Survivor - TWD (Daryl Dixon)

Chapter 14 - Welcome to the Tombs

Nelly

Rick made a decision.

The Governor is coming. And he's coming today. Yesterday was the last day for Rick to hand over Michonne, and since he didn't, we all know he's on his way.

I haven't slept in days. Not only do I hate the cell I'm occupying, but I've also had so much weighing on me. I've been fighting the exhaustion, only resting my eyes for short moments, refusing to allow myself to slip into REM sleep and dream. The thought of nightmares—of reliving everything again—keeps me awake. The weight on my shoulders is heavy, the burden of my past and the fear of what's to come, dragging me down into the depths of exhaustion. I've been on my own for so long, and now that I'm with this group, the responsibility, the need to protect them, it's all too much.

I sit on the hard, cold bunk in this cell that makes me feel trapped, like an animal in a cage. I start loading my sniper rifle with ammo, the movements automatic, ingrained in my muscle memory. The bags under my eyes feel heavy, the lack of sleep catching up to me, and the light seeping through the cell block blinds me momentarily. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to push away the overwhelming need to sleep, but I can't let myself give in. Not here, not now.

The cell is cold and plain, just four concrete walls closing in on me, suffocating. The thin blanket Carol gave me is folded neatly at the foot of the bed, a useless attempt to make this place feel more like home. The walls are bare, save for a few scratches in the paint, and the bars on the door are a constant reminder that I'm not free. The contrast between the darkness of the cell and the blinding sun outside is jarring.

I load each bullet into the sniper, my hands steady despite the fatigue. The metallic click of each round sliding into place echoes in the small space. I focus on the task, letting it ground me, each movement deliberate and controlled. My fingers brush over the cold metal, oddly, a familiar comfort.

A knock on the door makes me jump, my body tensing reflexively. I look up to see Daryl standing there, his crossbow slung over his shoulder. It's unlike me to be startled so easily, but the exhaustion is wearing me down.

Daryl's appearance matches his mood—rugged and worn. His eyes are puffy, dark circles under them, telling me he hasn't slept much either. He's wearing his usual long-sleeve shirt, the same vest with wings on the back, and his jeans with a rag hanging out of his pocket. He hovers in the doorway for a second, analyzing me with those sharp eyes of his.

"We're getting ready," he says, his voice deep and quiet, still trying to figure me out.

I look over his face, this intimidating man who just lost his brother and acts like it's just another day. I know he's hurting, but he's pushing it down, using it to fuel him, to keep moving forward. It's a big difference to how I handle my pain—I let it fester until it consumes me.

I give him a small nod, and he walks away, his footsteps echoing down the hallway. The sound snaps me back to reality, and I hear the movement of everyone else, the ragged footsteps and the hurried packing. I stay seated on the bed, my eyes still on the door, watching as Beth passes by, a bag slung over her shoulder. She stops when she sees me, her blue eyes wide and scared.

"Do you need any help packing?" she offers, glancing around the room nervously.

Her voice is sweet but carries a hint of unease, as if she's still trying to figure me out—whether I'm someone to trust or be wary of. I follow her gaze as it sweeps across the room, taking in the stark emptiness, save for the thin blanket and pillow that are the only touches of comfort in this cold, impersonal space. The irony of her offer isn't lost on me, and I almost smile.