Survivor - TWD (Daryl Dixon)

Chapter 16 - Infected

Nelly

The sunrise pulls me out of my head, and I realize I'm still at the fence. I feel like I've just woken up from a trance. A pile of walkers lies at the gate, their lifeless bodies stacked haphazardly, but a few more are already shambling toward the fence, drawn by the sound of my earlier assault.

I drop the crowbar, letting it fall to the ground with a dull thud. My muscles ache, each movement a reminder of the hours I spent out here, lost in the mindless task of killing. Sweat clings to my skin, mixing with the dirt and blood that coats me from head to toe. The stench of decay is thick in the air, and it's all over me—clinging to my clothes, sticking to my hair. I need a shower.

With a heavy sigh, I grab my swords from the gravel and start the walk back to the prison. As I climb the hill, Rick comes down, just waking up and starting his day. Our paths cross, and he stops, his eyes scanning my appearance—blood-soaked, sweat-drenched, and utterly exhausted. He looks like he's about to say something but hesitates, shifting his weight between his feet.

"You're up early," he comments, his voice cautious.

"Couldn't sleep," I reply lowly, continuing to walk past him.

"Wait," he calls out, and I stop, releasing a sigh before turning to face him. "I heard what happened," he says, looking down at the gloves in his hands, referring to yesterday's events. "I'm glad you were there. You helped get everyone out." He looks up at me, nodding in appreciation.

"Not everyone," I say bitterly, my eyes locking onto Rick's. He holds my gaze for a moment, then looks down, nodding as if he understands. But I scoff, shaking my head. "How were the snares?" I ask, changing the subject.

Rick looks up at my words, his expression hardening as he catches onto my attitude. But he doesn't press further. We just stand there, trading silent glares.

I'm the first to turn away, heading toward the courtyard. The prison is still quiet, most of the group still asleep, so it's pretty empty. I move to the clothesline, grabbing a random outfit and a towel, too tired to care much about what I pull down. I head to D block, knowing it has the best water pressure and is warmer than the others.

The showers are empty, the early morning light not yet filtering in. I choose a stall, throwing my clothes and swords onto the small table and hanging up the towel. The sound of the water echoes quietly as I turn it on. I untie my boots, slipping out of them and kicking them to the side, my socks following. I unbutton my bloodied shirt, the fabric sticking to my skin as I peel it off, and take off the long-sleeve shirt underneath. I unbuckle my belt and slide my pants down my legs.

Now, my scars are on full display, crisscrossing my skin in deep, jagged lines. They tell a story I'd rather forget, each one a reminder of something I've survived but never fully escaped. All made from the same knife, the scars are unnervingly even and meticulously. The bumps and ridges of the scar tissue are uneven—some smoothed over time, others still rough to the touch. They wind down my arms, across my chest, over my stomach, and down my legs, even crisscrossing my back—a permanent map of pain etched into my skin.

I shake myself out of it and slide the shower curtain back. A long sigh escapes me as the warm water hits my body, soothing my aching muscles. I close my eyes and try to relax, letting the water cascade down my skin. The blood and dirt slowly wash away, swirling down the drain, but the memories cling stubbornly, refusing to be washed away so easily. 

I reach for the soap, lathering it in my hands before spreading it over my body, my fingers lingering over the scars. I've wished every night to forget what happened, but it's impossible—it's written all over me.