ANGEL FACE ➵ DARYL DIXON [2]

Chapter Eight: Joe And The Claimers

Chapter 8

"SOMETIMES ALL YOU HAVE LEFT IS YOURSELF. AND SOMETIMES THAT'S ENOUGH."

***

Breathing.

Running.

Sweating.

Crying.

This is what made up the night for Daryl. Once he saw the woman lifting Fava into the car and driving down the road, he lost it. He wouldn't stop until he found her. He out ran his hangover, his head pumping profusely matching his guilty heart.

The sun was now up, Daryl running all night following the tracks. His body wouldn't allow him to go any further, but he pushed and pushed. Over his limits.

The crunching leaves from his boots made him insane, absolutely tired. He has made it to the top of the hill, his muscles insanely aching with his long hair soaked with sweat.

Railway tracks is what is in front of him, four directions they could have went. He stops running, looking at the four crossed paths. His breathing is out of control, thristy for some water in dire need.

Then, his legs give way, not being able to hold him up any longer. He collapses to the ground along with his crossbow, crying his heart out as to why he let her go. He hates himself, his head hanging low as he sits on the floor wishing it would open up and swallow him like his wrong.

He's alone.

Alone...

He has no one in the world, everyone gone. He doesn't move from his place, not caring if anything or anyone crossed his path. If a walker moaned, it would be music to his ears. If a savage yelled, it would be heavenly.

Who was the woman? And where was she taking her? These were the questions that kept him alive and made him still think clearly.

Will Fava give birth? And will the woman kill them both? These were the questions that drove him psychotic, if anything happening to her would be his fault.

How could he live like that? Knowing he killed a young girl that he thinks a lot of and her unborn child?

He wanted to reverse time, not picking up that damn moonshine and instead going straight to bed. But his locked emotions got the better of him, missing Kendra far too much that he would rather be intoxicated and forget. Even for a little while. In fact, he missed everyone. The group. His friends. His family.

And it's killing him.

He looks to his crossbow on the floor beside him, one arrow inside. One arrow is all it would take...

He snatches the arrow out, fiddling it with his fingers. Then, he holds the arrow out, dragging the sharp point across his palm. He grunts, feeling the pain enter him, but also relieved. The blood trickles, letting out a sigh and he closes his hand hard into a fist to hurt himself more.