Sweat rolled down your face as the sun beat down upon you harshly. The rays burned your skin that was already tinted red. But the climbing temperatures and burning environment didn't pull you away from the fence you stood in front of.
Your arms moved in a repetitive motion as you stabbed your knife through the skull of every walker touching the metal fence. With each plunge of your weapon, a low grunt escaped your throat. But it was a release. All of the anger and pain and emotion you couldn't always show or feel around the others, you could express here. You could release it here into each killing of the dead.
Walker blood coats your hands and ran up your wrists. Your cotton tank top is stained red, no longer the pale lavender color it started out as. But you don't care. You stopped caring a long time ago.
Moving forward as a groaning walker stumbles close, you raise your hand and plunge the glinting blade of your knife into its rotting skull. But as you move to slide it out, it doesn't budge. Sometimes you have to yank your weapon harder you learned over time, this happened on occasion.
But just as you begin to pull harder, a hand reaches through the fence and clutches your blood caked wrist. The hand is boney and makes your skin crawl as it's mangled flesh touches your own. Teeth chomp together as it's dead yet hunger filled eyes look straight at you. Its groans and snarls and chomps closer to you as your hand struggles to escape it's surprisingly strong hold.
But you don't give up. You can do this.
Reaching your left hand around to your back pocket you feel for the pistol you keep secured in your belt, fingers feeling along your denim jeans for the handle. But just as your fingertips graze the metal, a soft ping enters the air and the harsh grip on your hand is released.
You watch as the walker falls to the ground and you pull your arm free from the wire fence. Turning around as you catch your breath, a shadow casts over you as the person stands beside you.
Daryl Dixon.
In all his crossbow wielding, angel vest wearing, badass attitude glory. But something about seeing him right now knowing he saved you, irks you. Anger rises in place of relief and resent forms instead of gratitude.
"I had that." You snap at the redneck who slings his crossbow back over his broad shoulder. Sweat glistening over his bare and very tan arms.
"Yeah, sure as hell didn't look tha way." Daryl snips back just as rudely as you did.
Despite being involved with Daryl in more ways than one, he never failed to match your tone of annoyance or displeasure. As if proving that he could do it just as well.
"You can't keep doing this Daryl." You tell him after breathing in a deep breath.
"What? Saving your ass?" Daryl counters defensively.
"You can't keep not believing in me. I'm tired of you always being there, following me closely because you know I'll screw up somehow. Always there to fix it." You explain to him and Daryl's eyebrows furrow at your words.
"I love you, but you have to let me do things on my own. You have to let me defend myself on my own and not rely on the fact that you're always a step behind me."
"Ain't always--"
"You are!" Your voice raises slightly as you run a frustrated hand through your hair.
"Look what just happened Daryl, I was out here on my own doing just fine. And the moment things go a little south, there you are! I could've handled it myself, but you didn't give me the chance to!"
