You don't control me, Dixon

➌ 88- Please Dont Ask Me Questions I Dont Know The Answer To

♤

Alright. Claire is crying, Shannon is complaining. I need both to stop.

Guys?

The sobbing continues with a long strung sigh.

Looking around, I grab a shovel and shove it in the ground before speaking out loud, "Shannon."

Her line of dialogue stops. I sigh and as I drop the shotgun next to where I'm going to dig a grave, almost not in the world but standing over a pitch-black room, speaking for anyone to hear, "Please, can you not antagonize Claire, she's a child."

From the darkness, I peer into the dim light, almost seeing a small silhouette of a person.

Instead of a random voice that has no place, it's like she's in the back of the room, "That's not my job."

In an instant, I'm 'back'.

Tears running down my face. I wipe my face staring into the shallow grave. I don't understand, what was that?

Did I almost see her?

No.

I thrust the shovel and start digging more as I try to cause some plausible explanation for this shit.

Finally, when the hole is done and I'm done trying to make up why that place that doesn't exist, I look at the crumpled boy.

Tied and shot. Looks bad.

I kneel next to him and brush his fringe back. He's really young, plump and well-fed. At least he had that, he didn't need to worry about food.

Looking around, I spot Carl watching me.

I snap my gaze down, I'm not anything really to him, most definitely not someone to yell at him. He's not my child or is he the kid I'm watching.

I sigh and grab an ankle, slowly yanking the nameless child over the uneven ground, before finally rolling him in the grave face down.

'That's ruthless.'

Shannon muses in what I just realized was silence. I start pushing dirt in as I speak out loud, "Where's Claire?"

She stays silent before humming, 'Her room.'

Shaking my head I stop and stare at the half-buried child, asking where the younger child was tense.

'Don't worry, she's not alone.'

I sigh and roll my shoulders, doesn't help. But that does solve one thing, there are others.

The rumble of a bus makes me jump, pulling my machete and walking over to the gate I allow myself to reach for my gun.

I raise my gun as they come to a stop.

But surprisingly, Daryl hops out, guiding people out. My hands fall as I slip them back in their proper places.

My stomach quivers with anticipation from the oncoming fight but loosens as Daryl stands by me.