Survivor - TWD (Daryl Dixon)

Chapter 43 - Twice as Far

"I can be good, I can be true

You know I don't love anyone, but I love you"

Chapel

by Nicole Dollanganger

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Nelly

The silence between Daryl and me stretches like an invisible wall, thick and suffocating. We haven't spoken—haven't even looked at each other—since yesterday when they found us. Carol, Maggie, and me.

I can't bring myself to meet his eyes.

He's been busy, taking care of Carol, hovering around her like the good best friend he is. Glenn's doing the same for Maggie. They have each other. They need to be comforted. And they deserve it.

But me? I don't need comfort. I don't want it. And, more than anything, I don't deserve it.

By the next day, my thoughts have twisted into knots, a tangled mess in my mind. Negan is still out there. He knows I'm alive, and I have no idea how to find him, no idea where to start. The weight of that fact presses down on me like a physical force, gnawing at the edge of my sanity.

Everything Paula said—it's true. Every word. I'm just like him.

I'm no better than Negan. I'm a killer, brutal and cold. The way I killed Primo—no hesitation, no second thought. It was easy. Too easy. And the worst part? I felt nothing. No remorse. No guilt.

I swallow the bile rising in my throat. It makes me sick, knowing I'm no different. That I've become cruel, hollowed out. And there's a part of me that can't bear it, but another part that knows—this is who I am. It's who I've been made to be.

Somehow, my feet carry me through the streets of Alexandria. I don't even remember how I got here. My body moves on autopilot, numb and detached, as my hand knocks on the white wooden door. I stare at the peeling paint, waiting, my face blank and expressionless.

The door opens, and Denise stands there, surprise flickering across her face. Her innocence is palpable.

"Oh, hi," she says, a half-smile tugging at the corner of her lips. It's the kind of smile people give when they're unsure what comes next.

I step inside, my boots leaving faint traces of dried blood on the welcome mat. The interior of her house is... normal. That's the first thing I notice. It's almost like the world hasn't ended in here. The living room is cozy, with a small couch, a coffee table, a few books scattered around. The kitchen is neat, organized, the counters clear except for a couple of mugs.

I've been in Alexandria for a while now, but I've never stepped foot in here—or in most of the houses. They don't feel like they're meant for me. Homes like this belong to people who still believe in comfort, in safety. People who haven't seen what I've seen. People who aren't like me.

"Come in," she mutters, glancing awkwardly at me as I look around, taking in every detail of the space.

She stands there, uncertain, fidgeting with the sleeves of her shirt. It's like she doesn't know what to do with her hands. She watches me, her eyes flicking to the blood on my boots, probably wondering why I'm here. I can feel her curiosity, her caution, but she doesn't push. Not yet.