The Third Dixon [The walking dead]

Chapter twelve

TW: This chapter contains references to past child abuse, sexual exploitation, and domestic violence, as well as a traumatic confrontation and physical restraint. These topics are handled non-graphically but may be distressing. Please read with care, if you don't feel up for it, you can skip to the next chapter.

The morning light bled weakly through the bars of the prison windows, dust motes drifting like slow fire in the early sun. The courtyard was quiet now—too quiet—and Measi hadn't moved from the edge of her cot. Her hair fell in loose strands across her face, and she hadn't touched the food Hershel had set in front of her.

Hershel crouched down beside her, careful, his hands open, non-threatening.

"You didn't eat last night," he said gently. "And you didn't sleep much, I can tell."

Measi didn't look up. Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her jacket, tight, restless movements. "I'm not hungry," she muttered, voice low.

Hershel nodded, letting a silence stretch before he spoke again. "That's... understandable. You've been through a lot."

"I know," she said flatly, still staring at the floor.

"You know," he repeated softly, "but knowing doesn't make it easier. And pretending it doesn't affect you—well, that doesn't help either."

Her jaw tightened. "I can handle it."

Hershel's eyes held hers, patient. "Maybe. But handling it doesn't mean carrying it alone."

Measi finally looked at him, dark circles under her eyes, the weight of the past few days pressing into her posture. "I don't... I don't want to talk about it."

Hershel gave a small, understanding nod. "You don't have to. Not right now. But just know... keeping it all inside—well, it can eat at a person. Even the strongest ones."

Measi exhaled sharply, a mixture of frustration and exhaustion, and she leaned back against the wall. "I just... I need to move. Keep busy. I can't sit here and think about everything. Not today."

Hershel didn't push. He simply rested a hand briefly on her shoulder. "Then move. But don't forget to eat something. Even the strong need it. You can't fight if you're empty."

She let the words linger, the soft weight of them settling somewhere in her chest, though she didn't reply. She pushed herself to her feet, brushing off her jacket. Hershel watched her go, giving her the space she clearly demanded, but silently hoping she wouldn't push herself too hard this morning.

Outside, the world waited—harsh, dangerous, and unyielding—but Measi moved through it like a storm, every step fueled by exhaustion, rage, and a stubborn need to survive.

Measi stepped into the crisp morning air, boots crunching softly on the gravel of the courtyard. Her eyes scanned every shadow, every corner, even though the yard had been cleared of walkers the night before. Her rifle rested lightly in her hands, the weight familiar and grounding. She didn't want to talk. She didn't want to eat. She just needed to move.