Survivor - TWD (Daryl Dixon)

Chapter 17 - Isolation

"I didn't know that I was capable of being happy right now
But you showed me how"

In a Good Way

by Faye Webster

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Nelly

I couldn't sleep.

Nothing new, but it gnaws at me, the restlessness settling in my bones like an old, unwelcome friend. The tower, the cells—they feel like cages, closing in on me. Instead of lying here, staring at the dark ceiling, I grab my pack and quietly slip out. The cool night air brushes against my skin as I make my way into the woods, needing to clear my head, to escape the suffocating walls of the prison.

My boots crunch on the dry leaves, the sound a steady rhythm in the quiet night. The forest is a place of solitude, a place where I can move through the darkness without the weight of eyes on me. I don't have a destination in mind, just the need to keep moving, to get away from the thoughts that swirl in my head like a storm.

I wandered aimlessly, checking the snares I'd set earlier, my hands moving on autopilot as I reset them. The dead ones I came across were easily dealt with—a quick stab to the head, the familiar resistance of bone under the blade, then nothing. Just silence.

Out here, there's no outside noise, no whispers or judgmental glances. No inside noise either—the voices in my head quiet, replaced by the steady thrum of the night. I welcome the silence, let it wrap around me like a blanket, dulling the sharp edges of my thoughts.

But even out here, the prison lingers in the back of my mind. Not just the cells, but the tower too—the very place I'd thought would offer some peace. Instead, it represents everything I'm starting to hate. The isolation. The way I feel trapped, even with all the open space around me.

My mind drifts to the conversation I overheard, the words of those women still fresh, like a wound that refuses to heal.

Maybe they're right.

I push the thought away, trying to focus on the task at hand. My feet carry me deeper into the woods, the trees growing thicker, their branches blocking out the sliver of moonlight that filters through the canopy. It's only when I hear a faint rustling that I stop, my senses sharpening.

I move quietly, my hand already on the hilt of my knife as I creep forward. The sound grows louder, and I spot the source—a rabbit, small and unaware of my presence, its nose twitching as it forages in the underbrush.

I crouch low, my movements slow and deliberate. The rabbit continues its search, oblivious, as I close the distance between us. In one swift motion, I lunge, my hand steady as I drive the knife into its neck. The blade slides through flesh with ease, severing its life in an instant.

I pull the knife free, the rabbit's body going limp in my hand. For a moment, I just stare at it, the warmth of its blood seeping into my gloves. It's a clean kill, quick and efficient, just like it always is. But as I hold the rabbit, the words of those women echo in my mind again.

"...She's an animal."

Maybe I am. Maybe I've become exactly what they say—brutal, detached, inhuman. I look down at the rabbit, at the small, lifeless body in my hand, and I can't help but feel a twinge of something. Guilt, maybe.

But they're wrong about one thing.

I care.

Why I did what I did.