Better Angels

I hugged my knees, to conceal the private grief falling from my eyes and carved into my face. My remained smooth though, uncontorted in pain, sober and smooth. I couldn't bring myself to feel the right things. They were lost, every emotion in me, they all felt foreign, like I don't know myself at all.

So what does it all mean?

A am unsure, as I look out the cloudy glass over the yard, anyone could look up into the shed windows, and not see me. And I am perfectly comfortable with that, I don't want that.

I once again felt as though I wanted to become apart of the glass, to disappear into something no one notices anymore... To be forgotten, never spoken of again. I guess I'm different from other people who want to die heroic deaths. I don't want to die that way, I don't want to really be remembered, just at least thrown into a hole with some dirt tossed o my face to keep walkers out.

I sighed a little, and finally pulled my eyes away from the glass, looking right, around the rest of the hayloft. Though it wasn't nearly as much of an hayloft as it's name gave it credit for.

Above the scant pile of bales, is a wide wooden shelf that wraps around the room, cardboard boxes containing items of the past sit up there, I look at them, how much more can it hurt?

I dry my eyes on the sleeve of my dark green V-neck sweater, tucking the cuffs into my palm as I stand, my breathing isn't very steady, but then again, what is? I climb the bales up to the shelf, and pull the closest box towards me and open the top flaps.

It hit me pretty hard... The first thing in the box was a quilt my grandma made, I remember sitting beside her on her paisley couch in her antique living room while she sewed it, it was one of the weekends I spent the night.

I pull it out, holding it to my chest with one hand as I dig through, at the bottom was a small collections of books, I smile.

I gather three chapter books from the box and walk back towards the windowsill, I sit down, kicking off my boots and draping the quilt around myself, I grab a match from the box above the window and light the lantern just behind my head, it fills the room with a warm glow.

I look through the books to see which three I'd picked up.

They were good ones, one I'd only heard about and the other two I had read before. Why it was that my grandma had owned The Fault in Our Stars, I have no idea. But I'd always wanted to read it.

I open the book, it is stiff, from remaining unread for a long time. She died a year before the apocaylypse broke out.

I opened the cover, and written in her familiar handwriting on the first page: Dearest Aries, happy 15th birthday! I think you'll like this one.

I frown a little, she hadn't lived to actually give me it, how long had she had it around her house before she decided it would be a fifteenth birthday gift. My birthday is in one and a half months anyways.

I open to the first page, chapter one, the first paragraph, and I am in love.

I read a few chapters, liking how the main character, Hazel Grace was developing with her co-character, Augustus Waters. They were unique...

I still felt the numb feeling, like the feeling after you put ice on a burn, I tried to ignore it, and force my eyes to words, it worked for a while... Until morning when I had to emerge again.



I felt abundantly tired, I rubbed my eyes, though I hadn't slept at all, but still, all it did was blur my vision a little, like smudging paint.

I stand, and stumble, the blue bindered book falls out of the crumpled quilt onto the wood floor, I pick it and the quilt up, fold them neatly and set them together in a stack by the windowsill, I look out the window, only to be let down by the foggy glass.

I check my watch, the time is suitable for getting up now, so I do. I jog down the ladder and take care of the horses while I am there, and then walk out of the shed.

Work and movement is slow outside, it's like the high has finally worn off and they've woken to this outstanding pain. I feel the guilt again, crippling me into slouching my shoulders as I drift forward, moving onto my next set of self-selected chores.

As I walk, I hear a shout, and look over my shoulder at the quickly approaching figure, angry, tear stricken face, already red from yelling too much, I can see the impending pain immenating from her.

"Andrea." I greet calmly.

"You..." She seethed "You had a hand in Dale's death?" She demands, and this is the last thing I want to talk about.

"Yes, I'm sure gossip just spreads like wild fire around your group." I say flatly.

"It's unfair, Dale was a great man. He's dead, and you're still alive."

"So kill me then." I say emotionlessly, surprised by my own words that they are not brave nor careless, defiant? Maybe, more like they are just themselves, I am becoming myself more and more every day.

It falters Andrea's plans, and she has to think about it before whipping out another accusation.

"Why?" She asks, dropping her arms at her sides "Why should I kill you? That'd be too easy, and it'd get us all kicked out of here."

I cross my arms impatiently "So I've heard."

"Look..." I sigh, dropping my arms and looking over my shoulder, "if it's really bothering you so much, give me a hit, it'll relieve some anger."

Her blue eyes narrowed "I'm not hitting a kid."

"I'm not exactly a kid, nor an adult... Just trapped in this young life form, I know where I belong."

"And where is that?" She challenges.

"It's not here, not this camp, I strive everyday for the best I can give, I will never fit in with all of you clicky people. I'm sorry for your loss, but Dale wouldn't want yuo all clinging, let it go and take a deep breath, you're gonna be alright."

She had nothing left to say, I could tell by the crooked set of her mouth, so I offered a small smile and pat her shoulder, walking off to cut firewood.

{}{}{}

So aparently the gore and mourning was enough to set off the dance, which I was fine with. I couldn't care less about the dance, I was just looking forward to spending the evening talking to Jackson.

I sit in the hayloft, with The Fault in Our Stars lying open in my lap, my eyes scanning word after word, describing in great detail the lifestyle of Amsterdam, somewhere I'd likely never go.

There was a knock and I looked up at Daryl, who like most days, appeared out of the thin air, he stood there, wearing a blue button down shirt over a sleevless brown flannel one, mostly concealed underhis black leather jacket and leather vest with the faded wings stitched on the back.

"Hey." I smiled slightly, it was unusual for him to come and find me.

"Hey..." He said slowly, walking forward slowly. "I'm lookin' for a place ta crash till twelve, I'm on watch, mind if I stay ere'?"

"You go on watches a lot." I observed, shrugging "Go for it, make yourself comfortable."

Though as he did, I began to lack that feeling.

He laid back in the hay a few feet away, looking up at the ceiling for a while, until eyes strayed to my face, and I found it difficult to concentrate on the words without feeling self conscious.

"Read to me?"

"What?"

"Read to me."

I looked at him in surprise, shaking my head dubiously "I doubt you'd like this one."

"What's it about?"

"A couple that both have cancer."

"Sounds facinating, now, speak up."

I look at him for a long time before looking down again and looking for my place on the page again, was I really going to do it? I began reading outloud before I'd made that decision.

"'Of course.' said our waiter. "We have bottled up all the stars this evening, my young friends. Gah, the confetti!" he said, and lightly brushed a seed from my bare shoulder.

"It hasn't been so bad in many years. It's everywhere. Very annoying."

The waiter disappeared. We watched the confetti fall from the sky and skip across the ground in the breeze- I'm sorry, am I boring you?" I asked, amused when I looked up and Daryl no longer had his eyes fixed on anything, instead they were closed.

He shook his head 'no' but didn't open his eyes. "Nah, keep readin' I'll catch up eventually."

I looked at his face for a few more seconds and began to read again.

{}{}{}

"Daryl, wake up. It's time for your watch."

I shake his shoulder, her mumbles something incoherent and rolls onto his side, grunting as he gets up, gathering his things and he walks towards the ladder, pausing as he stands right above it, looking down, without looking back, he says "Thanks fer the story, though you were right, I didn't get a damn thing."

He climbs down, and I watch him walk away out the foggy glass window, it is dark out, midnight, and I can't see much.

I reach for my boot, I have an idea. But my fingers stumble lost over the empty seath, I look around, panicked, when I realize I do not have my knife, and there is a good reason for it too. I'll go get it tomorrow... Though maybe I don't need it.

I reach up and press around one of the frosted cloudy glass squares, until I push a loose one, is shifts a little between the wood.

I press my knuckles into it, pressing harder until I hear the wood on the otherside splinter a little, and the glass square falls out, a soft rustle as it lands in the dead bushes growing below.

I look out the small 3x3 inch square, the sky cloudy and dark, bears no stars, and the little bit of light is from the remianing embers of the campfire. Only one person sits there, gazing into the flames, like everyone else had before they'd left.

Their eyes move up almost instinctively to the window. Tufts of black hair poke out of the from of the hoodie, he smiles, only a little, then it falls and he raises his left hand, beckoning towards himself.

I climb out of the hayloft and out the shed, towards the warm orange light bathing the immediate area, I sit beside him, my hands clasped together, draped over my knees as I mirror him and look into the flames.

"I'm really going to miss him." Jackson finally says after a few minutes, I look up at him, slightly confused on who.

"Alex... He was a shy tech kid who attended collage for three years... Studying computers..." He snorts and shakes his head, looking at the yellow dying embers living within the wood.

"I'm sorry." I whisper, leaning against his right shoulder and draping my arm around his back.

"So am I." He sighes, wiping his palms on his dirty jeans, they are stained with blood and dirt, I think I realize what he did.

"I trust these poeple." Jackson says, looking down at me from the corner of his eye "I do, but with Alex's body, I just wanted to do it myself." He said when he noticed me looking at the dried blood on his knees.

"I personally cleaned up his face... Hands, of blood. Wrapped him and put him into that Godforsaken hole, I covered him up... And- I'm not very religious, but he was, I told him a prayer. The best one I could conjure..."

I notice his face twisting into a mask of pain and I rub his back "Hey, it's ok. He'd be happy with what you've done, it's going to be fine. Our lives depend on the pain we experiance and face every day, it may feel cruel now, but jut give it a little time. The pain never completely goes away, just makes it easier to ignore."

I smile at him, and he forces one as well.

"Thanks..." He sighes, I nod.

"If you ever want to talk, I'm sure you'll know where to find me."

He laughs, a little. It sounds more like a cough. "Yeah, I do."

We don't speak for a few more minutes, comfortable silence passes between us and we look into the flames.

"Actually, I want to show you something... If you want?" He asked nervously, peeking at me sheepishly.

I nod "Yeah, ok."

We stand, and he offers his hand, which I take slowly, and we walk towards the woodpile, where this morning I'd chopped a pile of wood. There was that splintery shed, that housed my mom's Mustang and my dad's old blue Chevy pickup with the bulbus cab.

He pulled open the door that I usually had trouble with, with ease. We step inside and the door clatters shut behind us,

"This way," He tugs my hand around in the darkness, he pauses by the Mustang, and opens the backseat and jumps in, propping his feet up on the console, patting the dusty seat beside him, I sit slowly, and look over at him, he gets a lighter and a pack of cigarettes from his jacket.

"Smoke?"

"You do?" I ask, surprised, I'd never seen him do it.

He shrugs "On occaison, it's fun."

I nod slowly, feeling uneasy about that, smoking was something that I had wanted to avoid before the world went to shit.

He hands me one, which I cradle in my hands and look down at the killing stick, he lights his and offers me the lighter, noticin my reservations. "Oh don't worry, you don't get hooked the first time."

I still don't move, so he carefully takes it from my hand and presses it to my lips, lighting it.

"Inhale." He instructs, eyes bright.

I do, hardly at all though, I cough out most of it, I wave my hand to clear the immediate air around my face "How can you stand that?"

"It gets better, though I can understand if yuo don't think it's for you."

I hand it back to him and he burns out the ash and stuffs it back into his pack.

He grins at me in the dark, and pulls his own from his lips and blows out the smoke, cracking the window a little to let it all out.

"Y'know what?"

"What?" I answer, leaning back and looking up at the ceiling.

"You look really pretty." He says softly.

"You've said that before." I remind him.

"I know." He says "I only say it if I mean it, though."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I laugh queitly, looking out the window at the dark shadows cast across the cement floor from the small row of tiny windows above the sagging garage door.

"It means I know well enough to do this," He laughs lightheartedly now, lightly brushing my hair out of my eyes, I look back at him, and he leans in quickly, kissing my lips, the taste of the putrid cigarettes somehow sweet, though interferant.

It was as awkward of a first kiss as you can imagine, so I just let him handle it, forcing my arms to stay pinned at my sides, I let my eyelids fall shut, and one involuntary hand raises, and brushes his cheekbone.

He breaks away, his eyes above me and breathing a little heavy, he whispers roughly with narrowed eyes "Ever 'done it' before?"

I shake my head no, because I know my voice will crack hysterically if I speak.

His smile is soft, coy, he pulls off his sweatshirt, pulling his t-shirt over his head, my eyes adjusting, I notice in the pale light the tiny lines up his arms, on his chest and shoulders.

"What are those?" I ask, leaning forward to brush my fingers across the rough skin which was tell tale of scars, they were all the same length, some slightly jagged, they were cross hatched, four even lines, with one diagonal lin going right across them, counting days, survivors, maybe?

"It's something I did." He says quietly "I didn't want to pack around a calender to remember how many people had died and when, how many days it had been, so now I don't have to."

I looked up his arms, the lines, were drawn by the blade of a knife, pale pink, twisting up across his shoulder, where a tattoo of a black crucifix resided, across his chest, down his forearms and as I lean over his shoulder, they are on his back, bigger, messier lines, they stop right above his ribs. My breathing stops, and I see it, the cuts are deep, there is a fresh thin cut, three of them, beside the many others, and below it are the twisted, still bleeding words, each letter etched sharply, the three words Death will come.

I feel the chill down my spine, my blood freeze, and the sudden urge to push open the car door and run. Jackson was a crazy...

"Do you like my scars?" Jackson whispers, brushing his hand across my back.

"Why would you do that to yourself?..." I whisper, fury and confusion in my voice, pulling back.

"You're afraid." He states the truth in flat black honesty, dark eyes hidden in the shadows cast across his face.

"No." I lie, but he just smiles, reaching down to gather both my wrists in his hand, raising them over my head in record speed, slamming them into the glass of the window.

He leans forward, body leaning over my legs, he smiles "There is nothing to fear, I am just as human as you, just as brutal as them: I can protect you."

"I don't need to be protected." I whisper harshly.

He laughs "Yes you do, you are just like every other girl on his planet, you crave safety, and no matter how you feel when you have your bow or knife or gun, you'll nevr feel as liberated as you do when someone's arms are wrapped around you, hands all over you, feeling you. You want that."

"I dont-"

"Don't lie!" He yells sharply, then his voice softens "You need me, I need you. I know how you feel about your sister, I was there with here after things went to hell, she was worried sick about you, wanted to get back as soon as possible, so we ended up in Torrington, scrounging every day for enough food, all because she had to see you! It's your fault Alex is dead! I can't forgive you!" He snarles, "So I'm taking the one thing from you that is irreplaceable, the one thing that will change you..."

I go to kick him in the stomach, but he pushes my hands against the glass harder, farther away from me, and he grabs my belt with one hand, undoing it and ripping it out, tying my gathered hands together with it, and then locking it onto the headrest of the chair.

My arms dangle above my head, and my legs are flattened under his weight, he pulls away my jeans, and I try to kick him again, he smirks and gets his knife and presses it into my jaw.

"It'll be good." He says, but it sounds more like a warning.

I can't thrash against him anymore, pain resides in me, he grins at me as he rolls the condom up his dick, I feel sick, unbeliving that I ever trusted the douche. There was always something off about him, Daryl was right...

Daryl!

He's on watch, I look up to be sure the window is still cracked open from the cigarettes, then I yell at the top of my lungs.

"DARYL! HELP! DARYL! DAR-"

Jackson slaps me hard, it feels sharp against my cheek, he plants a filthy hand against my mouth "Shut the fuck up, bitch!"

I struggle under him, he takes his knife, and a hard blow coms down on the side of my head.