#anyway I recognize the surface of depression would really like to not go swimming soon

[pearl-kite]

Throwing a tennis ball for the dog in what is essentially perfect weather, wonder where the fuck the sudden and nearly overwhelming melancholy came from

[thirdtimesthecharmsworld]

Umbrella Academy Fanfic

Preface: I’m a big fan of Dead Like Me, the 2003 tv show created by Bryan Fuller. This fanfiction I’ve written is pretty much a crossover between the two universes, but with my own original character instead. It’s a bit convoluted, story-wise, so I apologize in advance if you read this and it doesn’t make any sense. Also, I wrote this in the span of a month, and there are multiple parts. I’ve decided I can’t keep it locked it up in my Google Docs anymore so here you go.

PS: This is the first time I’m posting anything I’ve written on here, so I’d actually appreciate any constructive criticism anyone may have!

As many times as I’ve done this, the young ones never sit right with me. Their big doe eyes always seem to pierce my soul. If I even still have one. 

There were surprised gasps at first. Then silence. The room we are gazing on is covered in blood. And after the scene I just witnessed, I wasn’t even sure how much of it was his. He looks so despaired. He was really just left in parts, chunks of a child strewn everywhere. I felt sick. After all these years, the bloody ones still got to me. And this one, a kid. I turn away, reaching out reflexively to grip at his shoulder. He looks up at me, I can see, in my peripheral vision. I close my eyes, feeling my stomach turn. And then they started wailing. Deep, shuddering breaths and sobbing cries. I don’t think they even knew they were doing it, the six kids standing there in the carnage. I don’t have to turn and look to know they were clutching at each other, wracked with emotions. And I can’t take it anymore.

The metal door swings on its hinges as I rush out. There is a bang behind me as it hits the wall, but the only thing I’m focused on is trying to control my breathing. The last time I’d seen anything so bloody was Mom. An image: her blonde hair soaked red, against the rocks, my tears soaking Sofer’s jacket as he held me. My stomach turns again, and I lean over, my hands on my bent knees. Everything swims in front of me, my eyes now brimming with tears. Panic set it. I couldn’t do anything back then either. I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t save anyone, I couldn’t do anythi-

“Hello?” a timid voice behind me.

Oh, the kid. I’d forgotten about the kid. The images, the thoughts, the guilt I felt, leave my mind and I focus on the post-it note I feel burning a hole in my pocketbook. Of course I couldn’t save them, that wasn’t my job. My job is just to help them move on, go forward. 

I draw a deep breath, almost losing it at the stench of the alleyway. I swipe my hand across my eyes as I turn around. Short black hair frames a delicate face. His school-boy attire seems unfitting for the ordeal I know he just went through. And he’s so small. Granted, I’m only a couple feet taller than him, but I can just see how small he is from the way he stands, so defeated, so confused, so innocent. I feel my eyes brimming with tears again, but offer a wavering smile I hope will comfort him.

“Hey, kid.” I utter. He just stares at me. I suck in a breath, the smile fading. Looking down at my shoes, I draw the courage to continue, “I know you have a shit-load of questions. But if it’s okay with you,” I look up, “I’d like to get out of here.” His brows furrow, and he turns to look through the door into the museum. I can faintly still hear the wails of his siblings, and I recognize that’s what he’s thinking of. But the bloody image flashes in my mind again, and I know that he understands, deep down, why he can’t go back there. Why he didn’t feel anything at the moment all that carnage took place. Why he’s numb now.

He turned, looked me in the eyes. He’s still hesitant, I can tell, but the understanding I knew he feels is there, just at the surface of his demeanor. He nods, and I walk forward. I gesture toward the opening of the alley, and we keep walking. 

It doesn’t feel right to try and comfort him then, to try and explain that I understand what he feels. That, though I look 15, I know what it feels like to die.

We keep walking, police cars and ambulances passing us, until we reach the bookstore. Luckily, it wasn’t very far. He still hasn’t said anything by the time we reach the door, but I was expecting as much. I glance up at Cindy behind the cash register as I walk in. She nods, and comes to flip the sign at the front to CLOSED as we walk to the back. I grab the clothes and wet wipes I’d stored in the closet on my way to the table. Ben follows silently behind me. 

I clear my throat, “So,” I started, “I guess I’ll ask you first. Do you have any pressing questions, or if you want me to jump right into it?” 

He doesn’t look at me, just stares at the cup of tea in front of him. He looks even smaller with the big blanket covering him. I sigh, “Look, I-”. God, it’s a kid, I don’t know what to say to kids. And I haven’t even gotten a kid in a long time. I don’t even remember what I said to the last one. I look at him again. He is all bundled up in that blanket, blood still covering him. I’d offered the wipes but he didn’t reach out for them. I think he’s still in shock. Memories of my own death trickle in.

“It didn’t really hurt when I died.” I state.

He blinks. Finally, a response.

I continue, “I mean, mine wasn’t all that brutal, so of course it didn’t really hurt.” I look down at the sleeve of my sweater. “It was my birthday, actually. I’d just turned 16, which was the youngest age you had to be to get a job back then. Of course, Mom said she didn’t want me to do that. The people I was living with then were really nice, you know? It was the Great Depression, as you guys call it; so there wasn’t really much of a chance for food, much less money to buy food. But I-I remember wanting to help, to try and find a job or some food or something- anything really.  I don’t know why I thought I could help. Like I said, I hadn’t eaten in a long time,” I chuckle. “Anyway, I went out in the night, so nobody’d ask questions. I figured I’d try to go into the city. I don’t even remember how I got there, to the city. I was just so tired. We lived a bit further out than everybody else, which was also why it was hard to find stuff. It took longer than I thought it would. I was so weak by the time I got there; so tired. It was so bright up close; all the lights and stuff. The smell was horrible, and the people I saw all looked sick. But I was determined to find something, some way to help my family. And then I smelled it. Food; it made my stomach growl like crazy. I looked up and I saw a line of people in front of a soup kitchen, and I saw people holding soup, and it looked so good. I stepped out into the street, to cross the road, and...and that was it. It was over...like that. And I wasn’t hungry anymore. I wasn’t tired, I wasn’t anything” I sniffle. “It was a car. It came barreling down the road, totally reckless. When I came to, Sofer was there. He told me what’d happened right away. He said that it was some guy with a pregnant wife in the backseat. Told me I was dead, and he was a reaper.” 

oops, I guess that’s the end of the story. I look up at the kid across from me-saying his name felt too personal right now. He’s staring at me, and with dread I notice tears in his eyes. He is clutching the cup of tea in front of him. He looks a little scared, actually, and I feel bad all of a sudden. I didn’t mean to make him sad, I thought I was doing the right thing. God, I don’t know what to say to kids. 

“Sorry,” I mutter, concern filling me as I lean closer to him, “I didn’t mean to scare you, kid, I just- I- God, I don’t know, I guess I thought it would help.” Speaking, obviously, wasn’t the right move, as all of a sudden the tears are rolling down his cheeks. “Shit,” I exclaim, reaching across the table to grab his hand, “I’m sorry. It’s okay, it- it’s okay, I mean, yeah, you died, but you’re okay now, right?” That also wasn’t the right thing to say, because he has started crying even harder. “Oh, no,” I scoop him up, holding him to my chest as I gently just sit down on the floor. “Oh, god, I’m sorry! Oh, I’m so sorry.” I can’t stop apologizing, I can’t stop hushing him, rocking back and forth with him in my arms. I am horrible at this. I am so, so bad at this. Why did Sofer have to leave me here alone? Now tears are pricking at my eyes, and I can’t stop thinking of all the people I’ve failed, all the people who took so long to get beyond the veil because of me. Me and my stupid emotions. I am full blown crying now. I still can’t stop apologizing, and tears silently stream down my face and soak the blanket Ben is wrapped in. Ben. Dammit, I made it personal.

It was a good 10 minutes at least until Cindy came to the back and saw us still on the floor. He’d stopped crying by then, worn himself out. We were just sitting there, staring off into the distance. I’d started brushing his hair subconsciously, and he didn’t stop me. He was definitely worn out. She helped me lead him to the cot in the guest room, and he laid down and closed his eyes. I didn’t have the heart to tell him he couldn’t really sleep; he was dead. I leave the door open a crack, figuring he’d realize soon enough and come back out. Cindy is staring at me when I turn from closing the door. I glare at her, “Not a word,” I mutter as I move to clean away the mugs on the table. In my peripheral, I can see her raise her hands in defense, “I didn’t say anything!” she exclaims. I roll my eyes, “Yeah, but you were thinking something, and that’s just as distracting.” I hear her sigh, “Look, it’s just that this is the second one this week, and it isn’t like you to do this more than once every couple of years, maybe.” Dammit, she has a point. 

“Cindy, I just...I just don’t know what to do when it’s a kid,” I whisper, turning to face her. She looks sad, like she pities me. God, I hate it when she pities me. 

“I know that, but the one earlier this week was, like 100.” I glare at her again, walking over to the sink with my mug bounty, “She was 95, okay? And anyway, I was only sad because I knew you wouldn’t let me keep her dog.” Cindy rolls her eyes, scoffing, “Yeah, no, that’s such a blatant lie, I’m even more concerned now. I fucking love dogs, okay, and you know that!” My head shoots up, eyes wide, “Cut it out with the cussing,” I hiss. She looks even more concerned, appalled even. 

“The cussing?!” she exclaims. I lift my finger up to my lips, worried her volume will wake Ben. She doesn’t stop talking, but does lower her voice, glancing at the door to the bedroom, “The cussing? You’re worried about me fucking cussing now?”. 

“Yeah, Cin,” I continue, taunting her with her most hated nickname, “I’m worried about you cussing now. It’s not my fault you’re always cursing like a-” I stop myself quickly and grimace at my mistake. There’s silence for a beat as I turn my head slowly to look at her, overly smiling apologetically. She’s pretty much livid now. There’s not usually much I can do when she’d livid. I open my mouth, “I’m sor-”. The sting of her slap on my back is something I’m used to, but I gasp in shock and let out a laugh. I continue apologizing, “I’m sorry De, I’m sorry!”. I laugh as she hits me two more times, not hard- never hard- but enough to get her point across. 

“Low blow, man,” she mutters, coming closer to help me with the dishes. I chuckle a bit, “Well, it’s not like I finished the sentence,” I try to defend myself. She just glares at me, and we wash dishes for a couple more minutes. Cindy’s death was more brutal than mine. And being raped and killed by a sailor in the 40s left a bad taste in her mouth when it comes to certain phrases. In the quiet aftermath of our fight, I pucker my lips at something she said, “It was a chihuahua.” Cindy looks up at me. “The lady’s dog, it was a chihuahua, that’s why I knew you wouldn’t want to keep it,” I explain. She smiles, then furrows her brow, “You hate chihuahuas too, though. Why would you want to keep it?” Dammit, she’s got another point. Why would I want to keep some angry old dog that belonged to some old lady I don’t even know? I think of her face, all wrinkled, but full of comfort and love. Warmth. It reminds me of Mom, holding me tight. She was always so warm. It didn’t hurt when I died, but it sure as hell hurt when she did. 

“Pen?” Cindy says softly. I’m pulled out of my stupor. I shake myself, look at her. That was a mistake. She looks so concerned, so sad for me. I feel warmth on my arm, and look down at her hand on my bicep. I sigh, turning to put the dishes I was holding in the sink, and then grabbing a dish towel to dry my hands. While Cindy dries hers too, I pull out my pocketbook and flip through to get to the right page. I peel the post-it off the page and hand it to Cindy. She grabs it daintily. Her face changes as she reads it, “Oh, Pen,” she whispers with remorse. I lower my head, leaning back against the counter, “Yeah,” I sigh. 

Written on the post-it is a name, a time, and a place. The name, though, is why Cindy’s now looking at me like I’m going to start breaking down any second. Which I definitely would, if it weren’t for the fact that I just did that with Ben 5 minutes ago. The name reads, Margaret Selorde, and it’s been breaking my heart since Thursday.

“How is this even possible,” Cindy whispers. I chuckled sadly, “Margaret is a pretty popular name, D, I don’t know what you mean.” She looks up, tilting her head and furrowing her brow as if to say, “Yeah, dipshit, I know Margaret is a popular name.” I sigh at that look, “It’s actually her.” Cindy’s mouth drops in surprise, “Seriously?” she whispers, and I nod, thankful she didn’t point out that I just said “is”, and not “was”. 

“Penny told me. Then she looked into it when she got the ledger,” I explain, “found some old records on it at the library. And texted me right away,” I smile. Cindy’s face says it all. Her eyebrows are pulled together and her eyes are watering. She doesn’t pity me, she’s heartbroken for me. Penny had to take the soul of my adopted sister, the only part of my family left. 

I look back down at my shoes, tears pricking my eyes, “She recognized me, actually,” I sniffle, “Penny showed her a picture of me,” I chuckle, watery. I clear my throat and pick my head up, still not looking at Cindy, but rather a spot on the doorway across the room, “Penny said she-she said she always knew I ended up okay. She said she always had a feeling.” I pause, then look at 

The door to the guest room creaks, and I whip my head around. Ben’s standing there, skin still covered in dried blood. He looks so small, so innocent, so- “Hey, kid,” Cindy says. I turn to look at her, trying to communicate with my eyes that talking to him might not be the best idea, because I still don’t know what’s going on in his mind. She ignores me, “Do you want something?” she asks. I look back at him, and remark again at the blood all over his clothes. He doesn’t say anything, but looks at me. It hurts, strikes me to the core-my soul, if I still have one. I feel the urge to explain Cindy’s presence, “She’s like me, and she’s my roommate,” I awkwardly explain. He looks back at Cindy, who smiles. The silence is deafening. I can’t stop looking at him, at the blood. 

“Hey, if you want, you can use the bathroom over there,” I point to the door next to the guest room, “to, um, well, wash off.” God dammit, why am I so bad with kids? Ben looks, though, at the bathroom door, and then down at his hands. I feel bad again as his eyes begin to fill with tears all over again. He rushes to the bathroom in a flash, shutting the door tight behind him. I grimace at it all, and turn to face Cindy again. She looks appalled as she hands me back the post-it note, “What did you even say to him?” she whispers. I throw my hands up, making sure to keep the post-it secure in one of my hands, “I don’t know,” I whisper back fiercely, “I told you, I’m bad with kids!” Cindy chuckles, still looking concerned about him, “He was so small,” she insists quietly, “and bloody,” she wrinkles her nose. I sigh, remembering the carnage, “Yeah, it was brutal.” Cindy looks at me, all of a sudden very serious, “Did someone…” she trails off, making a throat-slitting gesture. I shake my head fervently, “No, no, no, no,” I reassure her, and she sighs, “He did it himself,” I explain. Her eyes are big as saucers, and she’s absolutely heartbroken, “He did it himself?!” I chuckle at her expression, surprised she got to that conclusion, “Oh my god, sit down, I’ll just explain it to you.”

[autumnwoodsdreamer]

A Tough Act to Follow

Characters: Ryker Grimborn, Viggo Grimborn, Trader Johann

Genre: Family, Hurt/Comfort

Rating: T

Words: 1, 774

.....

Chapter 1: Rescue Me and I’ll Never Be the Same

The Submaripper rammed into the Shellfire with tremendous force, knocking the colossal dragon backwards. The chains keeping the ship strapped to the creature’s back buckled and snapped, sending the ship plunging into the churning waters.

It happened so suddenly that Ryker had no chance to get clear—he couldn’t even brace for the impact. He screamed his brother’s name out of anger, frustration, and even desperation as the ship slammed him into the water at full force.

He felt his ribs break and his lungs lose all the air they held in a mere instant. The ship sank quickly, mercilessly dragging him down with it—somewhere in his clouded mind he knew that was just as dangerous as outright drowning.

His hope fading and his vision rapidly growing blurry and grey, he clawed at the rough metal and kicked with all his might, fighting to get free, to get to the surface, to get air, to live.

Disoriented and already too deep in the frigid water, he couldn’t figure out which way to swim and his body was too dense with muscle to float. Lungs frantic for air but resisting the urge to take a breath, he searched all around for a sign to guide him upwards. A few stray strands of weak light caught his attention and he poured every last ounce of strength he possessed into swimming towards them.

Unable to help himself, he gave in and took a breath before he completely broke the surface. His lungs immediately rejected the salt water, forcing him to cough it out as he struggled to find something to hold onto to keep him from sinking back down.

Blindly, his arms found and wrapped around a broken piece of timber from one of the many ships destroyed that day. Numb and utterly exhausted, he just held on and focussed on breathing, completely unconcerned with the water carrying him who-knows-where.

Eventually, he raised his head and tried to get his bearings but there was nothing but a scattering of wreckage to break up the miles upon miles of sea stretching out in every direction. The only landmark he could make out was a plume of black smoke peeking over the horizon, presumably rising from the reawakened volcano on the Edge. He thought he could hear snatches of voices carried by the wind over the water but he couldn’t find it in him to care any more.

Defeat overrode his desperation. His grand scheme to wipe out the Dragon Riders and their allies had failed horribly. It wasn’t simply that he had lost a game (though his brother probably would’ve written it off as such without changing shade)—no, he’d lost so much more than that: he’d lost men and the respect of any that remained; the debris littering the dark waters around him was all that was left of his empire and his livelihood; and he’d failed to save Viggo.

From the start, he knew it was risky inciting a mutiny and going ahead with Project: Shellfire before it was entirely ready, but just the mere hope that he could end the war, restore their way of life, and save his little brother all in one fell swoop was more than enough reason to try.

Viggo’s grasp on reality had always been rather slim but his obsession with besting Haddock had pushed him well over the edge. As the game went on and the stakes rose ever higher, Ryker watched his brother rapidly lose what little regard he had for his own health, ignoring basic needs like sleep and sustenance as he focussed solely on outmanoeuvring his greatest opponent. No, the game had to end, and—for Viggo’s sake—it had to end soon.

And now, as the current pulled him further and further away from the cursed Outpost Island, Ryker realized the game had ended... just not in the way he had so fervently hoped it would...

The cold seized him rapidly, sadistically sapping sensation from everything but his broken ribs. What little daylight remained faded quickly from then on and he resigned himself to a night adrift in the water, clinging for all he was worth to a scrap of split wood.

A part of him still longed for a rescue and his arrogance promised him he’d get one but he believed that less and less with every hour that passed. Still, his tired mind insisted that every sliver of debris around him was a ship on the horizon and every gust of wind was a voice calling out to him.

At first, the imaginary voices sounded like those of his men directing him to a nonexistent shoreline, then it turned into Viggo telling him to just hold on a little longer, and then his subconscious decided to really play dirty and convinced him it was Olina and the girls begging him not to give in to the cold or the exhaustion, to keep fighting, keep breathing, and come home.

As his bleary eyes fixed on a patch of moonlight glinting on the unsteady surface of the water and his mind decided it was yet another ship, something inside him caved and he let himself believe it. And, while he was indulging the fantasy, he may as well have it that it’s his wife and his daughters on the deck waving to him. Why not? He was going to die out here anyway; what was the harm in pretending that the woman he loved and the children he adored were the last faces he saw?

The illusion drew nearer, its shape morphing from the sharp, sturdy, squarish design of the Hunters’ vessels into the more rounded form of a typical Viking ship. Ryker couldn’t figure out why his mind would pull such a cruel trick on him now; there wasn’t a single fibre of his being that wanted to see anything at all related to those wretched Riders, even if it was only imagined. No, until his last breath, he wanted to see Olina and Daleia and Fallon and Norell; he had to see them.

Try as he might, he couldn’t change the ship’s shape, couldn’t see his family on board, couldn’t even hear their voices anymore. The ship stubbornly kept its round shape and its slightly goofy dragon figurehead and it just kept coming closer and closer and a man with a very distinct accent kept calling and—

Oh.

Oh.

Crazy, intoxicating hope reignited as he realized the ship carving across the pitch black water wasn’t a figment of his imagination. He could see it; he could hear it; he could even feel it.

Ryker thrust his arm high in the air and waved wildly, forcing out the loudest yell he could muster to snatch the attention of whoever manned that ship—friend or foe, at least it was a chance...

“Oh, what good fortune this is!” the man on the deck exclaimed as he adjusted the sails to slow the ship. The warm glow from the lanterns onboard conflicted with the moonlight reflecting off the water, rendering him as nothing more than a silhouette, but that hardly disguised his identity: the entire Archipelago could recognize that eccentric but weak-willed merchant by voice alone. “I saw all that depressing debris dirtying the waters and was about to reset my course when I could’ve sworn I glimpsed a man desperately clinging to the wreckage! And, apparently, I had! Come aboard, friend! Come aboard!”

Ryker abandoned the broken piece of timber that had saved his life for a good few hours and swam closer to the old ship as the other man hoisted a heap of coiled rope up and over the side of the ship, grunting and panting as if it were some great exertion. With numb, shaking hands, Ryker grasped the rope, wrapping it up one arm to ensure he didn’t slip as he somehow scraped together enough strength to pull his battered and bruised body up the side of the ship.

The merchant who came to his rescue made no move to assist; rather, he stood back and watched with an overly anxious expression as Ryker heaved himself up over the side and came tumbling onto the deck, just barely managing to keep himself from collapsing in a heap on the weatherbeaten wood.

“You look utterly exhausted!” the man—Johann—remarked and scurried off to rummage through some nearby crates. “You must’ve been drifting hither and thither for hours! If I hadn’t been passing by this very night...” He shivered dramatically. “Well, best not to dwell on the what-if’s, I suppose.”

“Leaves you barren.”

“Pardon?”

Ryker shook his head. “Nothing. Just... something my brother used to say.”

Johann paused in his search and turned to peer at him with measured scrutiny. Despite his jovial face and his colourful person, there was something critical and almost cold hidden behind his eyes as he examined the Hunter. Whatever it was, it faded away in an instant. “Ah, you must be the elder Grimborn brother!” He pulled a woollen blanket from one of the crates and shook it out before draping it over his newest passenger’s shoulders. “Why, yes! I had heard about some grand commotion in these parts regarding you and your brother. I, personally, prefer to steer clear of all the violence; my heart is quite frail—I fear it wouldn’t tolerate such horrors!”

Ryker scoffed, earning him an indignant glare from the trader.

“Laugh if you must! Some day you’ll be nearing my age and it won’t seem so silly anymore!”

“Ha! I’d be surprised if you were even old enough to be my father!”

Genuine anger flashed in the trader’s pale eyes but, again, it faded quickly. “Well, at least all the commotion seems to be over for the time being,” he said, fishing a canteen out of another nearby crate and holding it out the Hunter. “I have business to conduct with a peculiar fellow in the far north—the far, far north. I don’t imagine you’d be much inclined to accompany me all that way, not after all these harrowing experiences...” he trailed off and raised his eyebrows, very obviously prompting an interjection.

Ryker ignored him for a minute, much more interested in gulping down water until he was almost sick. He handed the now empty canteen back to the trader and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, waiting till the brief spell of nausea passed before he spoke. “Will you be passing the Northern Markets?”

“Of course! I need to procure more wares for my trade and—”

“Johann?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

[wilhelmjfink]

November (pt. 1)

So November is a really hard month for me for several reasons. I try to be open about it now in hopes of helping others who felt the way I did! In 2010 when I was a freshman in hs I attempted suicide November 9th. I spent a week and a half in the psych ward and was in extensive therapy after that and still am to this day and that “it gets better” BS is SO cliche but shit, it’s true... so herr we are...

Naturally they went straight to meds and I spent a lot of time sick & drugged out like WAY beyond anything I could’ve comprehended. So I struggled a LOT with horrible nightmares due to different medications after that and I still do now.. But I’ll take scary dreams over any of that any day. 

November remains a dismal time for me so I channeled all of those feelings into a story (cuz I can do that now thanks to @crossbowking) so here is a rapid, confusing story about conflicting inner emotions and high functioning manic bi polar disorder and major depression. There are your warnings. Enjoy my inner turmoil ❤️ I tried to make this uncommon and use a plot line that wasn’t already used before that I saw! Xoxox

PS I’m REAL bad with present/past tense shit so humor me ok thanks 

You couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, although everyone else had been convinced it was just another irrational worry of yours. And as you jog through the frozen woods searching for footprints or tire tracks or anything, you were fueled by fear knowing that Daryl was never late just because.

So when you come up on a long imprint of tire tread that jolted sideways and slid, leading you to a familiar overturned motorcycle that lay tipped over on its side abandoned in the snow, you about scream your heart out right then and there. 

The bike is lodged against a dead tree trunk that prevented it from tumbling down the hill behind it into a deep ravine, a big ditch of various whites and browns and the sound of rushing water. The front tire still rotates slowly, suspended in the air; you tried to focus on the minuscule relief you felt knowing that it had to have crashed pretty recently at least if it’s still moving, right?

You waste no time diving over the bike, sliding uncontrollably down the side of the steep ravine wall rather than gracefully scaling it like you intended to. You land harshly at the bottom, falling forward onto your hands and knees in the frozen riverbed, pebbles and rocks and Ice jabbing through your  thin gloves like shards of glass. And you know for sure that it will all really hurt later, but right now you’re so fucking scared so scared that your adrenaline won’t let you even think about it right now. 

You spot what you immediately recognize as his body laying motionless some feet away. Your heart literally stops and words lodged in your throat for a second, and the fucking fear you feel... it’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before. 

“Fuck, Daryl!” You finally clamber to your feet, slipping in the mud and trudging through the not-quite knee deep waters, the bitter cold instantly soaking your boots and clothes.  

“Daryl!” You call out again and again actually hoping to catch the attention of the four waterlogged walkers that are stumbling toward him where he lay just barely on dry land and out of the water flat on his back, not moving, and with an arrow sticking out of his side. Your breath comes out in white puffs in front of you and even through Daryl’s layers of clothing you can see the blood staining his jacket. His crossbow sticks out from a snow bank several feet away. You can’t tell if his head lulls or if it’s just wishful thinking.  “Hey! Hey!”

When the first walker spots you and changes his target to you instead, you fumble blindly at your side for your holster that isn’t in its rightful place on your hip.

“Shit,” you whip around and quickly spot it back on the bank where you’d fallen, the metal contrasting the white snow it lay in. You’re frustrated now because running in water is fucking stupid hard, especially when you’re already freezing, and when you finally manage to snag your pistol and unholster it with almost numb fingers, you aim and flick off the safety just as the first walker stumbles over itself and face plants into the water in front of you, successfully colliding with your barrel as it lands. 

The shot misses, hitting the ground to the left of where it lands. You curse again, your sights locking on the other three walkers that have still taken an interest in Daryl. 

You fire two shots rapidly, the first one hitting its chest and the second one it’s skull,  and then watch in horror as it falls forward on top of Daryl and the the other two fall of top of him, still alive.

“No!”

The scream rips through your throat and hurts like fire, echoing through the stillness of winter around you and bouncing off of the ravine walls and trees. In a panic now you completely drop your gun while you scramble over to him as fast as you absolutely can and you’re already positive it just isn’t fast enough. 

As soon as you’re close enough you throw yourself into the dog pile, noticing at the very last second how Daryl seems to stir. But it’s too late to do anything about it, because you catch the top two bodies — one alive, one dead — and the three of you tumble down the slate drop off and sink like stones to the bottom of the cold water.  

It knocks the wind right out of your lungs and for a second, you’re paralyzed.  It takes  you some time to gather your bearings, finding the surface while you’re tossed around by the current, tangling with a heavy body that you can’t decide is alive or not. 

Your heavy winter clothes are quickly soaked and act as anchors, holding you prisoner underneath the rushing water. Amidst all of the fear and panic you’re faced with, you can’t seem to stop worrying about Daryl.

 By the time you resubmerge your body is so fucking cold that the gasp of oxygen you desperately inhale pains you, like you were swallowing electricity and letting it settle inside of your body while it burns every inch of you, inside and out. 

                                                                 ~

You finally drag yourself out of the river, slipping and sliding with little grip on the wet rocks, until you’re finally out and able to lay flat on your back and catch your breath. 

The obnoxious clicking you hear turns out to be your own chattering teeth and you can hear yourself gasping audibly while trying to breathe but you can’t help it because it’s so fucking cold. So fucking cold that it hurts. 

All you want is to find Daryl and make sure he’s okay, then you remember the last thing you saw was two walkers falling on top of him as he laid unconscious. 

So you were pretty positive he wasn’t okay. 

You can’t tell if it’s the cold air or the absolute feeling of disbelief that washes over you that renders you useless but you just lay still, staring up at the endless gray sky, too cold to move and too cold to scream and cry.

Daryl is gone. 

Your heart hurts. 

It really, physically hurts. 

The dull ache turns violent when it tries to function, like a broken bone inside of your chest. You want to scream and cry and fucking thrash around to try and relieve the pressure that was building up inside of you, threatening to boil over and send you whirling out of control.

But you were just so cold. 

How do you expect to make the trip back like this? 

You would be fine with just freezing to death here, actually. Less painful than having to live through this shit world without Daryl by your side to help you and tell you to chill out because everything would be fine. It wasn’t going to be fine. Nothing was going to be fucking fine. 

And even if you could make it back, how did you plan to just tell them you let Daryl get eaten? What would they think? You were better off dead than without him, anyway.

It was dark when you stirred next, the silent snow falling around you eerily nostalgic, the flakes landing gently on your skin and eyelashes and disappearing when you blinked. 

Sitting upright you felt like a board, so stiff and immobile, and your body ached with every movement and your head throbbed with every beat of your heart. 

It was quickly becoming nighttime, the last of the suns rays barely lighting the forest around you. You were confused, dazed, completely out of it and unaware of your surroundings or the frostbite that was setting into your limbs dangerously fast. Despite not being able to feel it, it loomed over you like the dark and heavy clouds above your head, and when you pushed yourself to your feet to take your first few steps, you quickly collapsed back into the snow. 

Your fingers couldn’t bend, your toes couldn’t move. Your extremities wouldn’t listen to your brain and so you crawled, blissfully unaware of the snow that was soaking through your already drenched gloves, burning your numb fingers so violently that you couldn’t feel it at all. 

Eventually you couldn’t crawl anymore. So you collapsed down onto the frozen ground, chest heaving, body screaming, head swimming. Dizzy. Confused. Tired. So tired... so, so tired. 

“C’mon, girl, getcher ass up.”

You shifted uncomfortably, shaking off the weight that was trying to get you up and away from the comfort of sleep. You know, you haven’t had a migraine in years, thankfully, but you had one from hell today and you didn’t want to have to wake up for anything... especially work. 

You swatted the hand away, refusing to move for your boyfriend as he sighs — he was even harder to get out of bed in the morning than you are, you remember bitterly — when the voice came back even louder than before.

“Fuck’s sake, woman, come on! Are ya serious right now?”

You felt a surge of energy in your bones that stemmed from the anger that rendered, and were prepared to sit up and lash out when you opened your eyes and realized you were not in your fucking bed. 

“Patrick...?” You mumbled for your boyfriend into the bright white above you. When your vision settled and you blinked through the pain, you were looking up at bare tree limbs blanketed in snow. Not your ceiling. Not your boyfriend.  Not your warm, cozy bed. 

“Real nice,” the familiar voice beside you muttered — now obviously not your boyfriend. “Nah, it’s me. Get up n’ lets go.”

“Ouch, whew, that stung a lil’!” Another voice howled from somewhere around you so loudly it made you flinch. “Isn’t ‘at her ol’ man’s name? Ha!”

“Shut it, Merle,” the first man growled, eliciting a chuckle from the other man. Daryl — your brain was racking itself to decipher who that was. Why the fuck didn’t you recognize his voice? What the fuck were him and Merle doing there? Wasn’t it just Patrick who was shaking you awake? Were you drunk? 

“Ya just gonna lay there n’ daydream, or what?”

“She ain’t comin’ with us,” Merle stated matter of factly. You subconsciously rolled your eyes — didn’t you lose him on a roof like a week ago? They must’ve found him. Where the fuck did his hand go?

When your eyes found finally found Daryl, he was standing at your feet, his boot nudging the sole of yours impatiently. You just groaned. 

“Come on!”

It was weird — he looked so much older than you remembered: his hair was much longer, shabbier, down to his shoulders now. He’d filled out more — he was more muscular, his eyes darker. He has a thick poncho on, too, despite it being, what, 90° in Georgia? He didn’t look like the Daryl you knew anymore and it didn’t sit well with you. Especially because Merle looked the same as you remembered him; almost as if he hadn’t aged a day. Despite his hand being replaced with a blade.

“Just leave ‘er there, man! She obviously ain’t gonna get up. She don’t wanna come with ya! Didn’t ya just hear her call out for ‘at other guy?” He laughed. “Or did I jus’ imagine that?”

Daryl was staring down at you pointedly, as if he was trying to figure out what you were thinking. But you didn’t even know what you were thinking. Everything was too bright and too loud and your head was foggy, the world was tilting around you. Stupid migraines. Everything hurt. But you wanted Daryl to stay, to hold you and tell you everything was fine.

“D...?” You really wanted to speak but you couldn’t form any words, your mouth dry and unwilling to move other than your teeth that you couldn’t get to stop occasionally chattering, despite being so fucking overheated and sweaty. So cold. What the fuck was wrong with you? “Don’t...”

“She don’t want ya,” Merle was suddenly much closer to you, inches away from your face, sneering down at you. Daryl remained behind him, eyes darting between the two of you. You felt like he was looking right through you. “Ah, ‘sa real shame, too. I bet she was a real treat under the sheets, lil’ brother. Ha! Can’t wait for you to tell me all ‘bout it.” He elbowed Daryl, who shoved him off before turning and stepping away from you. No, no. You tried to reach for him but your arms felt like lead. You couldn’t even tell Merle to shut the fuck up and god that was all you fucking wanted to do! “Good for you, Darlina.”

“Man, shut up and le’s go.”

No! Was Daryl really just going to leave you there? Paralyzed and hurt or frozen or whatever you were — helpless and afraid and alone? You tried to scream for him, plead for him to come back and help you, hold you, anything. But Merle trotted up behind him, throwing his arm around him harshly, and leading him away from you. 

“Daryl...” You finally choked out, though feeling like you had a mouth full of marbles or cotton, preventing you from crying and screaming like you wanted to. “Daryl! Please...”

But he was gone.

You didn’t even know what you were doing but you wanted to give up on it. Quit and not feel anything. Not have to deal with anymore. No more loss. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. 

Daryl was somewhere back upstream. And he was probably a walker by then, if there was even anything left of him. 

Fuck, it hurt. It hurt so bad. 

It didn’t seem real. You had seen him brush with death so many times and he always came out unscathed — it was just what he did. He just seemed to avoid death. Like he wasn’t meant to die. He was supposed to be okay and be strong for everybody else. This world needed him — you fucking needed him. 

Whatever realm of purgatory you were stuck in allowed you to feel everything, and somehow, absolutely nothing all at once. You couldn’t feel the cold that was chilling you to the bone, turning your blood to shards of ice that coursed through your veins agonizingly, but you could literally feel your heart that had shriveled up inside of your chest, trying desperately to resume its regular beat,  like everything was fine and you were okay and Daryl was okay, and just failing miserably. 

You couldn’t picture anything but his eyes; it was always funny to you how he was so closed off and dark and angry but those blue eyes, God, they were the brightest, most beautiful thing you’d ever seen. And his small smirk, a smile that he’d flash so quickly sometimes you were sure it was your mind playing tricks on you. The light, breathy chuckle that only you could seem to elicit from him, when it was just the two of you. 

You felt like you were floating, weightless, surrounded by dark water that both cooled you off and lit you on fire at the same time. It was a peaceful ignorance, to feel no physical harm, no  sickness or fear, but you were happy once you remembered how to move, and all you could manage to do was curl yourself into a ball and tuck your head in and hide away and dig your nails into your skin just to feel something and you screamed your fucking lungs out. 

It felt good to finally be able to let something out of your tightly wound soul; unfortunately it didn’t relieve the weight that was resting on your shoulders and crushing you until you felt minuscule and broken and worthless. You were so, so angry. 

You screamed until your throat was raw and you were sure you could taste blood. And it was bittersweet, remembering you that you were very much alive somehow, but very much alone.

So alone.

Maybe your unconscious would swallow you whole and you could live inside of your own head forever. 

Every time you made a noise there was a bolt of lightning in your throat and you gasped for breath, dragging your fingers through your hair, tangling themselves carelessly amongst the strands and emerging with knots of it stuck in your dull, bloody fingernails. 

Why? Why? How did you get here? Why did have Daryl leave you?

You screamed again. “You fucking asshole. I hate you! I hate you!”

Now you were sure you could feel him holding you, if you didn’t know any better. His grip was definitely holding you down, holding you back the way it would before when you’d playfully or otherwise try to run and he would quickly catch you. You’d laugh and sometimes he’d even kiss you. Did those memories even happen, or did you make it all up?

“I fucking hate you! Why did you have to leave? Why did you fucking leave me? I needed you. I still need you. I need you, please come back. Please don’t go. Please say something...”

Though you jumped when he answered you back. 

“Y/N?”

The sweetest sound you’d ever heard. Frantically you searched for the source of the voice, unable to find anything in the vast brightness of the world you were stuck in. Empty and bright. Where the fuck were you?

There was nobody there with you. But it was him. He was there. And you needed to fucking find him. 

“Daryl!” You were yelling into thin air. But he sounded alive, so he had to be alive, and was he going to leave with Merle again? Had that not happened yet, and you had the opportunity to try and prevent it? You clambered to your feet. “Daryl? ...Don’t go — please don’t go with Merle. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you... I’m so sorry.” 

Silence. 

“Daryl? Where are you? Please, come back!” The words began spilling out of your mouth with the tears and you just tucked yourself back into a ball because you just wanted to be as small as possible and disappear. It’s your fault you were stuck there anyway. “I’m so sorry, Daryl. I’m so sorry.” 

Who were you kidding? 

He would leave you — everyone did eventually. He would go with Merle. Gone. Just like that.

No, wait, you killed him... 

“Y/N!”

Your head snapped up — he’d come back for you! 

But he sounded confused or lost or in trouble. It worries you. Or maybe you were dead too, and you were in your own personal hell and you were about to watch him getting eaten alive by those walkers. No, no, no, no, please, not Again. 

You pushed yourself back up and screamed for him as loud as you could. 

“Y/N, relax.”

He was holding you again, trying to pull you somewhere else from where you wanted to stay standing until you dropped. So you tried to shrug him off, tried to fight the invisible force that held you back, until it finally gave way and you tumbled and hit the ground with a grunt. 

There was somebody else there with you. You could feel it. 

Rolling over you saw the first walker, grotesque and gray and bloodied, it’s jaws snapping as it meandered toward you. 

It slowly got closer and closer and closer and you just sat there, waiting for it to get closer. But why?

It got close enough. It was Daryl.  

You didn’t want horrified scream to tear its way through your already raw lungs and throat as he stumbled forward, falling onto you and grasping you with those cold, boney fingers. He was not your Daryl. Not you’re Daryl. Not your Daryl. 

You wrestled him frantically, looking anywhere else to avoid catching sight of those yellow eyes. It wasn’t him, it couldn’t be him. It wasn’t Daryl. There was no way, he couldn’t have died. He wouldn’t turn into one of those monsters even if he did. He was too strong. Too smart. He couldn’t die. He just couldn’t. 

You screamed his name a hundred times it seemed, trying to get him to wake up and respond to you, to snap out of that trance and go back to normal. 

But when you looked back up at it, using all of your strength to keep it hovering over your body as it flailed and wriggled and barred it’s teeth at you menacingly, hungry. Starved. Dead. It really was him. Your best friend.  Your best fucking friend. Why? You had loved him with everything that you had, tried so hard to keep him safe as he did you, you just wants to rescue him when he didn’t come back by dusk that fateful night, and it wasn’t enough. You had known something was wrong that day. 

Tears blurred your vision and they were warm and stung your cheeks as they fell. You stopped struggling. You let his body fall on you, deadweight, and sink his rotted, yellow teeth into your neck.

Confused?? Good. Stay tuned for pt. 2 :-)

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