" he asked as he picked up more stuff from the floor.

"No. But I found this," Beth sat down on one of the red bar stools, staring at a bottle whose label had faded. "Peach schnapps. Is it good?"

He walked passed her without sparing a glance. "No."

The blonde girl sighed, staring at the back of his head. "Well, it's the only thing left."

Back to minding his own business, Daryl pulled some darts from the target board on the wall and walked backwards, throwing them one at a time, aiming for the portraits of the country club owners.

In the photos, the six men wore suits and stern expressions, which Daryl hated. Each dart created a blemish in the flawless pictures, which made the Dixon smirk on the inside. Those men would have looked down upon him if they were alive today, and they still were, just from a wooden plaque on the wall. They were rich and snotty – he could tell just from the lack of smiles in the pictures. Rich people never seemed to smile.