It is, really, not all that unusual. Daryl is no stranger to ghosts; real ghosts, well, maybe, but they live surrounded by the dead in more than one way. Now and then the rotted features resolve themselves into a face, and you wonder. Every goddamn day the people they've lost walk with them; a weight, an ache, a reminder to do better; the strength to keep fighting or the familiar dulled sting of loss. It's worse here, because he's alone, because they don't let him sleep, because he's going out of his fucking mind. Because he got one of his best friends killed.
When he shuts his eyes he can't help seeing it, the stuttering horror of that night on an endless loop. Abraham's defiance, the sick sound of Glenn hitting the ground. People don't leave, once they're gone.
It doesn't even really surprise him. He's been listening to Merle sneer at him on and off, distant sobs that make him think of Beth, of Carol's girls; he can't tell what's real and what isn't. Glenn being here to judge him a while-- why not?
He deserves it.
All he can do for the moment is stare, halfway waiting for everything to change-- for the shape to solidify and then melt into a gruesome parody of a face, all blood and bone and dangling eye. No use talking. He's got nothing to say in his own defense.
how dare
When he shuts his eyes he can't help seeing it, the stuttering horror of that night on an endless loop. Abraham's defiance, the sick sound of Glenn hitting the ground. People don't leave, once they're gone.
It doesn't even really surprise him. He's been listening to Merle sneer at him on and off, distant sobs that make him think of Beth, of Carol's girls; he can't tell what's real and what isn't. Glenn being here to judge him a while-- why not?
He deserves it.
All he can do for the moment is stare, halfway waiting for everything to change-- for the shape to solidify and then melt into a gruesome parody of a face, all blood and bone and dangling eye. No use talking. He's got nothing to say in his own defense.