Chasing Amy (Daryl Dixon/The Walking Dead)

Chapter 60 - Michonne

I woke to the sound of laughter.

Light, quiet, laughter... a small chuckle from a small voice and a light giggle. Although the sound came from a distance, it registered in my ears as though it had happened right beside me.

It was nice to wake up to a happy sound.

My eyes remained closed, head still slightly sore after a long nap. Even the pain in my legs had dulled down, leaving my joints a little stiff, but nonetheless lighter than before.

Daryl had walked me back to my cell in silence, hand ghosting just behind my back, as though with the slightest blow of the wind, I'd fall back and hurt myself.

I found myself, at that point, reminiscing of multiple encounters where he'd sworn he'd never go out of his way to help me, to protect me.

It seemed so long ago.

I wriggled my toes from under the thin cotton blanket, tiredly adjusting my body after such a stiff nap.

It seemed like the past two days had been spent sleeping, trying to sleep, being told to sleep, and thinking about sleep.

Now it was my time to get up and be productive.

Well, as productive as I could be, considering I had no idea what was happening outside.

"She'll do it again, just make a face... I don't know." Carl's voice sounded light, almost as though all the heaviness that had taken over his body had been lifted since I'd last seen him.

My eyes fluttered open, squinting in the dark of my cell.

How nice it would be once we could get some basic electricity in here.

I looked down at the chairs beside me, expecting them to be empty, like they were when I drifted to sleep.

Instead, a pouch of what I expected to be four knives, sat propped against the back of the metal chair.

There were five.

I grimaced slightly, remembering the sole throwing knife left upright in the dry soil... remembering Daryl's vacant expression, his tight lips.

I could barely remember where I'd even left my knives... It was strange to be looking straight at them, as though nothing had happened beforehand.

Daryl must've collected them for me.

I sat up slowly, grabbing the leather pouch from the chair.

As though I almost doubted my senses, I counted each blade, letting the tips of the sharp knives prick my fingers as I counted.

All five of them were present.

I huffed a strand of hair from in front of my eye, before climbing to my feet.

It was always a mission to clip the pouch back to my belt, as my fingers often shook on their own accord, making the actual clipping process quite a challenge.

Today, however, my leg throbbed as the pouch rested against what I knew to be the centre point of the bruise on my thigh.

I inhaled sharply.