𝐇𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐑𝐃 │ 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐋 𝐃𝐈𝐗𝐎𝐍 ¹ [✔]

[23]: mindless instinct

She stumbled out of Daryl's room. Leaving him to ponder on what he had just witnessed.

Whisky bottle still in hand, she took another swig. Her eyes scrunched up in pain at the sharp taste.

Her drunken haze led her back to her room, they way she had left it. Empty wine glass still on the floor. She tried to reach down for it, but ended up losing her balance and falling on the couch.

She huffed into the cushion. This isn't my cushion, she thought. She tried her arms to see if they could help her. They ended up not doing that.

She gave up flailing, and turned so she was on her back. She was giving in to the heavy feeling on her eyelids. As she was slowly descending into sleepiness, something decided to wake her for the second time that day.

"Marley!" the voice ordered. She put her hands to her ears. The voice was being way too loud.

The owner of said voice started moving her shoulders. They turned her so she was on her side. Unable to drown in vomit that night.

"Get way me!" she ushered, flailing again at the mystery person.

"It ain' safe to sleep on your back," they said. Marley now knew who that voice belonged to. She recognized it at the "ain'" despite her being slightly helpless.

"Bed, tuck me" she asked innocently, now opening her eyes to look at his face. "Story... now. About one cat." He was incredibly close to her. He didn't have the best of balances either, since he had drunk some too. He had a higher tolerance to boot though.

"What?" he asked confusedly.

"Where did you get that idea... we've never met a cat," she scrunched her eyebrows together. "Your drunk Daryl go to sleep. I'll tuck you in if you want. Story - about cats, with your purchase." She paused for a moment, looking at him expectantly. "Would you like a bag?"

He still struggled to get her to be on her side. "No," he said sternly.

She got out of his grasp, somehow able to now stand up.

"Aww," she cooed. "O'l Daryl always looking after me."

"Stop it."

"What?"

He grabbed her shoulders once more, pushing her down to the seat. She instantly shot back up, nearly toppling over. "You mum?" she cocked an eyebrow at him. "Hah, got you... take you to the burn ward."

Daryl spotted the half-empty whisky bottle on the floor. He swiftly picked it up, and was going to take it away from her.

She reached to grab it. "That's mine!" Jumping up and hitting his shoulders. "Keith David would never do that."

"Who's that?"

"Your mum. Hah got you, double burn!"

He held it above his head. She crossed her arms and huffed in annoyance. She looked like a child.

When she tried to reach for it again, he put it behind her head. She giggled at this little game they were playing.

Two drunk people (one with high tolerance, one with low tolerance) stood in a makeshift bedroom fighting over a whisky bottle.

Daryl then noticed how incredibly close they were. Her chest nearly hitting his. His arm over her shoulder, holding the whisky bottle.

She looked straight into his eyes, unknowingly using the weakness he had for her. Even if he hated her, he would always admit to himself that she had eyes that could draw him from anywhere. They seemed to drag you in.