In The End | Daryl Dixon

Chapter 19

"Let's leave the world behind."

Erica

I would like to say that pulling Daryl Dixon away from a very-terrified Jim was a piece of cake, but then I'd be lying. The man is built like a bulldozer. He's all bulk and brawn, and he plows forward when someone steps on the gas. The guy is already on edge from losing his brother. Who wouldn't be? He's pissed, and now Jim is not only some crazy delusional psychic who dug a shit load of graves for no discernable reason, but he's going to zombify too.

"Alright, alright, cool your tits. Let's not murder Flyboy over there just yet." I said. Pushing him back was a struggle. He could have easily side stepped me, but honestly, his rage is probably so blinding at this point that he barely registers my existence. I myself have fallen into such a state, as have my brother's. It's reasonably understandable. Daryl just needs a Snickers bar at this point, and maybe a beer.

"Don't touch me, woman." He finally snapped, huffing like an angry bull as he slapped my hands away. I let him. I didn't even bother glaring back as he narrowed his eyes down at me, gritting his teeth like he was preparing to bite my entire ass head off.

"Sorry, personal space; I get it." I held up my hands in surrender, earning myself another huff. At this rate I'll have to start counting— maybe make a game out of it. "However, I'm not sure driving a pickaxe through someone's head is a good solution to any problem. Especially if they're still alive and have made no moves to kill you or anyone else."

"Tch, whatever. What do you know anyway?" He whirled around and began to stomp off like the child he is. I trailed after him because truly, I'm not better. My tantrums are monumental. Truly noteworthy. They leave even the King of Hell quaking in his overpriced dress shoes.

"More than you, apparently." I quipped back. The glare I got was nothing short of venomous. I'm not just talking rattlesnake venomous either. This was a full-scale black mamba death stare I was getting. I was expecting lasers to shoot from his eyes at any moment. Obliterate me like the Rebels did the Death Star. K.O.

"Why're you followin' me?" He spat. Wow, someone is defensive today. What the hell crawled up his ass and died? Not that his question isn't valid. Why am I following him around? I mean, Daryl is an interesting and midly-amusing guy. Sure, T-Dog is better in the humor category, Jacqui gets an A+ for sass, and Glenn's personality is a solid 11/10 without a doubt, but Daryl has bits of all those things crammed in him. Along with various types of anger, spite, and other things that cause him to be withdrawn and socially inept.

He's like Dean and Bobby molded  into one with a decent amount of self-esteem issues and rage sprinkled on top.

"Bold of you to assume I'm not simply walking in the same direction you are." I countered haughtily like the idiot I am. It's no wonder Sam and Dean were afraid to let me go on a hunt alone. I'm a literal child. My numbness to tragic events is honestly sad, and my conversation skills? They could use some work. Like, a lot of work.

Daryl gave me an odd look. He looked more confused than mad now, which has happened before. I tend to have that effect on people. Am I proud of this fact? No, not really, but I have too much emotional baggage to give a shit.

"Like what you see, Dixie-cup? Are my looks really that charming?" I asked, flipping my clumpy hair over my shoulder, knowing full and well I looked like a shit bag.

Daryl's cheeks went a little pink anyway. More proof that he let's Merle handle the women while he sits back and pretends they don't exist. "I told yah t' stop callin' me that." He grumbled. There was no heat behind his words. He seemed more thoughtful now. I'm not sure exactly what he's thinking about, but based on the look on his face it probably has something to do with shooting me straight through the head.