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Being alone was nothing new. The world was different now, darker and colder than it had been before. For some people, this was their time to shine. Survivalists and military folks were the most common people you had found. Each time you felt safe, like you had finally done it, like this nightmare was coming to an end at last. You had never been so wrong in your whole life.
People were different, dangerous. You didn't trust them. As the days went on you found it hard to even trust yourself. You had lost sight of it, everything that you once were, everything that the world once was. It was all gone. That was your survival tactic, and so far it had been working. You had grown to learn the differences between people you could trust and those that you couldn't.
People who seemed clean, who appeared harmless, were not to be trusted. Noise was never a good thing, not matter if you heard the children laughing from outside the gates of a camp, or people happily conversing, you knew better than anyone that this was an allusion, a bribery. However, not having seen people for more than three weeks, you were slowly driving yourself insane. The only person you had to talk to was yourself, the only one who could hear your cries were the dead, who only made it worse. You were failing, and you didn't know how long you would survive like this. Not much longer.
You delved deep into the forest and found a treehouse. No doors, no windows. It was perfect. No one would ever know you were there, and neither would the walkers. Until you ran out of food. So there you were, lost in the midst of the pine trees, wandering aimlessly for anything you could eat. You hated to admit it, but the feeling of not having someone to cover you or see behind you scared you to death. You didn't feel safe even in your own skin.
You crouched onto your knees, picking up the last trap you had set a day or two before. Nothing. Your eyes brimmed with tears, not knowing what to do with yourself anymore. That was the last trap, your last hope for a meal. It had been days since you last ate, and even then it was barely nothing at all.
You couldn't live like this. This wasn't living. So when the sound of crackling leaves filled your ears, you immediately reached for your revolver, turning off the safety and attaching a silencer. You knew the chances of it being a walker, and the chances of it being a living person. They were low, but either way you weren't taking any chances.
"Put it down, lady." A voice spoke, low and gravelly. You swore to yourself it was just your imagination, until the figure came into view, hiding behind a tree straight across from where you stood. Long dark hair framed the figure's chiseled face, along with a crossbow which was now pointed straight at you. You stayed silent, listening for the surrounding noises. Nothing. It was dead silent, sending a warmth throughout your body.
"Hey!" the figure raised their voice, but you stood still steady, careful not to let your guard down. You slowly made eye contact, lowering your weapon and putting it back in the holster. You threw your hands up, signaling surrender. You knew he wasn't going to shoot you. You'd seen people like him out here, he wasn't dumb, and he sure as hell wasn't a monster. You could read him perfectly, just by tracing his eyes.
"What's yer name?" he spoke again, stepping out from behind the tree, lowering his crossbow. He didn't look that bad. You could tell that he had been eating well enough, and he wasn't all that dirty. You narrowed your eyes, tilting your head sideways.
"Give me yours and I'll tell you mine." you stated coldly. You knew that he got the message. Tracing your frame, he looked you up and down, making sure he was right about you. He'd been wrong too many times, bringing people in who would do nothing but harm. But this time he was sure he was right, he could just feel it.
"Daryl Dixon." the name slipped slowly, a mutilated tone quite evident.
"Well, Mr.Dixon," you didn't want to trust him, you knew how this could end up, "I'm Y/N."
But you did it anyways. Your fate now lied in the hands of Daryl Dixon, a stranger. Any words he said could change the way you end up drastically, whether he chooses to let you in or shut you out, it was all up to him. You watched as his eyes wandered over your figure. You were sure you looked horrible, covered in dirt and grime. But that didn't phase Daryl. His eyes stopped at your hands, a simple detail, yet one that he payed a strange amount of attention to.
"What's the blood from, is it yours?" he muttered into the crisp autumn air, both his and your breath visible from the cold.
You inhaled slowly, a shaky sound that sent mixed signals towards the man in front of you.
"The blood on my hands is mine, I was shot a couple days back." you remembered the terror of it all, someone so close to you, someone who you thought had cared, betrayed you.
"I have no idea where the rest of it is from. Walkers or other people, hell I can't even tell anymore." you finished, fighting the stinging urge to let tears fall. You wouldn't show it, you refused to show any sign of weakness. You hadn't ever before, and you weren't going to start now.
Daryl was smarter than that, however. He could see how you were struggling, and he didn't even bother to ask you the questions. By the simple words that were played and the weary eyes that you gave, he knew exactly what kind of a person you were.
He knew for sure, he was right this time.
1030 words
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