my girl ; a daryl dixon story
"NOTHING IS INEVITABLE"
"Raise your arm up more." He guided, kneeling behind the girl. He moved her elbow up, the bow in her hands going with it. He stood up, "Fix your stance," he lightly tapped her back foot, turning...
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"From my rotting body, flowers shall grow and I am in them and that is eternity." —Edvard Munch
—— Almost midday, a pair of soft footsteps crept into the house, the floorboards creaking under his feet. A crossbow risen in his arms; arrow drawn back. Sapphire eyes scanned the foyer, searching for any threats.
"Sophia?" His gruff voice echoed. The man searched for the young girl, to bring back to his friend. He stepped into the next room, the kitchen. Opening his pack, he rummages through the cabinets for any canned foods; only to be left empty handed.
Someone must've ransacked this place already. He thought, observing the mess. Spilled water over the counters, silverware scattered. Drawers thrown around; cabinets swung open.
He rose his weapon again, steps falling into the next room: the dining room. No threats seen; he drops his arm. He surveyed the small room: four chairs, one table. A shelf of antique dishes. A dangling chandelier. As he walked through the room, his eyes wandered over the various pictures that hung from the pastel pink, flower walls.
The one to catch his eye was one of a young man. He held a fish in one arm, a fishing pole in the other. A bright smile flashing from his teeth. The picture had aged, the crinkled corners started to brown.
The other photos consisted of pictures of cars, trucks, and various other vehicles. Really countering the pink walls, but there was a painting of a couple of swans drawing it in together.
The center of the dining table sat a clear vase, wilted sunflowers curled in on themselves; dry, yellow petals drooping towards the floor.
Continuing his venture further down the hall, "Sophia? Ya' ere'?" He tried again, but the only response he got, one he didn't expect, drew him closer to the living area of the, supposedly, abandoned house.
The meek sound of a child starting to squall in her crib filled his ears, stepping deep into the room. The man's eyes widened slightly at the decomposing body on the ground: a woman, maybe mid-thirties, laid on the ground with a pistol held loosely in her cold hand. Drying blood from the wound, down the side of her face to the hardwood floor, staining it.
He looked from the corpse to the bite mark on her shin, then to the infant; gaining a simple understanding of what happened to bring him to this current moment.
Resting atop the pile of bags, rested a note:
May whoever read this, take care of my daughter. Her name is Dawn Marley-Cayne. She is almost a year old. I have packed up all the canned foods and non-perishables into the bags next to her, along with stuff for her. Please be the angel I hope you are and take care of my girl.
As the baby, Dawn, continued to fuss in her crib, the man stared at her, confused. Was he the one this note was meant for? Why him? Couldn't he just leave the child for the next person who happens to wonder upon the house?
While those thoughts ran through his head, the "What If's" started to settle down and make home in his mind: What if someone doesn't find her? And if someone does, what if they leave her and take the food?
Shaking his head and swinging his crossbow over his shoulder, he bent down into the crib, cradling the whining child into his arms. Thick hair covered her face down to the bridge of her nose, moving slightly when picked up.
He shook the baby in his arms lightly, brushing the blonde hair out of the way to show her blue eyes; barely peeking through her eyelids.
"It's alright. I gotch'ya," He spoke softly, "don't worry." He shushed.
