Chasing Amy (Daryl Dixon/The Walking Dead)

Chapter 5 - Grief

Patricia, the woman with the towels, gently lifted Randall's leg so she could slide one of the folded towels under him. It was probably the kindest he'd been treated all week, but then he was used to being thrashed around after the many months he had been with our camp.

"Is everything set?" Hershel asked the woman. He seemed red in the face and very flustered from his conversation with Shane.

"Should be," She said quietly, fiddling with the box of painkillers.

I wasn't prepared to listen to them operate on Randall, so I turned my head forward and tried to block out their voices.

Randall was panicking, I could hear him panting loudly from where I was sitting.

I didn't want to be in the room. I hated blood, and I hated people being in pain.

"Now just calm down, son." Hershel's deep voice was calming, or at least attempting to be, as Randall became more and more frightened.

"No, no," He croaked, clearly exhausted just like me. I didn't have the guts to look over at him, as his groans became shouts, and those shouts quickly morphed into petrified screams.

"Hold him down, Patricia!"

I could feel my stomach lurching, my hands shaking, my body aching. I just wanted to put my hands up to my ears and tune out the world, but because of those cuffs, I couldn't even do that.

So I sat there, my eyes clenched closed, my nose burning with the stench of fresh blood and sweat.

To add to that, Randall's screams were intensifying, and I swear almost every roamer in the state must've heard him.

"Patricia, hand me the bandages."

I kept my back to the situation at all times, not even daring myself to sneak a peek at what was happening. I kept my head down, and imagined anything but the scene unfolding behind me.

There was one last yelp from Randall, before the barn went silent again.

I turned my head towards them hesitantly, half-expecting Randall to be dead in a pool of his own blood. Instead, he was laying back against the wall, face dripping with sweat. He was alive, and his leg intact.

"I thought he would've passed out at least once." Hershel sighed, beginning to pick up his tools. To my disgust, some of them still had blood on them.

I felt myself slump back from my original stiff position; finally, there was another moment of silence.

"We'll be back with food in a while," Patricia said to Randall softly, before turning back to Hershel. "Let's go."

I was glad to be alone for the first time in what felt like ages. Randall was now sleeping, I imagine those painkillers Patricia had given him sent him straight to sleep.

The one thing I couldn't handle about being alone is that my brother Dave began to creep back into my thoughts. I had tried to keep him out of my mind, for the purpose of focusing on survival.

There was no time for grief in a world like this.

It would have been the perfect time for a small sleep, but as hard as I tried, my eyes wouldn't close.

What had I gotten myself into?

If I'd just stayed in my tent at camp, I wouldn't be in this position. Jane, my brother's wife, wouldn't be alone.

It wouldn't change the fact that my brother was gone, but I would be safe, and there for the last remaining member of my family.

I turned over, so that I was facing towards the door. My arm was killing me, already numb from the pressure of the cold metal. I gingerly readjusted my arm, so that the cuff wasn't pressing so hard into my skin.