The Woman at The End of The World. (Daryl Dixon)

ninetyone.

Throughout the night, the redneck and I had swapped shifts with some of the others, listening to Lydia and Henry share similar sob stories. We both had been tapped out throughout the night to rest until Daryl came into my room, waking me from the nightmares that now plague my sleep state. I was just in a sports bra; the blanket had exposed the scars and burn marks littering my flesh from tossing and turning in my slumber. When I had turned over, his face was contorted in concern and worry, but informed me that Charlee's time is up, and we need to relieve her of prisoner duty. However, his eyes spoke volumes of his thoughts - he wants to discuss my time being Owen's captive. Uh oh; I know he isn't going to let the subject go. I gotta pick my battles, I remind myself.

Now we are quietly sitting next to the window, overhearing their continued conversation. I take a hit off of the cigarette when Henry starts to spill minor details of the Kingdom. Swearing under my breath, I quickly get to my feet, but Daryl gestures for me to wait. Barely two minutes later, he returns to ground level, dragging Henry with him. I decide to head down the stairs into the cellar, allowing him time to discipline Henry for divulging entirely too much information, regardless of how harmless and little it seemed to be. Her group killed one of our own, and hunted two others like animals. I can't imagine what would happen if they returned, and infiltrated our walls, in any of the communities.

I grip the wall in panic when I realize, Ezekiel and Carol have no idea of what Hilltop is facing. They don't know about the skin walkers. Shit, fucking damn it, Henry. I know he has a good heart, but he's putting more people in danger. I've grown close to the King in the last few years. I can't leave him unwarned and blind to the possibility of our making a new enemy. I need to be there to protect them, but right now Hilltop needs me. Daryl grabs my shoulders, I peer over at him. His eyes survey my face. I wave him off, letting him know I'm okay.

I heard the talks of the fair for months now from both Hilltop and Ezekiel himself asking me to assist, with the possibility of finally coming out of hiding. I promised I would help set up, but couldn't offer an answer on attending. I guess, it's time to grace the rest of the communities with my presence. Here's to nothing, huh? Maybe I'll find Tara after this and ask her if I can get sent early to warn the Kingdom of the possible dangers travelers might face. I need to stop by the house, anyway, and pack up the last bit of our belongings. It looks like we are here to stay.

I lean against a wall outside of the cell, out of Lydia's line of sight, while Daryl drags over a chair, gesturing for her to continue on with telling him the story she started to tell Henry. I cross my arms, as she begins to paint an ugly image of her father, outing him as the abusive one, but the holes in her fairy tale are so large, I could navigate a fucking airplane through them. My eyes find Daryl's Georgian blue's observing the hostage. I sigh as his sight darkens as he catches on like I did. Oh, he's going to take this personal. He's been through abuse from a parental figure. We share the same scars, but from very different people. I return my attention to the empty dark space ahead of me, closing my eyes. I hope he doesn't explode. I've heard enough yelling from him to last me for the rest of the year, if not, longer. I'm not sure how much longer I can keep the biggest parts of my trauma behind the wall. I've gone almost four years without an episode. Though, I'm unsure if I can keep it back for much longer. The cracks are starting to cause the wall to crumble in various spots.

Daryl leaves briefly after the sounds of a small scuffle fill the stale air, returning with a branch within his grasp barely a few minutes later. He begins to peel the leaves from the stick with his back turned to me. However, I'm sure I don't need to see his face to know his expression. Quietly angry. He's calmly dismantling her story from the seams. "Ya know, some dads would come up with any excuse just to beat the shit out of their kids. Maybe they're drunk. Maybe they can't get drunk. Belts are good, but these assholes, they ain't picky. They'll use whatever's layin' 'round. But a good switch from a birch tree, that'll work. Your dad sounds a lot like one of those dads. Except the part where he sang to ya when ya were scared. Those dads... they like it when you're scared. Thing is, that's the only part of your story that didn't sound like bullshit. Now, ya knew exactly what this was when I walked down here. And those bruises on your arm, they come from a beatin'. So let me ask ya, if your dad's dead, who gave 'em to ya?"