Survivor - TWD (Daryl Dixon)

Chapter 15 - 30 Days Without an Accident

Three Months Later...

Nelly

My eyes shoot open, and I jolt upright, my body drenched in sweat. I sit there, gasping for air, my heart pounding as I try to escape the nightmare that clings to my mind. The same nightmare that's haunted me for months. My body trembles, every nerve on edge as I try to shake off the lingering dread.

In the nightmare, I'm tied up, just like when those people took me and cut me up. But this time, it's worse. I'm forced to watch as everyone I care about dies. Some nights, it's people from my past, those I've already lost, and I'm reliving their deaths, unable to do anything to stop it. Other nights, it's someone from my group now, and I watch them die, helpless, trapped, as my screams and cries fall on deaf ears. I thrash against my bonds, but it's all in vain. The guilt weighs on me, suffocating, because in the nightmare, it's all my fault.

This time, it was Daryl. He was sitting on the ground, battered and bleeding, while the same man who haunts all my nightmares beat him relentlessly. Daryl's voice, usually so strong, was broken as he begged me to stop. He wasn't pleading with his attacker—he was pleading with me, as if I were the one hurting him. My stomach churns at the memory, the helplessness, the darkness of it all.

I close my eyes and run my hands over the scars on my arms, pinching myself to bring me back to reality. The sharp pain grounds me, and slowly, my breath begins to even out. When I open my eyes, they lock onto a small bluebird perched on the ledge, the rising sun casting a soft, golden glow around it. It chirps a little, tilting its head as it looks around, but it doesn't fly away. There's something comforting in its presence, something that pulls me away from the lingering fear.

I let out a long, shaky breath, my eyes fixed on the bird. I reach around the bed, my fingers brushing against the familiar leather of my sketchbook. Without taking my eyes off the bird, I pull the book into my lap, crossing my legs as I flip to a blank page. My grip tightens on the pencil, and I begin to sketch, each line a way to steady myself, to focus on something other than the darkness in my head.

The bird's delicate form starts to take shape on the page as my pencil moves swiftly. I draw the soft curves of its wings, the slight tilt of its head, and the shadows that play across its feathers. I shade carefully, adding depth and texture to the drawing, losing myself in the details—the lightness of the feathers, the contrast of the shadows. It's as if by capturing it on paper, I can hold onto the peace it brings me.

But just as I finish the outline and start adding the finer details, I look up and see that the bird is gone. I take it as a sign to stop, to put the sketchbook away and begin my day.

I wrap the string around the book tightly, tucking the pencil into the leather before setting it aside. Standing up, I grab my pants from the floor, sliding them on one leg at a time. I zip them up and fasten the button before pulling a gray long-sleeved shirt over my tank top. I follow it with a short-sleeved button-up, the fabric slightly worn but comfortable. My hands move almost automatically as I strap my short swords across my back in an X formation. I exhale deeply, grabbing my belt and looping it through my pants, buckling it securely. I reach for my pistols, sliding them into the holsters, followed by a couple of knives.

Back then, my nightmares were everyone's nightmares. I'd wake up in the dead of night, drenched in sweat, screaming, thrashing as if I could escape the horrors in my mind. The sounds would carry through the cell block, echoing off the walls and jolting everyone awake. There was no escaping it—not for me, and not for them. I could feel their resentment growing, the tension thickening like a storm cloud every time I walked into the common areas. At breakfast, they'd sit silently, their eyes avoiding mine, but I could feel the weight of their stares when they thought I wasn't looking. Whispers followed me everywhere, hushed conversations that stopped abruptly whenever I entered a room. The tension was suffocating, each fearful glance and sideways look reminding me that I was the one keeping them all up, the one causing sleepless nights. They were afraid—afraid of what I might do, afraid that one day my nightmares would bleed into reality.