ANGEL FACE ➵ DARYL DIXON [2]

Chapter Four: Happy Drunk

Chapter 4

The night has swept over the sky like a soft blanket, stars twinkling and crickets humming in the distance. An owl hoots, singing it's favourite song as it stretches its white wings taking sudden slight, Daryl and Fava venturing to the small porch and closing the rusted door. The walker that was there before has gone, just the two of them as they sit down opposite each other on the sides, the wooden pillars on their backs supporting them.

The wood is cold on their bodies, but they don't mind. Fava wanted to come outside to see the beauty, Daryl tagging along as in his words, he has nothin' better to do. The light breeze relaxes them like a massage, replenishing their thoughts and worries. The silver in her eyes match the full moon above them, both shining and competing.

They enjoy each others company, even when no words are spoken. It's comfortable, pleasant. If they had of been on their own, who knows where they would be by now.

"I get why you stopped drinking," Fava speaks, breaking the silence that they shared.

Daryl tilts his head up, twiddling his knife in his hand. He lightly brushes and pets the sharp, metal blade with his pinky finger, but not giving enough force to cut himself.

"Why? Ya feel sick?" He asks, Fava scoffing as she hears the slight tinge of worry in his voice. It wasn't much, but she still heard.

"Nope," she answers, shaking her head feeling lighter than air, "I wish I could feel like this all the time. It feels good. Is that bad?"

"Well, ya ain't gettin' no more," he warns, "that baby probably hates ya already."

"And the award for the best mother of all time goes to-" she drumrolls with her fingers, patting her knees "-goes to me! Scozzafava! Thank you, thank you. You're all so very kind!"

She bows her head, giggling and hiccuping so much Daryl doesn't know if she's doing one or the other. He takes in her image, smiling along with her because he doesn't know when he will hear her laugh like this again. Or simply smile so widely. It's rare, carefree and pushing all the bad things away from her mind to the very back. Yet, she recovers from her outburst of happiness, but still smiling from ear to ear. Daryl shakes his head, jealous.

"Man, you're lucky you're a happy drunk," he admits, envying how on earth she feels like this.

It's uncommon for Daryl, all his friends, and himself, being an angry drunk. He wonders why this is, why some people have different affects on alcohol. If he was given a chance to be a happy drunk instead, he'd take it in the morning without hesitation.

"Yeah," she replies, "some people can be a real jerk when they're drunk, can't they?"

"Got that right," Daryl says, stabbing and pushing his knife into the wooden pillar beside him, chipping little bits off, "I'm a dickhead when I'm drunk."

"I've never seen you drunk before."

"Ya don't want to."

Fava bites her lips, twitching to ask him why and maybe tell her a story about his drunk memories. But she decides not to, feeling that would be out of line and rude. If he doesn't feel comfortable, then why ask?

Daryl can read her like a book, squinting his blue eyes across the small distance to her face. To break the sudden silence, he thinks back into his childhood, picking out a time. He doesn't like thinking back to his dark past, it a touchy subject and personal. When Fava looks him dead in his eyes, already being understanding and supportive, he then decides to recall.

"Merle had this dealer," he begins, Fava sitting up straight to listen, "this janky lil' white guy; a tweaker, Vladimir Mcgoth. One day we were over at his house watchin' TV. Wasn't even noon yet an' we were all wasted. Merle was high. We were watchin' this show an' Merle was talkin' all this dumb stuff 'bout it. An' he wouldn't let up. Merle never could. Turns out it was the tweaker's kids' favourite show. An' he never sees his kids, so he felt guilty 'bout it or somethin'. So he punches Merle in the face. So I started hittin' the tweaker, like, hard. As hard as I can. Then he pulls a gun, sticks it right here-" he points to the middle of his forehead "- and says, I'm gonna kill you, bitch. So Merle pulls his gun on 'im. Everyone's yellin'. I'm yellin'. I thought I was dead. Over a dumb fuckin' cartoon 'bout a talkin' dog."