𝐇𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐑𝐃 │ 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐋 𝐃𝐈𝐗𝐎𝐍 ¹ [✔]

[48]: red

After so long feeling nothing but dirt, metal, and blood; plastic really wasn't on my list of daily occurrences. Just once every day.

And mistakingly twice.

The surface was squeaky between the pads of my finger, rolling the bottle in my hands back and forth, feeling the lip of the sticker on it faintly scratching me.

"I'm telling you to stay away from Carl."

I felt like those words were slowly chipping away at me, at the back of my brain. I bit my lip, tossing the bottle to my left hand, repeating my actions there.

I squeezed it, the material caving in and digging into my hand even more. There was, unfortunately, no more pills to stop the bottle from not becoming a complete mess of crushed plastic.

The back of my throat tasted like metal, biting back at me from where I couldn't reach. My lips tasted like sea salt, being worn and chipped - nearly bleeding.

More shuffling sounded behind me and my eyelids drooped lazily from boredom. The shed door was locked and he was in there.

It had been six days since we'd captured the kid named Randall, and six days of being watched in the daylight. Six days of everyone keeping their distance. Six days of staring and judging and goddamn waiting.

Waiting for Rick and his "leadership qualities" to kick in and for him to get rid of the problem that was Randall.

Then, instead of dealing with that, he risked himself and his friend to try and exile Randall on the side of a road.

It ended how expected and Shane and Rick started trading haymakers on the gravel, coming back, each with small trails of blood and wounds on their face.

Even if they didn't say, I could tell that it wasn't anyone but either of them did that.

Stupid, stupid.

"You and Shane have gone too far."

I heard grunting from inside the shed, also whimpering.

Skin was being bruised and all I could think about it was that the skin was not mine, rightfully so.

The scenery around me tilted for a moment, throwing me left but I managed to hold my balance. My sporadic bursts of vertigo were inconvenient and getting worse.

I crossed my arms over my chest, taking the fabric of my dark blue shirt in my hands.

I blew away my hair, turning on my heels to face the shed, placing my hands on each side of my head and leaning in to press my ear to the wood.

The talking was indistinctive, rushed, and breathy.

I closed my eyes, trying to concentrate on the noises to try and decipher something.

"Hershel won't allow you in the house unless, for desperate measures, he doesn't want you near his family."

Daryl had locked the door of the shed, with him inside and Randall a victim to his fists. When Shane and Rick came back with him, it was a quiet discussion before Daryl knew what he had to do.

And I knew too.

I could smell the blood. I could only just see Daryl's storming figure pacing back and forth, through the gaps in the panels. I could hear Randall begging for his own good.