HE COULDNâT BEAR TO LISTEN TO THE INCESSANT CRIES OF THE SNARLED WORLD OF THE KILLED; or the throes of agony, the severest of the desperateness (once twice-perished, their dangling jaws choking him, turning any sentiments in his mouth to ash). His back ached, his lungs yearned to work their truest; and, when he was able, he scooted as far away as possible from the one who attacked him.
    Although he was slightly bending from the weakness of startlement, awakening from dark abstraction; heâd not bestow on him a kind smile of welcome. Questions lingered on his tongue, but he swallowed them down; the answers heâd want to hear wouldnât be heard anyway.
    âYou sound just like them.â His delivery (the lilt of his firm pronunciation) dropped to a murmur like that of a perpetual tributary (life-blooming yet humble, and so unlike the supposedly chaotic counterpart that was his mask)âwhere he was once that of a bungling amateur in fellow-feeling, James struggled even more. His eyes would never meet his while he spoke. âItâs⊠barbaric; the way you choose to wound and kill, unhesitatingly. If I was a walker, you couldâve thrown that rock as a distraction. I wouldâve left you alone⊠Instead, youâŠâ
    Heâd remove his walker-skin, fingers still trembling; instantly feeling winnowed and bare. Jamesâ hair was mussed, just like his; his eyes were red-rimmed and barely tear-stained (tears of his heart; the excess of wretchedness that deluged his heart, would not begin to run unchecked down his cheeks, either), just like hisâyet theyâd never understand how when he stared into white-or-yellowed sclera, heâd not see eyes the color of every nightmare that ever was.
    Jamesâ mask was his extraneous medium, something to environ what he couldnât; once, it bared its teeth, yellowish and chipped and crusted dark at the gum line, but it was processed nowâonce, it opened its mouth wide enough, revealing shreds of flesh between its teeth and worse; old skin that smelled rotten and foul.
    âbut, now, it rested on his lap; ineffectual, unless he decided to wear it, but never fully become it. Theyâd never understand.
    ââŠthere are more peaceful ways to go about things⊠without hurting anyone.â
     At pointed words, Daryl's gaze returned to the boy who nearly became his victim. Like them - who were they? Certainly not Walkers, they didn't talk. A group he had crossed once before? Ah, but Daryl didn't wonder that long. No, he was more focused on being called barbaric. The archer knew he was far from elegant in mannerisms or vocabulary, but barbaric? After all that he'd seen? This kid didn't know half of what he was talking about.
     With the mask off, Daryl stood, brushing bits of gravel and dust haphazardly from his clothes. Angered thumps of boots hit with thuds on the sidewalk where onlookers had long scattered. "You wanna talk barbaric? Not hesitatin'?" It was in his eyes - blue, right with a heavy scar underneath, and full of rage and despair in equal measure. Were it not for the fact that he'd already attacked the young man, Daryl would have grabbed him by the collar and lifted him to eye level. Instead, he threw his handkerchief at the youth, full of rips, stitches, and dyed a different shade of red in spots from blood.
     "You ever leave someone to turn so their brother can find 'em later? Ever chop an old man's head off? Shoot a kid in the head 'on accident'? Had a friend get shot dead mid fuckin' sentence? Beat someone so hard over the head their fuckin' eye popped out?" Fists balled up tight, tighter as words spewed out until scarred and bruised knuckles turned white. How many times. How many more? "That's the shit that happens when you try peaceful ways. You think the people who did that cared that anyone was tryin'a be peaceful?"
     Daryl knelt down in front of the youth, eyes trained relentlessly on his - even if he looked away, Daryl wouldn't back off. "There's no peace left. You just gotta pick between bad and worse. You and them. I tried peace, an' all it got me was a pile 'a dead friends. You're only still breathin' 'cuz I ain't a kid killer." That wasn't true. Daryl wasn't that hard. He'd lost so many by trying to be nice, or by trying to open up, but even as the cycle continued, Daryl remained. He couldn't let himself go, no matter how he tried. Couldn't be a barbarian. Couldn't stop hesitating. Couldn't stop feeling. Cursed to forever be a good person.
     "But you're the fuckin' expert, right? You know all about peace and not bein' a barbarian. So tell me, kid, what's the secret? Should I go skin a Walker and play dead like you?"
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