In The Bird Song | TWD

chapter 48 - Fireside

Harlow pov

Water rains down on my exposed hands as they rake through matted, clumped, fur. The burns on my fingers sting malevolently as I work to rinse off the second round of doggy shampoo from posy's salt and pepper coat. It is only when the water finally runs clear that I can brave the gnarled thicket of tangled curls, armed only with a metal toothed comb I scrounged up from some drawer downstairs. Bathing posy is a difficult, tedious process that is only further exasperated by my refusal to get anything other than my scarred, beaten, hands wet.

Still, I throw myself into the task with unearned vigour, embracing the repetitive task of scrubbing, brushing, and scrubbing again as a welcome distraction from what is yet to come. Eventually though, I need to admit to myself that I am perhaps dragging out posy's undignified torture more so for my own sake rather than hers. So, with a reluctant sigh, I turn the shower head off and bundle posy's shivering body into a fleecy towel that fails to cover even half of her sopping coat.

I have already removed every tick I could find and given her some of the flea treatment Michonne precured so that all I have to do now is give her face a quick trim to remove the fur from her eyes. And after five minutes of careful snipping, I am proud to say that posy looks much neater and less wild than before.

"There, gorgeous as always" I mumble softly before leaning forward to kiss posy's damp forehead. Standing up causes the muscles in my calves to pull tight and snap like rubber bands that have long since worn thin from use. The moment I open the bathroom door cold hair wafts into the steamy room causing both me and posy to shiver violently. But before we can retreat to the warmth of the fireplace downstairs my attention is pulled by a small cough coming from Izzy and I's room.

I put the six-year-old to bed just before bathing posy yet the guilt from this morning continues to follow me like a bad smell. I still can't rid my mind of the image I was met with upon finding Izzy after leaving Daryl. She was curled up in the back corner of the living room rocking back and forth and steadily ignoring Michonne who sat a few meters away looking defeated yet still doing her best to comfort the child. My child. The little girl intrusted to me. I have seldom felt such a pressing sense of shame. 'Never be ashamed.' But I was. I am.

No sooner than I had taken in the scene in front of me, I was tackled by Izzy who clung to me like she thought she would never see me again. Her face was botchy and stiff with dried tears and her hair was a mess like she had been pulling at it again. I smoothed it out gently as I held her close, hating myself for hurting her yet again.

The only coherent thing I heard from Izzy during the following hours was an accusatory 'You left!' followed by more tears. Otherwise, we spent the rest of the morning and afternoon in silence save for my repeated apologies that only ever got huff's in response.

I messed up, I know I did. But a part of me, the one I hate to think about, was undeservingly frustrated. Bitter. Cold. Why wasn't Eliza the one her daughter clung to? She is her mother after all. Her. not me. never me. so why wasn't it her hand running through Izzy's bedraggled locks and why was it not she who tucked Izzy in with sweet words and forehead kisses. Izzy should look to her mother for comfort.

but instead, her body rots in tandem along side a dozen other corpses. leaving me and me alone to pick up the pieces of her own, selfish, choice that was letting me live. And it was a choice. She had every opportunity to go home to her daughter, to get her out of that place, but instead she ran. And it is in that decision where I cannot forgive her.

I love Izzy but Fuck me, I'm tired. I am doing my best for her but it's not good enough. I will never be good enough. I will forever be nothing more than a sick imitation of the parent she lost, the parent she needs. But I will still succeed where Eliza failed, because I'm not leaving her. I will not die like she did. I can't afford such a gift of cowardice.