Survivor - TWD (Daryl Dixon)

Chapter 44 - Last Day on Earth

Nelly

I sit at the dining room table, alone in the small pool of light cast by the single lamp hanging overhead. The shadows swallow the rest of the room, leaving me in a bubble of quiet, broken only by the sound of my pencil scratching against the paper. My hand moves mechanically, the strokes heavy, dark, angry. Each line feels like I'm carving out a piece of the guilt that's eating me alive. Occasionally, I stop to wipe a tear from my eyes, making sure it doesn't smudge the page. But no matter how much I wipe, they keep coming.

I sniff, trying to focus on the drawing. Night has settled in. Only hours have passed since Daryl, Rosita, and I went back for Denise's body. The memory of burying her—feeling the earth beneath my hands as we laid her to rest—plays over and over in my mind like a loop I can't escape. The shame tightens around me like a vice. This is my fault. I should have been faster, smarter. I should have stopped it.

The door creaks open behind me, and I tense, wiping at my face again quickly, pretending I'm fine. But I don't need to turn around to know who it is. Daryl steps into the room, his footsteps soft, and stops just at the edge of the shadows. He leans against the doorframe, his eyes heavy as they meet mine. I bite down hard on my lip and put my pencil down, the sketchbook feeling too heavy in front of me. I shove it away, but it doesn't stop the weight on my chest.

A shaky hand covers my mouth, trying to silence the sobs threatening to break free.

Daryl walks over, each step slow and deliberate, like he's afraid I might disappear if he moves too quickly. He pulls the chair beside me closer, and without a word, I throw myself against his side, my arms wrapping tightly around him. The moment my body collides with his, it feels like I might shatter. My breath comes out in ragged bursts, my face pressed into his chest as he holds me. His arms wrap around me, squeezing me as if he's trying to hold me together.

We sit like that for what feels like a lifetime, his hand gently running up and down my back, but it's not enough to stop the guilt from gnawing at me. Eventually, he pulls back slightly, his hands moving to my cheeks. His thumb wipes the tears from my face, but I can't bring myself to meet his eyes. I'm too ashamed. Too broken.

I watch as his hand moves toward the sketchbook, picking it up with quiet care. He stares at the drawing for a long moment—Denise's face etched onto the paper, her expression soft and kind, captured in the way I'll always remember her. He doesn't say anything, but I see the sadness settle in his eyes. 

Daryl sets the sketchbook back down and lifts my chin with his thumb, pressing a slow, tender kiss to my forehead. His touch is warm, but I feel the tear that falls from his eye, landing hot against my skin. My hand grips his jacket tighter, holding onto him like he's the only thing keeping me from falling apart.

"Rosita said Eugene's gonna be fine," Daryl whispers, his voice low and rough.

I nod, trying to hold myself together, but it's like every part of me is crumbling. I suck in a deep breath, trying to bury the storm of emotions swirling inside me. But I can't. Not this time.

"Daryl..." My voice is barely a whisper, trembling as I force myself to speak. He hums softly, his gaze steady on mine. I close my eyes for a moment, bracing myself before looking up at him. "I'm leaving tomorrow."

His eyes narrow slightly, but he stays quiet, waiting for me to explain. My heart clenches as I speak the words I've been holding back since Denise died. "I'm going to find Negan. Dwight. Every single one of them. And I'm going to kill them."

His face tightens, his jaw clenching, but he shakes his head almost immediately. "You're not goin' alone," he says firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument.