intact ➵ beth is alive

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As much as she would've loved to stay at the cabin, the one that provided her walls and a roof and a bed and decent shelter, she would've much rathered sleeping on the cold dirt if it meant she was closer to Daryl, to her family.
So she walks on.

➵

Maggie should have been here with Beth, watching her, because she wouldn't believe it when Beth told her she could track now. That she could hunt. That she was capable and worthy.
And what a sight to see, Beth going on even when her legs threaten to give out. Beth, watching her feet, watching the ground for imprints left behind in the dirt. Beth's eyes getting sort of watery, (she wouldn't admit it) when she's able to aim her gun and actually shoot a rabbit.
It's dumb, a waste of a bullet. Loud, too, but she doesn't necessarily care, not when she knows she couldn't have gotten in any other way. She didn't know how to throw knives. Maybe she could practice, teach herself with some targets, but it wasn't her priority.
Her priority was finding her family, and hell, she'd save the rabbit for them if she could, but she knows she wouldn't go on much longer if she didn't eat it herself.
So Beth lets herself sit down, lets herself take a breather while she builds a small pit for the fire. Lets herself skin the rabbit without feeling remorse, she's gotten used to it.
What a sight to see.

➵

She can't say she's full, but she's content. She's content when she's walking with an extra spring in her step, content when she finds the spring of water. It could be dirty, but then again it could be fine.
But she's still cautious and wary, reminding herself of things Daryl would do and Daryl would say, 'should be rainin' soon, not worth gettin' sick over,'.
Yeah, she thinks, smiling. Should rain soon. Hasn't in a while.
And then, she smirks, because Daryl's always right, even in her thoughts of him.
His voice rings true in her head under so many circumstances, like when she's eating, eat slow. When she's walking, walk quiet, step lightly. Don't let her footprints be too obvious. Unless she's lost from him, but she assured him that wouldn't happen.
Beth sighs wistfully, wanting to slap the denial out of herself. Her old wishfulness.
It's still there, some of it. It's keeping her going, letting her feet move quicker, closer to her family. But she's more realistic, now, knowing she can't resurrect those she lost.
Knowing that no matter how much she squeezes her eyes shut and cries for what feels like hours, they won't come back. Knowing that if she kills herself, her problems won't vanish. They'd fall into the hands and shoulders of her father, or rather her sister, now. Guilt that was hers would pile onto Maggie, of all people. Of course, though. How fitting.

➵

She finds similar guilt in her throat, in her stomach.
The blood on her hands, it's unwashable. It's in her soul, blending and merging with her own.
Her head pounds and her tears are spilling even though she's telling herself it's not real, it's not happening.
But it had to happen. It was bound to. She needs to remember this, she needs to let them know when she finds them. Tell them how strong she is, explain yet another jagged scar, this new one on her stomach.
It's sore and aching, the attempt at the wound dressing, so she lets herself fall against the tree, lets her back slide against the rugged bark of the trunk.
Beth lets herself be tired. Lets herself be exhausted.
Lets herself recount her murders.
Lets herself remember hearing the crunching of the leaves underneath heavy boots that didn't belong to her. She remembers thinking it was Rick and Carl, that it was Maggie and Glenn and Michonne and Daryl.
But her head spins to quickly and she comes colliding with a chest she's not familiar with, and the scent of alcohol she knows all too well.
"Look what we've got here," a thick voice drawls, trapping her thin arms in a single grasp.
"Mm, mm, mm, she looks all too good to use as roamer bait."
She remembers squirming against the burly arms, trying to reach for her knife. Remembers the ugly curses in her ear.
Remembers being underestimated, "She's a li'l 'un, she'd rather do what ya say than let ya kill her," remembers being given slack and remembers being able to bend down and just as the man hoots his appreciation, she grips her knife and plunges it in his chest, watches the crimson spill from his mouth, watches him choke on it and watches it seep from his shirt, watches him crumble.
Beth doesn't put him out of his misery, not right away. Not when she's too busy tugging her knife out of the man's chest, not when the other man that was too busy watching in shock is now throwing wild punches, beating her to the ground.
"Fuckin' ugly bitch, the hell you think you're doin'! Just got y'self fuckin' murdered, hooo, too easy, girl. This'll be fun, I'll let it be nice n' slow."
She remembers it.
Remembers when he takes her own blade from the man's chest, drags it across her stomach slowly, not in any way an attempt to kill her. Attempt to torture her, rather.
"Mm, even ya blood is pretty. Wanna see more of it?"
She doesn't screech, or cry in pain.
She does simply what she's been told by the man who's done her no wrong in survival so far.
(Granted, she should have taken more supplies from the cabin she stayed at overnight, but the napkins prove to be more useful than she thought when she cleans her wounds later.)
Of all things, through the undeniable pain of the blade being dragged, digging into her pale skin, blood staining the knife, she remembers.
Of all things, he told her to let the enemy get comfortable, then attack.
And by the way he's taunting her, teasing her, slurring in her ear, she takes this as the perfect time to raise her leg and press it to his chest, and kick him backwards.
He stumbles from the impact, drops the knife, and though she's weak and her own blood and the previous man's blood is stained on her, dripping onto the grass, she still finds herself lunging for it, taking it and slams it against his thigh, until his howls of pain and begs for mercy are almost melodic, music to her ears.
He bleeds to death, and it's on her hands, in her blood.
Now, though, she's against this same tree and breathing heavily and staring at the dead bodies, and four people, she's killed four people now. Murdered four people. More added to the list of things she can't take back, things she can't forgive herself for.
But she doesn't cry.
She can't.

sorry this hasn't been updated in a while, in the meantime i hope you've been enjoyed welcomed sentiments and the drabbles! (: happy holidays i love you all so much for your continued support x