[ v. push them away ]

october 31st, 2012

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"WE'RE ON EASY STREET . . . And it feels so sweet . . . 'Cause the world is but a treat . . . When you're on easy street!"

Clamping his dirt-caked hands tightly against his throbbing ears, Daryl Dixon shut his eyes against the unbearable song that had been pounding into his skull for what felt like days on end. The shrilly, high-pitched, kidlike tune seemed to seep into his very bones, vibrating through his shivering, weakening body. All the while, starvation clawed hungrily at his hollow insides. Blood crusted his chest and shoulders.

The hunter was dying. That much he knew.

In the dark of his drifting mind, he thought only of one face. His wife's.  His beautiful wife's.

He did not know where she was. Or if she were still alive. Without answers, even her memory was fading fast, taunting him more than comforting him. Astrid's touch, the warmth and sensation of her skin against his, was far away now in the void of his numbness. He was unable to feel anything.

Achingly, Daryl dropped a hand from the side of his head. His thumb brushed against his split bottom lip, and he cursed quietly to himself. So many beatings he had already endured since landing in this hellhole of a cell. He knew he would suffer through many more still.

Daryl knew he deserved it. Would keep deserving them. When one of the Saviors had forgotten to lock his cell only days earlier, he had sprung for the chance to break free. He knew, even then, the odds were stacked against him, but the image of Astrid's face fueled his desperate escape. He had to try to see her, had to try to ensure her safety.

His heart had raced as he attempted to navigate the dark corridors of the Savior's compound, adrenaline coursing through his veins. But instead of freedom waiting for him, he stumbled right into Negan and his followers. The details beyond that encounter blurred in his memory now, lost in the haze of constant exhaustion.

All Daryl remembered was the beating from the Saviors that had followed. Punches and kicks had rained down on him, leaving him half-conscious, barely alive. Afterward, when he knew he looked no more than a bloody pulp, he was thrown back into his cell. He had been there ever since.

Daryl was unsure now of how much time had passed from that moment. Minutes had long since turned into hours. Hours into days. A week might have passed already. Maybe even an entire month. The hunter no longer knew in his isolated prison.

Yet, even with no true meaning to time, it still passed slowly somehow. Daryl did not sleep. Ghosts tormented him. Screams rattled in his ears. Begs became trapped in his own throat. Always, he thought of Astrid. Yet sometimes, her memory held echoes of whimpers, of her screaming his name as he was torn away from her. The worst sound though was her own cry of pain. Over and over again, Daryl flinched as memory ripped him back to the moment before the van doors had closed in his face that morning of the lineup, his last true glance at Astrid being one of her clutching her swelling stomach as she was hit back down into the gravel.

Daryl had not been able to keep her safe. He had not been able to keep anyone safe that night. Between flashes of blood and his wife's agonized face, Daryl saw Glenn's head being bashed in by a baseball bat. Other times, when the memories of his own family were too great, Daryl was torn back into his own suffering. He remembered Dwight's cold, beady eyes meeting his own, remembered the rupturing pain as he was stripped of his clothing and his dignity.

Daryl was no longer ignorant enough to believe fear did not touch him. Fear consumed him now and stalked his every thought. Fear not only for himself but for Astrid. For his children, for Bailey and his unborn son. Fear for his group. How many had survived after he had been taken? Was he the last blow? Daryl could only hope he was.

But if there were survivors, what if they believed him dead? What if no one ever came looking for him? What if he died here, in this tiny, cement-block cell, alone and cold in the dark?

Only a sliver of light—mocking in its faintness—offered a glimpse of the world beyond his confines. Rarely, the hunter dared to look at it. But now he did, and his bleary eyes startled upon the realization that he was not alone. Only inches away stood the shadow of a pair of feet.

Then the blaring music overhead shut off. Ringing ears and labored breaths became the only sounds in Daryl's new suffocating stillness. Still, his narrowed stare never left the stranger who hovered outside his closed cell door. What did they want? Were they here to torture him some more?

It was nothing he had not already faced in his life before.

"Daryl?" A voice, soft yet laced with trepidation, called out to him.

Recognition sparked anger in the hunter's eyes. The voice belonged to Sherry, a traitor, through and through. The one who had abandoned him to the wilderness. The one who had been involved with Dwight and had robbed him blind. The one who had betrayed him and was now trying so desperately hard to earn his trust back.

The bitch was lucky that there was a thick cement wall between them.

Daryl had only seen the woman once since he had been brought to the Saviors' compound. They had both been in the infirmary, but while he had been getting his shoulder stitched, she had been receiving news of a negative pregnancy test. If Daryl had been any stronger that day, he would have shoved that stick through the woman's throat. He would have been glad to watch her choke. Because no matter how small, she had still played a part in leaving his own pregnant wife alone.

"There . . . There are so many things that I wish I had never found out," Sherry confessed through the door to Daryl. "I wish I hadn't tried . . ." Her voice faltered briefly, and she started over. "Back in the woods, after I lost Tina . . . When we took your stuff, when we decided to go back . . . I told you that I was sorry, and you said, 'You're going to be.'" Sherry hesitated once more before speaking again. "Well, I am."

Daryl leaned his head back against the cold wall and refused to respond. He would not give Sherry the satisfaction of forgiveness nor even bare acknowledgment. He was glad to know she was hurting, that she regretted her actions. He hoped that they would haunt her for the rest of her life.

Eventually, Sherry must have taken Daryl's silence for an answer all its own, because soon her shadowy heels turned away from the crack in the door and vanished. Only minutes later, as if a switch had been flipped, his once quiet cell was now filled with repetitive jarring music again.

Daryl's jaw clenched so hard it felt like his teeth might shatter.

He did not crave death, but he yearned for Astrid with an ache that cut to his empty core. Her beautiful face stayed twisted in terror, streaked with blood and tears, haunting his every thought. Her broken hands holding herself up. So many times that night he had wanted to shift on his knees, to wrap his arms around her and tuck her safely into his chest. Astrid had been right beside him, but she had never felt so far away.

Now, Daryl did not get to know if he would ever see her again when only one week ago, their life had been filled with so much warmth for the future. Only one week ago, Astrid had lay beside him in their bed, where they had chosen a name for their son. Only one week ago, Daryl had dared to ask Astrid if she might even consider choosing a house of their own in Alexandria. Only a week ago, they had been ready to become a four-unit family of their own.

But those dreams lay shattered. People were dead. Daryl was now amidst the very chaos that Astrid, with all her efforts, had tried to prevent. Yet, it had captured her, too, in its own way, entwining her in a deadly crossfire, where bullets raced, each seeking her before any other. Just like she said they would, all those weeks ago in the dark of their bedroom, on the brink of war.

Daryl did not think he could ever forgive himself for that. So many, himself included, had not taken Astrid's pleas for what they were, what they could have protected them all from. All this time, she had known the Saviors were still too great. She had known a trap likely awaited. The lineup had been waiting for her.

If she had survived it, how much blood had she still been left to wipe away alone come morning?

Daryl's fingers fumbled absently as he considered each darkening thought, all the while plucking at a loose thread on the gray sweats forced upon him by Dwight. The single, spray-painted, orange-colored letter emblazoned on the fabric of his chest, an 'A,' mocked him. "A for asshole," Dwight had nastily told him. Later, the clothes brought more bitter memories of Daryl's past captivity in train car A of Terminus.

With each passing day, the hunter was growing to hate that letter more and more.

Steadily, Daryl grew to hate many things within his cell, and all were fueled by grief or guilt. Negan, Dwight, the world itself—he despised them all. But his greatest loathing was reserved for himself, knowing he was at fault for Glenn's murder. It was his own hand that had snuffed out the life of one of his closest friends and shattered his family beyond repair. Because of Daryl, a wife became a widow. Because of Daryl, a child became fatherless.

There was no redemption for that.

Abruptly, the music ceased, jolting the hunter from his numbed stupor. His cell door swung open heavily, flooding his vision with harsh light. A sandwich, wafting with the repulsive stench of wet dog food, was dropped by Daryl's feet.

He refused to touch it, and his defiance earned him a sigh of impatience from Dwight. "Eat," the scarred Savior commanded.

Daryl's silence only stoked the other man's irritation more.

"You got your friend killed," Dwight accused, seeking a reaction. "I got Tina killed, too. Don't pretend like you don't know the score."

In an instant, the familiar surge of rage surged through Daryl's veins, raw and uncontainable. Before he could even process it, he found himself lunging for the sandwich and hurling it viciously at Dwight's face. The sandwich met its target briefly, only to then fall back to the ground with a lifeless thud. Dwight's eyes darkened and he lowered to a crouch beside Daryl, his words a menacing snarl.

"You should be dead," Dwight snapped. "But Negan's taken a shine to you. You're damn lucky, unlike that little girl of yours. Don't you ever forget it."

Daryl's muscles tensed involuntarily as he turned sharply. "What the hell are you talkin' about?" He demanded.  His voice sounded hoarse from disuse.

Dwight abruptly smirked. "You don't know?" He taunted, relishing in Daryl's discomfort. "Oh, you're in for a real treat."

The scarred Savior produced a small, white Polaroid picture from his shirt pocket and tossed it callously to the ground, followed by another. Daryl's guarded gaze fell upon the exposed photographs, his breath catching in his throat as he recognized Glenn's blue t-shirt amid the grisly scene of blood and brain matter. The other image drew his attention next, and his vision suddenly blurred.

"Bon appétit." Dwight clapped the hunter on the shoulder, his laughter ringing hollow as he slammed the cell door shut, leaving Daryl alone once more.

With trembling hands, Daryl reached for the nearest, gruesome picture, his heart hammering painfully in his chest. The emptiness in his gut expanded, tears beginning to trickle down his warm cheeks unchecked as he took in Astrid's anguished, kneeling form. It was not her expression that tore entirely at him—it was the lifeless, tiny, bloodied body cradled in her arms. Bailey.

Shoulders convulsing uncontrollably, Daryl's muted whimpers escalated into broken sobs, each breath a struggle as if he were drowning. The realization hit him like a physical blow—the gunshot he had heard, but not seen, from the morning of the lineup had not been aimed at his wife, but rather it had been aimed at Bailey.

Their girl was dead because of their actions. Because Daryl had been torn away. Because Astrid had tried to reach for him.

Daryl thought immediately of Astrid, and his cries grew louder, sharper. He considered her own sure and solitary agony. She was undoubtedly blaming herself, would let herself be destroyed by it. Daryl ached and crumbled at the thought of her pain, a suffering he was powerless to lift.

He could not hold her.

The helplessness of it all threatened to shatter him.

But the hunter fully broke upon understanding that he would never see Bailey again. The final memory of her—not a playful grin but a frightened glance through Astrid's sheltering hair. They had failed her, failed in their promise to raise her and protect her like their own. That devastation bore down on the childless father until he could no longer bear to hold the bloody images, pushing them away as he curled up onto his knees, dry heaving.

The cement walls closed in. Daryl began to gasp blindly for air that would not come, the terror of suffocation mirroring the suffocation of his grief-stricken mind. He was trapped, both physically and emotionally, heart ripping open, and would die in this dark cell, leaving Astrid to face a cruel world alone.

Daryl could not breathe. Could not breathe knowing his wife was alive yet buried in so much agony. Could not breathe knowing he was to blame for so much of it.

He plunged his hand into his throat, desperate to purge the choking sensation in his chest. As he lost his stomach in the dark, his strength ebbed, until his arms gave out and he collapsed to the hard, freezing ground, his shadowy gaze fixed on the sliver of light beneath the door, on the world he was barred from.

Vomit and tears mingled on Daryl's feverish, clammy skin as he lay there, helpless to move. His teary gaze crawled toward the haunting Polaroids. It would not be long before he died now. Slowly and painfully, unconsciousness pressed in . . .

A sudden jolt yanked Daryl back from the brink, a rough hand clenching onto the back of his neck. Startled, Daryl recoiled as he was ripped upright, disoriented by the passage of time again. Through the haze, he recognized his unwelcome awakener. Dwight.

"Walk," the scarred Savior harshly ordered. He shoved Daryl forward and out of the dark cell. The hunter walked onward blindly, his bare feet scratching on the dusty floors of the Savior's compound.

Navigating down many unrecognizable corridors, the two men soon halted before a red-colored door. Daryl noted the door briefly from his earlier escape attempt. Before, he had not given it a second glance. Now, barely able to stand upright, Daryl still could not bother to give it much attention.

That was until Dwight reached around him and pushed the door open. "Step in."

Daryl reluctantly took one heavy step after another. As he entered the cramped room, his eyes swept over the mundane furnishings—a kitchenette, a bed, a television tucked in one corner—until they settled on the figure lounging on the couch: Negan, with his familiar barbed-wire bat resting casually against his knee.

Daryl struggled to avoid staring at the weapon. It was spotless. He might have never suspected it was responsible for caving two heads in.

"Jesus," Negan drawled. Daryl's attention shifted to the leader of the Savior's expression, where a smirk danced on his lips as he assessed Daryl's disheveled state. "You look fucking awesome. Don't you worry. I'll have Doctor Carson fix you right up." Standing upright, he extended a bottle of water towards Daryl. "Thirsty?" He inquired, but his amusement soured when he noticed Daryl's hesitation upon taking the bottle. "Oh, right, forgot that your mouth was all puffed up like a baboon's ass," He snickered. "D, go get him a damn straw, what the fuck's wrong with you?"

Dwight shot Daryl a venomous glare before begrudgingly crossing the room to rummage in a drawer, returning moments later with a straw inserted into the bottle. Still, Daryl made no move to drink.

"Believe it or not, things weren't always cool between D and I," Negan remarked idly. "You see, he worked for points. Him and his super-fucking-hot wife, and her super-fucking-hot sister. Thing is, she needed meds, and that shit is hard to scavenge so it costs more. Sis fell behind on points, so I asked her to marry me. Told her I would take care of her in sickness and in health because I am a stand-up guy. She tells me that she's going to fucking think about it. Next thing you know, I'm dealing with an orange situation. Dwighty boy stole all of the medication and took off his with super-fucking-hot wife, and my super-fucking-hot maybe soon-to-be fiancé."

Negan's stare had fixed itself upon Dwight. "So, I had to send my fucking guys after him because I can't let something like that stand," He continued. "There are fucking rules. Cost me an arm and a leg going after him. And you know what? Dwighty boy, that motherfucker, still got away, but here's the thing: he saw the light. He fucking manned up. He came back. He asked for my fucking forgiveness . . . I like that. It made me take notice." As he spoke, Negan lifted the barbed-wire bat slightly, causing Daryl to instinctively shrink back. "But Lucille, well . . . You know how she is. She is a fucking stickler for the rules.

"Dwight begged me not to kill Sherry which I thought was kind of cute, so I was just going to kill him," Negan disclosed with a grin. "But then Sherry says she'll marry me if I let Dwight live, which if you think about it, is a pretty fucked up deal because I was going to marry her sister 'til she wound up dead but . . . Sherry is super-fucking-hot." Negan huffed loudly, clearly enjoying this recounting. "Anyway, it was a start, but it wasn't enough. So, Dwight got the iron and then I married his super-fucking-hot wife . . . ex-wife. And then after all that, he still got on board. Now fucking look at him! One of my top guys! And we are totally fucking cool."

Many thoughts swirled in Daryl's mind, struggling to keep pace with Negan's history. Glancing discreetly at Dwight, he saw the truth behind the lead Savior's facade—they were far from the friends Negan believed them to be. Dwight was merely playing a game, a dangerous one, for the sake of Sherry, for his wife.

Suddenly, Daryl considered Sherry's negative pregnancy test. Then his stomach plummeted, realizing that the odds were, it had not been Dwight's.

Another surge of silent anger rose within him, painting his vision red. Daryl envisioned a nightmare scenario where Astrid, his own wife, could have been ensnared in this twisted web. Would he be left to suffer while Astrid was bartered away? The mere thought of Astrid, left without a choice, vulnerable in Negan's arms, her lips, her body, forced against his, fueled a firestorm of rage within Daryl that clenched his fists and set his blood boiling.

"The fucking point being . . ." Negan's voice dragged Daryl back to the present with an icy grip. "I think you could be that guy," He intoned, his dark eyes boring into the hunter's. "I think you are ready to be that guy. I mean, look around here. This little place could be yours. I could even get your wife here—what was her fucking name? I never knew." With Daryl's silence as the only answer, Negan persisted. "Anyways, all you've got to do is answer one simple fucking question . . . Who are you?"

Daryl's muscles tensed like coiled springs at Negan's demand. Automatically, he knew the ploy. There was a script to this act of dominance, a script he would never play along with.

"Cat got your fucking tongue? Are you just overwhelmed by the awesomeness of this? I'm going to ask you one more fucking time." Negan invaded Daryl's space, his breath a cold whisper against Daryl's bruised skin, daring him to betray himself. "Who are you?" He repeated.

Daryl's stubborn resolve hardened like forged steel. He refused to yield and did not fear the retaliation that his actions would surely bring. No one could get hurt here besides himself, and he was willing to be hurt dozens of times over before he ever allowed Negan to reach Astrid or his son. He needed to stay strong for them. He needed to stay strong for Rick, and Maggie, and Carl, and Aaron, and the others. He needed to stay strong for Bailey, and Glenn, and Abraham, who had all died by this sadistic man's order.

The hunter refused to let more innocent blood be spilled.

Let it be his.

So, straightening his back and shoulders, ignoring the sting as the skin over his bullet wound pulled, he looked up into Negan's black, demeaning eyes and gritted his teeth together in a snarl. "Daryl," He spat back.

Negan's grin dipped into a grimace of disbelief, a mask slipping to reveal the viper beneath. "And he's made his fucking choice," He sneered. "Ain't my problem if it's a dumb ass choice."

The sudden, ensuing blow landed like a thunderclap to the side of Daryl's head. He gritted his teeth against the oncoming flare of pain, the world momentarily blurring as his left eye swelled shut. It was a cruel mercy that Negan chose the blunt end of his bat; it meant he would be dragged back to his cell alive rather than be left a bloody, mangled mess on the floor of that damn room.

Eventually, Dwight's rough grip yanked him away from Negan's shadow. He began to drag Daryl's battered form back along the corridor. Each pause and turn felt like a crawl through hell, every jolt sending throbbing spikes through Daryl's aching body. By the time they reached the confines of his cell, the hunter was grateful to be returned.

As he collapsed into the furthest, most-protected corner of the shadows, battered but unbroken, Daryl's icy glare met Dwight's, who still watched him from the open doorway.

"You've got a wife and a baby," the scarred Savior said sharply. "And you're willing to give them up?"

Daryl glanced down at his freshly bloody and dirty hands. "I'm willin' to die for them," He corrected.

"You're on that path already," Dwight scoffed. "You'll either end up in that room or hanging on the fence. Your choice."

As Dwight turned to leave the cell, Daryl's words chased after him. "I get why you did it, why you took the medicine," He called out. Dwight's footsteps faltered, one hand gripping the doorframe as he slowly turned to face Daryl again, who still sat hidden in the shadows. "You were thinkin' about someone else," He continued, "and you let it break you."

Daryl's mind raced back to Astrid and their unborn son again. For many days, they had been the sole reason the hunter was still holding on. But they were also his vulnerability, a weakness he could not afford to indulge in anymore. He could not risk becoming like Dwight, broken and manipulated by his love for them.

With painful clarity, Daryl realized what he had to do. He could not let his loved ones be used against him, could not let his own heart betray him. So, as much as it tore him apart inside, he made a decision that felt like tearing out a part of his soul. He would push them away. Lock their memories in a dark, unreachable corner of his mind, shielded from the dangers of the Saviors.

Daryl had to prove, had to make the world believe that he could survive without them by his side. His wife and son, his everything, had to become his past. He had to sacrifice their love because, in the end, it was the only way to protect them.

"That's why I can't," The hunter whispered to himself. He lowered his head, hiding a solitary tear as it traced a path down his dirt-and-blood-streaked cheek. If Dwight saw any confirmation of such emotion, he said nothing. Made no target of it. Then, the scarred Savior was gone, the cell door slamming shut.

And Daryl Dixon was left to the dark.

~~~~~~~~~~

these chapters are so emotionally draining, my goodness. it is so hard to write daryl's pain. especially when all of his pain is so deeply rooted in his love for astrid. the fact that his love for her is physically hurting him and making him sick right now breaks my heart. it's so tough.

we're back to astrid's perspective in the next chapter. where do you think we will find her?

again, as always i hope i am doing this story justice. so sorry for the long break in chapters. i just needed to take a minute before stepping back into this story. thank you all for your patience, there is more to come soon...