𝐇𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐑𝐃 │ 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐋 𝐃𝐈𝐗𝐎𝐍 ¹ [✔]

[36]: there she was

He liked to watch her... as creepy as that sounded.

He admitted to himself that he did. It was like an inescapable fact that he may as well embrace. He often found himself gazing at her cheeks in the Georgian nights. They played a canvas for the light that flickered onto them, coming from the burning embers in front of her. Watching her was like a beautifully shot film... it may get weird sometimes, and you may not understand what the hell was happening, but you couldn't turn your head away as it would give you a sense of curiosity.

He couldn't find her eyes, as she would often be looking down at night. To that book.

That book which she drew in endlessly. Sometimes she would drag the pencil along the page in random directions for an hour and she what she got. As they travelled from place to place, she would splatter dirt on certain pages, waters from different rivers, and leaves that fell from the branches that towered above her. She had to see the leaf fall... that was what qualified it to be gently placed in between the now torn and brown papers.

Often, things fell out of it, but she wouldn't care.

There were a lot of things that Daryl really didn't get about her; the way she did certain things; the way she looked at things. It was like she had a totally different eye to the world than other people.

She would be sat, with a thin blanket around her shoulders, cross-legged on the ground amongst the twigs and dead flowers. Every night, just looking at her book. Her fingers tapping across the pages, turning them ever so often.

He had one theory that she had a memory problem, and that book would somehow help her get up to date with some things. But, that theory was squashed when he heard her reciting some words from "Macbeth" that she had memorised. Daryl didn't know the words himself, but he trusted her.

He often thought about the pictures that he saw when he should have been minding his own business. How the short few seconds revealed to him what type of person she was, and what type of people she knew.

But his mind would be dragged back to her... always. Without fail. Like clockwork.

Ever so often, she would reach up to her forehead, wiping away the built up heat with her cold fingertips. Her hand would linger on her lips, tugging at them.

He always noticed those things she did, even if he didn't admit that.

And one of the things he noticed she didn't do... was put flowers in her book.

"Girl's like flowers, don't they?" he would ponder.

Everything on those papers held a grisly colour, but there was nothing blue, purple or pink. The cover was a leather black binding, torn and chipping on both sides. It was on the verge of falling apart.

That was why he was secretly surprised when one day they were walking along a trail, and she picked something up.

Both Merle and Daryl had stopped when they noticed that she was not following. They lowered their weapons, the hunters pausing their exploration for food.

She was knelt down in the grass, dirt covering her knees, placing her palms on the blades of grass trying to tug something from the ground.

"Get yer ass up?" he remembered Merle yelling, but surprisingly, she ignored him and eventually got up from the ground, a small item gently clutched in her hand.

Merle turned and kept tracking whilst Daryl kept his eyes on her.

She took her gaze off the ground, and towards him. He nodded her his way, and she walked over to him. They started walking together.