The Fallen (Daryl Dixon fanfiction)

Chapter 8

It was late at night by the time they made it back. The headlamp of the bike led the way into the open gate that closed behind them. Uncuffing the archer and yanking her backpack from her shoulders. Looking to the Asian boy to uncuff her as well, but the archer quickly grabbed the other cuff, attaching it to her other wrist.

“If I really wanted to do anything, I would have already done it.” She hisses through her teeth.

In shock, this group continued this parade of paranoia.

“Can’t be too careful,” Glenn mumbles under his breath.

T-dog goes to grab her arm, but she yanks it from his grip.

“Leave me at least a sliver of self-respect.” She spat as she filed into the prison entrance, taking a seat at one of the far tables of the common room. Flashes of coming here to visit Tomas, believing his web of lies about his drug possession charge being the fault of the police who were framing him. 

She chuckles sarcastically to herself.

Earning a few glances from members of the group closest to her. T-dog, the young blonde Beth, and an older woman with short gray hair. She was the only one who didn’t have a name yet.

 Clenching and unclenching her hands. Focusing on the blood circulation in her fingers. Pins and needles dancing atop her fingertips. The purple and red rings were beginning to form around her wrist. Metal biting into the skin. Pain was a well-known companion of hers. Bearing the sounds of slurps from the group on their opossum, gravy, and corn stew. The scream from Maggie when she opened the archer’s bag, jumping back from the bloodied ball of fur plopping to the floor, was priceless. Heavy footfalls coming over to her catch her ear, but she doesn’t raise her head. Something was placed on the metal table in front of her. A steaming bowl of stew that actually looked appetizing, lifting her head to see the older man. White beard and hair tied in a ponytail.

“Stew Sunday. We also have Taco Tuesday or Spaghetti Saturday.” He chuckles. His words actually made a ghost of a smile appear on her lips. He reminded her of her dad’s lame jokes that weren’t even funny. “That’s the point,” he’d say.

“We have plenty to spare.” He answers the question that must have been written on her face.

Seeing the concerned looks and furrowed brows from the others. Why were they feeding the stranger who kept their infant from starving? She thought sarcastically. Taking the bowl and spoon, she felt an involuntary wince as the cuff dug into her tender skin. “That doesn’t look too pretty.” He inspects the various shades of red.

“Fetch my bag, Carl.” He calls over to the boy, who runs, doing as he is told.

“What are you doing, daddy?” Maggie slowly steps behind her father, protectively.

“Looks like an infection.” He speaks in a monotone. “Uncuff her.” He orders as the Asian boy babbles for an excuse not to.

“But Hershel-”

“If not treated, it could turn gangrenous. Ending in the loss of her hands or a slow, painful death.” He lists, causing Glenn and Reese to go pale from his words. Freeing her from her restraints, she gritted her teeth from the feeling of blood shooting from her wrist to her fingertips and back again. Pumping, throbbing as the feeling in her nerves returned. Stinging and burning tenfold. Through it all, she manages to hold the spoon, lifting the stew into her mouth.

Dragging a duffel bag over to the old man, who rummages through it, a bottle of alcohol, rags, cotton balls, and bottles of pills.

“Hold still. This might tickle.” He sighs, beginning to clean the wounds on her left wrist. Biting her lips stomping her feet every few times, but maintains a collected composure. Finishing up her meal and her other wrist, she breathes a sigh of relief. “Take two of these and get a good night’s rest.” He smiles as he places two aspirin into her palm. She cradled her wrists, now tightly wrapped with clean gauze.