Self Inflicted

37

I slept like shit last night, never saw Daryl again after that. I sigh with a heavy chest and sit up in bed, looking out the window to the street with kids laughing and running around. The sun has just barely gone up, there is still condensation on the grass. I dress into some real clothes and throw a hidden knife in my boot. I walk downstairs to the kitchen and find Carol, baking some cookies.

"Good morning," I sit on a stool at the island, grabbing an apple that sits in a fruit dish atop this beautiful white and gray marbled countertop. "Those smell amazing, what are they?"

"Beetroot sugar cookies," she smiles proudly.

"Beetroot? I'm intrigued. I would love one of those to try whenever they're done, if you can spare it."

"Of course, that's what they're for. I'm going to take them around, get to know some of our neighbors," she's trying to figure out who they are.

"Sounds good." She checks the cookies and begins cleaning up the dishes she made. "Carol, can I ask you something about Daryl?" She nods. "Every time I try to get closer or know more, he pushes me away. Should I just leave him be? Let him decide what he wants?"

The older woman sighs and turns around, leaning back against the edge of the sink. "If you let him push you away, he'll never come back to you. He's been through a lot. He doesn't do friendships, or especially relationships well. He's a great man, but he can still a little boy at heart."

"Okay," I breathe.

"But, if you're going to be involved with him, you better be serious. Daryl doesn't need someone to care about that leaves him."

"I am serious, it just doesn't always feel like he is."

"If he weren't, he wouldn't have given you the time of day in the first place," she raises her eyebrows.

"Honestly, I'm not very good at this stuff either. I just know I really care about him."

"Good, then don't let him go."

-

Daryl weighs heavy on my heart all day, just wondering whether or not he truly wants what we've been doing. Being together, I guess? Acting like a couple but half the time he can hardly kiss me. He's so confusing.

I've been working in the infirmary today, alongside Pete. Basically, it's just Pete trying to boss me around. He's constantly watching me, I can feel it. He smiles at me in a crooked way and makes me uncomfortable. He's had me organizing and stocking the supplies I found yesterday on my run. Hasn't actually allowed me to practice any medicine.

"Can you stitch?" Pete asks me, leaning against a doorframe.

"Uh, yeah. It's not pretty but it works. Why?"

"I-uh, cut myself on a piece of glass last night. Been bleeding like crazy ever since, won't stop, and it's on my dominant hand. Wondering if you could stitch me up?"

"Sure," I grab some supplies and sit across from him in a chair. I unwrap the bandage on his hand, grabbing some more gauze to pat the cut dry so I can see to stitch. "You need any pain meds?"

"Nah, that's what whiskey's for," he chuckles very dry and holds up a flask. It's practically the middle of the day and we're doing important work, what the hell is wrong with him? I say nothing and nod.

I begin stitching in silence, noticing that there's bruising around the cut. It's not a clean slice and on the back of his hand. "How'd you manage to cut the back of your hand with class?"

"Oh-well, we have a broken window. Boys will be boys, walked by it in the garage and accidentally rub against it."

"Yeah, boys will be boys." Bullshit, cutting your hand on glass won't cause bruising throughout your knuckles. I finish his stitches and it's about time for me to be done with my day in here.