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

onehundrednine.

I groan, fingers tracing the bruise Beta had gifted me with while the image staring back at me follows suit. The left side of my face looks as if I had a hell of a fight with Jack the Giant, though sadly, it was mostly a one-sided brawl, and I got the shitty end of the stick. Pun not intended. The flesh has swelled like a balloon. I wince, fingertips finding a cut on the skin beside my blue eyes. I wouldn't have known it was there if it didn't sting the moment I brushed against it. It's hidden in the  black and blue littering my flesh. The black ink of the moons around my ear are nonexistent in contrast against the temporary injury.

"Fuck," I quietly breathe out, though, I feel no regrets stirring inside my soul. I spoke my truth and took the punishment that followed.

Apparently, my ego was growing too much in size, so the universe determined that I needed to learn I'm not as invincible as I've come to believe. I'm still as human as the next guy. In that same breath, that means that Beta also bleeds and dies just like me. If I ever have the chance to come toe-to-toe with Goliath, once more, I'll make sure he chokes on my name. I want him to remember my face as the little cunt that knocked him from his high horse; kicked him down several notches. I'll make damned sure he understands that the myth of The Reaper is tried and true and breathing. He only made me angrier than I was before - that was his mistake.

My fingers wrap around the sink with anticipation of humbling him, in a more humiliating manner, slight anger stirring in my soul. Welcome to my shitlist, asshole. Enjoy the ride, motherfucker.

I'll have to use our sizes to my advantage, next time. Maybe, I'll radio Eugene to see if he has any advice in that department.

Gathering my resolve, I reach for the brush lying beside the sink. My brown hair frames my face while I quickly run the aforementioned brush through it before securing it in a black bandanna. Aaron had asked me to assist him with training those who offered to help us wage war with the whisperers when the time comes. Instead of my regular outfit, I opted for an ordinary band shirt and skinny jeans, topped off with a flannel and tennis shoes. I'm not physically training them, instead, helping oversee and offering my own advice when someone slips up, giving an opening for their death, so I chose comfortably casual.

A small knock sounds from the door before it swings open, revealing Daryl stalking to meet me inside the bathroom. I quickly bow my head, hiding the smirk forming on my face. He really doesn't believe in waiting for an answer from little ole me. Letting out a breath, I bring my head back, still grimacing at the image staring back at the two of us. "Aye, I brought some ice for that nasty shit on ya face." He gestures to the ice resting in his grip.

Sometimes, my husband has the potential to be a romantic.

I peer over my shoulder, observing something unreadable behind his eyes, "what's wrong?"

He sighs, "Carol hasn't come out of her home since we came back."

"Ah, you know she'll be fine. It's Carol." I turn my frame, putting my back against the sink, granting him my full attention.

"Yeah, that's what they said 'bout ya, too. It took ya years and a fake death to bring ya home." He closes to the gap between us, placing the ice on the side of my face. I let out a shaky breath the second it connects to my skin. Unfazed, he continues, "This time feels different."

"And I was fine. Sort of. Give her time, Dare. She lost Henry. She lost another child. She's in mourning and she's angry. I'd be more worried for Alpha before you worry about Carol."