Survivor - TWD (Daryl Dixon)

Chapter 9 - Home

Nelly

My eyes squeeze shut as the needle pierces my skin again, the sharp pain radiating up my leg. I bite down hard on my lip, swallowing the hiss that threatens to escape. Hershel's delicate yet steady hand continues to stitch up the nasty cut, his touch careful and gentle despite the roughness of the situation.

I'd told him I could do it myself, but the old man insisted. Now, we've been sitting in silence for the past five minutes, which I don't mind. Silence has always been a friend to me, more comforting than any words could be.

"Carl told us what you did," Hershel's voice breaks through the quiet, startling me.

My eyes snap open, caught off guard by the suddenness of his words. He pauses his stitching to meet my gaze, his expression unreadable before he returns to his work. His tools move with practiced precision, the needle threading through my skin like he's done this a thousand times before. "How you helped him clear out the infirmary and most of the east side."

The needle pinches again as he pulls the thread tight, tying it off with a quick, practiced knot. I watch his hands, rough and weathered from years of hard work, now moving with a surgeon's precision on my leg. I struggle to find something to say, but the words stick in my throat, unformed and uncertain.

"You saved my life," Hershel continues, his tone matter-of-fact, like he's stating something as simple as the weather. But I don't look at him. I can't. "You saved my daughter. You saved Glenn. You saved Michonne, as well. What you did in Woodbury, you did to survive."

He ties off the last stitch and reaches for a bottle of ointment, unscrewing the cap with a twist of his wrist. My leg stiffens at the cold touch of the ointment, and the sensation of a stranger's hand on my skin sends a shiver down my spine. My brows furrow in confusion as I process his words. Why would he want me to stay?

"You're about the same age as my Maggie. If she was out here alone... in all this, I'd want someone like Rick to take her in." Hershel's voice is soft, thoughtful, as he screws the cap back on the bottle and begins to pack up his materials.

I clench my jaw as he stands, reaching for his crutches. "What makes you think I need saving?" I mutter, my voice low as I glance up at him through my lashes.

"It's not about saving; it's about finding a purpose in all this." He pauses, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that makes me squirm. "No one should go through this alone," he says, and I can tell he really means it. His words settle in the air between us, heavy and laden with unspoken understanding.

My thoughts churn, the weight of his words sinking in. Hershel stands there, waiting for me to find the right response. Finally, I speak, my voice almost shaky. "What if I'm not the good guy?" The confession slips out before I can stop it, and for a moment, all the bad things I've done, all the people I've killed, flash through my mind.

A small, knowing smile tugs at the corners of Hershel's lips. A look of pity crosses his face, and I hate it. "Who's one to judge who's good or not?" he replies softly, his voice tinged with something like understanding.

I blink, his words sinking in, my brows knitting together in thought.

Hershel reads the confusion on my face too easily. "We've all done things we're not proud of to survive," he says, his voice carrying a weight of guilt. "What you've seen out there, what you've gone through, all alone... is that something you want to go through again?"

His question lingers in the cold, dimly lit cell, unanswered. I don't say anything, my mind tangled in a web of thoughts as he methodically zips his medicine bag closed and tucks it under his arm. The sound of the zipper is the only noise breaking the silence between us.