𝐇𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐑𝐃 │ 𝐃𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐋 𝐃𝐈𝐗𝐎𝐍 ¹ [✔]

[34]: liar

I was clean.

On the outside... but definitely not inside of me. Inside of my head.

Last night, I helped Shane murder a man. I created a widow. That widow was sitting inside that house that we had been graciously given refuge in.

I couldn't stay in there any longer. Not with Patricia.

I couldn't stand to think about what I had done. So I stayed out of the woman's way. Out of her sight.

I remember Otis' nails scraping my skin, and the evidence of that was still with me. Clearly displayed on my inconveniently pale forearms. I remember everything that happened despite my head being mid-concussion during the unfold of events. I remember his screams becoming muffled as the walkers tore his skin apart. I remember me screaming in his face as Shane and I turned on him and kicked him to the ground. I remember his hands gripping me so tight, that it reminded of a grip I knew all too well. A grip no one should experience.

Hershel, after looking at my injuries, only ordered me to take it easy. My ribs were bruised, I had a concussion, and multiple bruises and grazes. The only real essential thing I would have to do was hold a pillow to my chest when I coughed.

So, as the sun ascended into the sky, I watched from the porch chair as people gathered rocks for Otis' funeral. The funeral that I would have to attend, whilst trying not to break down in front of everyone.

I mean... Otis didn't really mean anything to me. It was the fact that he died by my hand that made me feel somewhat unstable, or susceptible to getting hurt. That something was around every corner waiting to pounce on me. Like Otis' ghost was hanging over me.

I once heard that if you are a killer, the people you have taken from this world haunts you forever. That they are always at the back of your mind, even when you are at your happiest, they are still there, like a bug clinging to your skin, crawling on it and setting you on the edge of doing something even more dangerous than killing an innocent person.

Going by how I felt, that was true.

I was scared of turning into the person I used to be. What the guilt of my parent's death did to me, was happening at that moment.

The cold morning air didn't help either.

I had to reuse my clothes from yesterday because no one's clothes would fit me. So I was sitting in my blood covered Winchester-shirt, dark ripped jeans, and torn apart sneakers.

I washed yesterday, and yet, I was sitting in filth.

I was grabbed from my own thoughts as a low rumble reached my ears. A noise I knew to be Merel's motorcycle.

I stood from my seat, holding my side to make it easier.

The people collected rocks also held their gaze on the slow emerging vehicles. First you saw the roof of the RV, then the green honda. In front, there was Daryl, his short brown hair flying in the wind.

He would not be happy to hear what I had been up to. If he even believed me. But think I had a pretty convincing case, due to me having pretty unavoidable cuts across one-half of my face. They stung and started to scab over. I also had a small black eye forming, and it made the bags on my eyes even bigger... just on one side.

The other's stopped their gazing and continued piling up rocks, as a means to be a decent grave.

I descended the stairs, going down as slowly as I could. My injuries would soon annoy me as I would be told I couldn't go out and look for the lost little girl, Sophia.