Zedler, M.D. // Daryl Dixon

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Baby B

•twenty-nine•

Beatrix

"I'm so tired," I complain as I finally lay down beside of Daryl.

"Go to sleep," he replies, slinging an arm around my waist to pull me closer to him.

"I don't wanna sleep," I pout, flipping over to face him. "I want to talk to you. No, I need to talk to you."

"'Bout what?"

"I killed a man, Daryl," I mumble. "It's not easy to deal with, you know."

"You didn't kill him, Trixy," Daryl sighs.

"I didn't want to kill him. You made me kill him," I state.

"Trixy, don't say that. Ya know I did what I had to do," he frowns. "Walkers were comin', and I had to make sure you got out of there."

"I know, but it's true. I could have saved him, but you wouldn't let me. I'm not upset with you or anything though," I say as I close my eyes. "I understand."

"I did what I had to do to keep you safe."

"I know you did, Daryl," I give him a small, forced smile. "It's okay."

"It ain't okay," he pulls me closer. "You ain't okay, but you've gotta' deal with it."

"I know I do, but I don't know how to,"  I confess. "I don't know how I'm supposed to deal with something like this. I mean, it's not like he was the first person I killed, but he is the first that I intentionally killed, even though I guess I didn't technically kill him. I'm the reason he's dead though."

"Stop bein' so hard on yourself," he says, placing a soft kiss onto my forehead.

"No, Daryl, I need to talk about this," I sigh, wiping a stray tear off of my cheek. "Before, when I killed a patient, I had a trauma counselor and a therapist that I could see. It didn't help much, but they did listen to me, and I liked being able to talk about it.

"And now that the world is different, and I stabbed that man on purpose, I don't know what to do. How are you dealing with it so easy? Back at Grady, you killed the cop, you killed Arnold, and then you killed Jay. "

"It's easy," he shrugs. "I did it to protect you."

"I love the nobility, but honestly Daryl, you don't need to bottle up your feelings. Let them out," I beg, just hoping for something that I can relate to.

"That part is true," he admits, rubbing his face. "But there is more. I just don't think 'bout it. You can't do that though. You love people too much to hide your feelings."

"I wouldn't want to anyway," I say, grabbing a stray strand of his hair to twirl in my fingers. "I think you should talk about your scars. You know, if you want to."

"Don't wanna', but ya need to know," he sighs and rolls onto his back, still touching me though. "My dad was a son'uva bitch. Never had a nice word on his lips, but always had a bottle in his hand.

"He liked to beat on me. Merle too, but not as bad as me. Merle left when I was eleven, so I got the worst of it then. Mom killed herself when I was nine. You already knew about that."

"Daryl, I'm so sorry," I mumble, rubbing my thumb over his cheek.

"Ain't your fault I got dealt a shitty hand," he shrugs before whispering the last part. "Except for you. My hand got a little, well, a lot better better then."