𝙈𝙚𝙣𝙖𝙘𝙚𝙨 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙈𝙤𝙣𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙨 || ᵈᵃʳʸˡ ᵈⁱˣᵒⁿ

vii

|[part seven]|
-҉

AS CONSCIOUSNESS reclaimed you, a faint rustling near your ear snapped your eyes open. Instinctively, your hand darted to the knife at your belt, hoisting it defensively before you as your surroundings gradually came into focus. The ambiance was unfamiliar, a stark deviation from any memory you could muster—a dimly lit interior, warmth radiating from a crudely fashioned fire burning within an iron trash can. Your gaze drifted, settling on a figure ensconced near the fire, engrossed in the task of skinning what appeared to be a possum. An attempt to rise was swiftly curtailed by a sharp, pinching pain that coursed through your arm, drawing your attention to a makeshift sling cradling it. Clearing your throat, you swallowed hard, steeling yourself against the vulnerability that threatened to lace your words. "How long was I out?"

"2 hours... give or take," came Daryl's response, his attention unwavering from the task at hand. His initial indifference belied a forthcoming engagement. "Don't do that, I said. You'll get hurt, I said. And what did you do?"

An involuntary roll of your eyes accompanied a burgeoning grin. "Stop being grumpy. It's lame." His gaze finally met yours, traversing the length of your sling-bound arm to your face, lingering momentarily on your smile before reverting to his culinary endeavor. A silence ensued before you ventured a "Thank you," acknowledging his intervention with the ghouls and your injury. "For helping... with the ghouls and my arm."

"Nah, you're good," he dismissed, the fire casting an orange glow upon his features.

Curiosity piqued, you broached the subject of his past. "What's your story?" Despite the initial discomfort, you managed to prop yourself up. His response was a noncommittal grunt. "You know... how did you get here? How are you still... alive, I guess?"

"From the start?" he queried, his interest seemingly piqued.

"Yes," you whispered, your gaze flitting across his visage before settling on the flames. "From the start."

A momentary hesitation preceded his decision to recount his journey, his voice resonating with the weight of untold trials. "It all started in Atlanta..."

As he unfolded his narrative, the hours waned, your throat constricting with emotion you dared not display. His tale was a tapestry of survival, woven with threads of pain and resilience, starkly real yet narrated with an unexpected eloquence. It dawned on you that while you had encountered loss, his experiences painted a portrait of endurance amidst adversity far beyond your own. Daryl's narrative unfurled like a grim tapestry, each thread woven with the trials and tribulations he endured, painting a stark contrast to your own journey through this desolate new world. As he recounted the names and faces of those who had once stood by his side, now lost to the unforgiving tide of survival, a profound sense of empathy stirred within you. It was more than mere sympathy; it was a deep-seated sorrow for the relentless series of losses that had battered him, a man who had endured the unthinkable, yet stood resilient before you.

"I'm so sorry," the words escaped your lips, soft and laden with genuine emotion, as your gaze remained steadfastly fixed on him, seeking some semblance of comfort you could offer through mere words.

"I ain't want no pity," he retorted, his voice gruff, a defense mechanism against the vulnerability that the conversation had unwittingly exposed.

You shook your head, gently dismissing his interpretation. "It's not pity." The words were difficult to find, a tumult of thoughts vying for expression. You bit the inside of your cheek, grappling with the inadequacy of words to convey the depth of your empathy. "I'm just... All of it... I'm just really sorry that you lost every home you ever had," you managed to articulate. Your voice carried a weight of understanding, acknowledging not just the physical loss of shelter but the profound sense of belonging that had been cruelly ripped away, time and again. "Not only them being taken from you—and your group in the cruelest ways, but also that those people tried their hardest to not make them feel like your home anymore."