𝕃𝕠𝕧𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝔽𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 | Daryl Dixon

80 | THE DEEP END

The tears in Tori's eyes were like a permanent fixture on her face now. Exhaustion drowned her like an ocean as she limped down through the living room to the back door, stepping onto the porch, and letting the darkness of the night shroud her in its chill. A shiver sated her bubbling heat pounding in her temples as the ringing in her ears gave way to the silence she craved to lose herself in, if only for a moment.

Her eyes stung, clouds lining her vision as she stared into the darkness, slowly sitting herself down on the top porch step, her arms wrapping around her knees to curl herself up as small as she could get. Her hands clasped around one another, her broken nails digging into the skin of her knuckles, scratching and poking until she felt fresh cuts forming. The rest of her was numb, hardly feeling the cold as a sharp breeze washed her by, the hairs on her arms rising beneath her sleeves.

There was a distance between her mind and body, like she was looking at herself from far away. The old scars that littered her body seemed to throb along with her slow heartbeat, as if trying to grab her attention. They were a memory, a reminder of someone she once was – a shell of a woman who had nothing but pain to break the numbness that tingled through her body like she'd stepped into ice-cold water.

She closed her eyes, feeling no relief from the pain throbbing in her head as she blocked out the starlight shining down on her. Every part of her just hurt, but her heart held the brunt of the agony. The aching organ in her chest pounded slowly, in such a way that echoed in her ears like a drumbeat. Sounding so loud, but so distant all at once. There was a missing piece, the rest of it longing to find it. She could almost feel the magnetic pull, feeling so strongly, the distance between herself and Daryl.

Losing herself in the unknown thoughts of where he was, what was happening to him. Maybe she could take some solace in the fact that he was still alive; Negan had proved he was far too much of an exhibitionist to kill someone without a captive audience. But that didn't mean Daryl was safe; it just gave her hope that she'd see him again, that there might be a chance she could save him, bring him home.

The home which, right now, she couldn't bear to set foot in. The house belonging to herself, Daryl, and Halley was staring at her from across the street, empty, dark, and silent. They'd only moved into it some weeks ago, just days after that first visit to the Hilltop with Jesus. It had been Daryl's idea, deciding that if he was going to give into the married, white-picket-fence life with Tori, he wanted to do it properly. It had taken them less than a day to move what little possessions, spreading barely a bedroom's worth of stuff across an entire house. Still, they made it their own.

But Tori couldn't bear setting foot through the front door. As if there were an aura around the house, an invisible forcefield pushing her back when she tried to go up the porch steps. So, whilst Halley had fallen asleep in her old nursery on the third floor of the Grimes' household, the little girl's mother sat outside, staring at her home with pain in her chest, and emptiness in her eyes.

In her moment of silently staring into space, a shadow wandered into her sights, paired with the sound of footsteps, soles of shoes scuffing across the asphalt road. Turning her head, her neck stiff, Tori's eyes met Spencer Monroe approaching the porch steps.

"Hey," he greeted softly. He looked up at her, his lips pressed into a tight, pitiful smile as he rested a hand on the fence post. "Wasn't expecting to see anyone out at this time."

"Likewise," Tori mumbled, her voice made raspy by the scratches in her throat.

A silence lingered between the two, Spencer clearing his throat before talking, "I'm uh... I'm really sorry about what happened to your friends. And for Daryl being taken. It's fucked up."