where the graveyard blooms - carl grimes

IV

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iv.

time in a bottle
"i've looked around enough to know"

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At dawn the next morning, the door creaks open and Daryl's heavy boots stomp against the concrete as he descends the steps.

The clink of a tin plate and the muted orange of a few carrots catch my eye as the lantern light flickers against the damp walls. Lydia and I are already sitting up, awake, waiting for him.

He stops at the cell, eyes narrowing as he takes in the sight of us. He looks at me, then at her, and his expression is unreadable.

"She didn't want to be alone down here," I say, before he can get a word in. "And she needs a doctor."

Daryl's lips press into a thin line. "Is it still bleedin'?"

Lydia doesn't answer. She doesn't even lift her head. She's curled in on herself, like she's bracing for whatever's coming, as if refusing to meet his eyes will make her invisible. The silence stretches, heavy and thick between us. I glance at her, then back at Daryl, feeling the tension coil tighter.

"It's not bleeding right now," I say, answering for her. "But it's gonna get infected if it's not treated. She needs stitches. Bandages."

Daryl stands there, still as a statue, his jaw working like he's biting back something harsher. He shifts on his feet, staring at Lydia for a long, uncomfortable beat before finally sighing. "Alright." He mutters, exhaling sharply. "I'll get Enid."

With that, he turns on his heel, disappearing up the stairs without another word.

Daryl reappears not long after, Enid trailing reluctantly behind him. She's like a shadow, barely sparing me a glance as she moves, her eyes downcast, shoulders tight with discomfort. I can tell right away she doesn't want to be here, can feel her judgment. It's hanging in the air between us, thick and stifling.

She doesn't say anything to me. Instead, she drops her medical kit on the table with a dull thud, louder than the cellar's quiet should allow.

"You need to take off your sweater." Enid says, her voice curt. "It's filthy, and it's in the way."

Lydia doesn't move, doesn't acknowledge her. She stays curled in on herself, huddled in the corner, her knees pulled to her chest. Her hair spills over her face, a curtain of dirt and knots that hides her from the room. Her body is trembling, though she's trying to hide it. The sweater is the last barrier between her and the world she's been cast into.

"I said take it off." Enid repeats. She's no longer asking; she's demanding. Lydia still doesn't respond. She just looks up, eyes wet and wide, searching for me. The tears in her gaze make my heart clench, and I realize she's waiting—waiting for me to say something, to do something.

I take a breath, kneeling down beside her. "It's okay," I say softly. "Enid just wants to help you. You should let her."

Lydia's eyes flicker between Enid and me, as if she's weighing my words carefully. But before she can decide, Enid snaps, her voice colder than I've ever heard it.

"I don't want to help." She bites out, her eyes hard and unforgiving. "Not after what happened to Jesus. I'm only here because I have to be."

Her words land like a slap. I can feel the sting of them, like they've hit me just as much as they've hit Lydia. The venom in her voice catches me off guard. Enid sounds almost... cruel. And it's aimed at someone who's already bleeding. I feel my jaw tighten, and before I can stop myself, I'm defending Lydia.