OUTLIVE.
❝The dead were never the enemy.
It was the living. ❞
THE WALKING DEAD.
DARYL DIXON.
BOOK TWO of the LANCASTER SAGA.
[ SEASONS 4 - 6 ]
*****
*I do not own The Walking Dead or any of its characters. I simply write to write. Astrid, any addi...
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[ lxix. it's going to go wrong out here ]
october 27th, 2012
➸➸➸
THE NIGHT THAT FOLLOWED the senseless murder of Denise Cloyd was one of torment, each hour dragging Astrid deeper into the abyss of her own mind. Sleep was impossible, as she lay ensnared within her sweat-soaked bed sheets. Every time that she dared to close her eyes, her friend's bloodied face awaited her. Even after two showers, she could still feel the dirt mucked beneath her fingernails as she laid her murdered friend six feet deep.
Beside her in the dark, Daryl fared no better. Through the hours of the night, he continuously was forced upright, his pupil-blown stare flying to the wall where his crossbow lay. Each restless movement of his tore Astrid from her fitful slumber, but she remained silent, watching him carefully, ensuring he did not hurt himself. Otherwise, what words could she offer to ease his pain? He blamed himself. He claimed she blamed him, too, even though she harbored no such accusation. The only true culprit in this tragedy was the Saviors.
Since their return home that evening, the mention of Dwight's name had forced a heavy silence between them. Even Bailey had sensed their tension, though her innocent inquiries met with evasive answers and uneasy glances from Daryl. Eventually, unable to bear Bailey's hurt expressions, Astrid sent her to the house next door to stay with Sasha and Abraham for the evening, to shield their young girl from their growing isolation.
And for the first time since their wedding night, their promise to each other had been broken. They had gone to bed angry. Though it had not been directed at one another, but rather at the cruel distance imposed by the world around them.
They had lain in their shared bed, untouching, facing away from each other. By dawn, Astrid felt a profound emptiness settling within her. Still feeling unwell, she longed for the comfort only her husband could offer, yet he remained away, unwilling to even look at her.
Now, as Astrid emerged from the shower the next morning, a familiar wave of vertigo gripped her, causing her to cling to the countertop for support. The steam from the hot water had dissipated, but the tightness in her chest had not left this time. Each gulp of air was a struggle, though she forced it down.
With Denise, her friend and doctor, now dead, Astrid had no one to turn to for reassurance regarding her health. She had no option but to soldier on alone. Wrapping a towel tightly around her slender form, she examined her reflection in the mirror. Naked frailty stared back at her. Her pregnancy had rendered her unnaturally thin, her once vibrant features now pallid and worn. Dark circles spread underneath her bloodshot eyes, and her split lips were dry and cracked.
Slowly, Astrid dressed herself. She reached for a soft, oversized sweater, and eyed her abdomen. Despite the noticeable swell of her stomach, the sight only served to deepen her despondency. To a stranger, she appeared vulnerable, an easy target.
