﹖ᵀᴴᴱㅤ𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫 ﹐

and although amy isn't offering they pry themselves off the wall and go hunting for gas to huff, she'd probably still go with him if daryl asked. fingers take back the smoke, puffing conservatively to keep them out here longer. black fog is held in her lungs, wondering if she's smoked out all the powder by now; and if daryl had smoked out all the gas. she shifts her weight again, hand curls over his closest shoulder as she reaches down as far as her ribs allow to fuck around with her laces.

it’s strange, how things happen and they don’t turn out like you think they will.

i’m sorry we fought.

a little sleep and you’ll be as good as new.

aren’t you going to eat?

you’ve got to live.

and that’s a kind of love. having somebody do that for you.

because it’s snowing. hard.

you’re awake. how do you feel? 

drink it hot so it gets down.

thank you for saving me.

you’re still here.

it’s nothing to worry about. you go to sleep.

i was afraid.

there isn’t much time to be a kid out here.

you rest for now.

don’t die.

kind of cut my arm. a little.

damn, it seems like yesterday.

but life has a way of pulling the rug out from under you just when you need it least.

i fought sleep as hard as i could.

you can’t stay here, you’ll die.

there was beauty then – beauty and love. then it all went to hell.

i’ll stay as long as it takes, as long as you need me.

just double-checking to make sure there isn’t anything wrong.

i know, i know. it’s all right now.

what time is it?

you’ll spend the night.

don’t worry – it’s all over now.

go away. leave me alone.

it seems like everything they call growing up has to jerk your guts out and just about wreck you and i’ve never been able to understand why that’s supposed to be good for you. 

it just sounded dumb to me.

which made what happened a lot harder to live with, i can tell you.

sometimes it would be nice if life just kept happening the way it’s happening, if things got to a good place and just stayed there, didn’t change.

they have to try or it was all for nothing, and nobody likes to do something all for nothing.

this place gives me the creeps.

it’s dumber than falling in love and freezing your ears until the lobes almost fall off.

i think it’s sad. that’s what i think.

always ask the second question. don’t just ask why, but why why? 

i figured you’d need a colorful picture to look at – cheer you up.

so nothing. never mind.

i just wanted to see you, i guess, talk to you.

we’re about the same age but you act a lot more grown up. 

there was no way to tell it was going to happen the way it happened, no way to stop it, really, even if i’d known it was coming.

amy forgets what day christmas lands on. it's strange because, never once has she cared to learn what day the world was on now that the dead are up. it's strange because, about ten years leading up to the dead, all amy ever did was keep track of what day it was in that tiny box cell. she knew the day, the hour, and the second. now, it would be weird to catch her counting. days that is. it takes her fifty three steps to catch up to daryl left decorating the inside one of alexandria's last remaining homes. everyone is inside celebrating what they thought they had lost forever under that fucked up preacher's reign. and amy knows she wouldn't fit into the masses with the only thing leaking from her lips is the quiet, haunting: but we don't know where joseph went. it doesn't fit into any carol acapella'd by those old enough to remember the words, and those young enough to want to learn.

so, fifty three. fifty three with a bad limp amy will only ever think about jacob with every hobble until it heals. from the quiet corner of the house amy was looming by to the sidewall of the opposite wall daryl rests like an ornament. ‘ ..wanna hang out? ’ it's as juvenile as it gets, beneath her beaten gaze and purple eyes, and her butterfly bandages being as close to plastic butterfly clips in her hair as it gets. childhood-less child to another. they slip away. trudging slow through the snow, for amy's sake, and wind up outside alexandria's gates where it doesn't necessarily feel better; but it feels different than being within.

rolled stick is lit like a torch, hardly warming up the small space they take up, but lighting up enough for amy to see daryl in the cherry-end's orange hue. their silence is comfortable, and goes without obligations to gunk up their time together with anything other than smoke. cold fingers hand off the joint, nose crinkling by the scent. ‘ me 'nd my friend, ’ amy suddenly says, already halfway into the memory in her mind. ‘ used t'rip up like, i dunno. paper outta this-this workbook i had. just long-ways, int'a strips, 'nd roll 'em up.. ’ acutely aware daryl could be trying her out in different ages, trying to figure out which age makes the most sense for this story, amy: the poor storyteller, adds it in. ‘ was young.. we'd roll up five or six or something, grab this like.. face powder, or some shit, my— my.. grab it, 'nd go hide in the-the, it's like a-a.. pantry. underground. we'd hide there 'nd-'nd fill the rolled paper with the powder. ’ amy realizes perhaps this isn't that much of a story to share. her and annika were probably confusing the two drugs into one, having been around both. not knowing any better, at the ripe age of seven.

𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐩𝐢𝐝 ? “  nah.  ” he says. on that, he'd already made up his mind.

though sanctified by the witching hour, daryl feels a sort of artery time beneath his ribs. a boyhood buried beneath grime.