What Are You?

Dead

Dead.

She was dead.

Dead dead dead dead dead.

And he couldn't do anything to stop it.

And to think that things were perfectly fine just hours before. They had been talking, laughing, joking like old friends. And then...

He wanted to blame Rick. He was the cause of all this. If he'd been a better leader, waited instead of going in to clear the prison head first-

No.

He couldn't blame Rick. Because Rick wasn't to blame. He was. It was his fault he hadn't protected her, stuck by her, made sure she was safe. He should have trained her better, taught her more, kept an eye on her when things went to shit. But he hadn't. And he only had himself to blame. They had lost a lot of people. He just never dreamed one of them would be her.

She was buried now. Well, not really. But he had built a grave and a makeshift burial site all the same. She deserved that much. He gave her a proper burial because he thought it would make him feel better. 'Lift the burden from his shoulders' or some shit. It didn't work. If anything, it just made him feel worse.

What was he supposed to do with himself now? Who was going to be there to tell him how important he was or make him laugh or bring him food when he was too wrapped up in keeping the group safe to tend to his own needs? What was he supposed to do now?

Daryl sat on the floor in one of the halls of the prison, not even really aware of the near-mechanical movements of his arm repeatedly jamming his hunting knife into the concrete floor as the sound of the metal door scraping against the ground in front of him grated on his ears.

He wasn't sure how many times he'd done it, or how long he had been sitting there; he'd lost count.

He'd like to say he was thinking - and really, he was, his mind was swimming with stray thoughts - but in reality, he was stalling. He knew who - or what - was behind that door, and truthfully, he didn't want to face it. Face her. Because then he would have to look at her, at the shell of a person he had come to know and care for and open up his stupid dumb heart to. And then he'd have to kill her.

He supposed it was some sort of cruel irony, having to put an end to the one person besides his own brother he ever really gave a damn about. Putting her out of her misery. He'd sat there for what felt like hours, wanting nothing more than to end this torment; both his and hers.

He never really wondered how it would feel to lose someone close to you, but he never dreamed it would be this bad. He wanted to curse, he wanted to cry, he wanted to take back every single mean and awful word and thought, he wanted to die...

And if anyone was going to be the one to end her, it would be him.

Not Rick or Maggie or Glenn or Hershel. And certainly not Carl.

It would be him. It had to be. Because he helped bring her into this new world, helped her survive for just a little longer. And it was only right that he be the one to take her out of it.

Daryl shot up from his spot on the floor and began pacing, deciding to just do something before he lost his nerve. He turned sharply on his heel and bent down to grab hold of the dead walker blocking the door, dragging it away and leaving it behind him in a bloody heap as he got his hunting knife ready.

He hesitated for the shortest of moments, but knew that he was going to have to face it sooner or later, and it was better now than never. He grabbed hold of the door and wrenched it open, arm already raised as he prepared to bring the knife down into the skull of-

Carol?

He blinked, or he would have if he even remembered how to blink, and slowly eased his arm down as he stared into the eyes of the very alive woman in front of him.

Carol lolled her head to the side, staring up at him with squinted, unfocused eyes.

Not believing what he was seeing, he put the knife away and reached forward, gently gripping her chin so he could get a better look. It was her. She had been in there the entire time just laying there and feeling miserable and he hadn't even had the guts to opened the damned door-

Pushing the self-demeaning thoughts down, Daryl bent down and scooped her up into his arms, wanting nothing more than to smile and sit there and hold her tighter than anything in his life but knowing he couldn't.

She needed help.

She needed Hershel.

Getting back up, he carried her around the corner and down the hallway, hellbent on getting her to the others. She looked like shit, but she wasn't dead. She was starved and malnurished, but she would live. She was gonna be okay. He would make sure of it.

Daryl quickened his pace.

He wanted to cry with relief.

She was dead...

But in this case, 'was' was the most important word.