𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙏𝙞𝙚𝙨 𝙏𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙈𝙚𝙣𝙙 [𝘿𝙖𝙧𝙮𝙡 𝘿𝙞𝙭𝙤𝙣 𝙓 𝙍𝙚𝙖𝙙𝙚𝙧]
Chapter 3: Catatonia
Series Masterlist: The Ties That Mend
Summary: Three-hundred-and-ninety-six days after the outbreak, you are discovered in an abandoned community college, covered in filth and barely able to speak a word. Despite the showers (multiple) and rehabilitation attempts (also multiple), it's apparent that your mind is elsewhere. Beyond saving.
This new world is chaos, but you're lucky to find good people in it. More so than any is a man named Daryl, patient enough to let you put yourself back together—one stitch at a time.
The medical bay smells faintly of antiseptic. You sit stiff on the edge of an examination table, a paper sheet crinkling under your jeans; you try not to rip it as you readjust. Before you, the doctor—former vet, as he corrected—rifles through supplies with practiced care.
“Any trouble sleeping?”
The question weighs heavy on your chest. From anyone else, it would sting, but Hershel’s tone isn’t discriminatory. He has no knowledge of last night—wasn’t there at breakfast, either. He didn’t notice the faces too tired to hide their disdain for you. To him, you’re just another patient.
It’s ironic. The vet is the first person here not to look at you like an animal.
“Some,” you reply, after a moment.
It’s a lie, of course. A big fat one.
Back at the college, sleep was a thing that took you only when it was lucky. Even then, it was never peaceful. It was something stolen in fits and starts as you held the door shut from whatever lurked on the other side. Here, those nights still haunt you.
“Just a new place,” you add. “I’ll g—get used to it.”
Hershel doesn’t press. Whether he believes you or not, he drops the subject for now, opting instead to examine your hands. You flinch at first, instinct pulling you back. But the warmth in his old fingers seeps through your skin, coaxing you to unclench your palms.
He studies the callouses lining them: the handiwork of your hatchet.
You feel dismembered without it.
After the last three-hundred-and-ninety-seven days, you could hardly remember a time you before it. It had been with you since the outbreak. Ever since you smashed that glass box near the fire escape, in search of anything to defend yourself.
You’d been near catatonic when Rick had pried it from your hands the night before. “There are children here,” he’d reasoned, conjuring an image of a boy in a Sheriff’s hat—too curious for his own good.
You couldn’t bring yourself to refute him; you’d nearly taken the heads of two of his group already. Even now, Daryl’s expression still burns behind your eyes, not particularly angry nor pitiful. Just sort of… Disappointed?
Somehow that was worse.
“You’re a lucky one, my dear,” Hershel notes, his thumbs brushing over the rough patches between your fingers. “To be in this condition… It’s nothing short of miraculous.”
You raise a brow, trying to discern any humour in his words. What about you could possibly be lucky?
“Besides the malnourishment and sores,” Hershel continues, his smile so genuine you almost don’t believe it, “you’re healthy.”
Healthy. The word sounds foreign. Impossible. You can’t be healthy—not in the head, at least.
You say nothing, choosing only to watch as Hershel pulls a small jar from his medical kit. He unscrews the lid to reveal a pungent salve. As he spreads it over your hands, the sting is sharp, biting—but like everything else these days, it fades quickly into nothingness.
“I’d suggest bone broth for the first couple of meals. Meat will be too rich,” he says, matter-of-factly.
Grimacing, you nod; you’d already discovered that.
But as Hershel works, you can’t help but notice the kindness in his actions. He applies the salve with gentle ministrations, retreating out of your space as soon as he’s done. It’s refreshing. There’s something about him that calms you. Whether it’s the crinkles of his eyes, or the way he rounds his sentences, it has you speaking before the words have even taken shape in your head.
“Hershel?”
His gaze flickers to yours.
“What do you know about…” You hesitate, swallowing hard. “The m—mind? Can you fix it?”
His expression softens, though the weight of his answer is clear before he speaks. “Unfortunately, that’s one of the toughest things to mend,” he says. “Takes time. Patience.”
How many days? you want to ask, but your better judgement cautions against it. That’s not the right question. This isn’t something that can be measured by tally marks on a wall.
“Where do I start?” you ask instead.
There’s a pause. Hershel chooses his next words with care. “A good night’s sleep,” he says. “Then ten. Then fifty.”
You try not to let his answer deflate you.
Does he know you can barely manage one?
“Those tremors, too,” Hershel leans back slightly, considering you, “They’re no good. Have you burning through energy quicker than you can replenish it.”
He takes a second to deliberate, pawing at the white hairs of his beard. Then, something flashes behind his eyes—a recollection. An idea. “You know what they used to suggest to old war vets?”
You keep quiet, waiting.
“Repetitive action,” he explains. “Something you can do without thinking.”
His raised brow prompts for an answer.
“Guitar.”
It comes to you immediately, dredged up from another life. Free classes at the college, teaching music to a bunch of ragtags dumped by their parents after church. You never loved it—it was just something to do.
Hershel chuckles softly. “Haven’t seen many of those around these parts, I’m afraid. What about something a little more… accessible? Sketching, knitting—”
“I can sew,” you interrupt.
The admission feels small but significant. It was your mother’s trade, just poor seamstress trying to make ends meet. She’d only passed down two things to you when she died: her needlework and her debt.
“That’ll be handy,” Hershel replies. He makes no show of it, but you catch him reaching over to open the drawer beside him. After some calculated rummaging, his hand emerges with a biscuit tin—an odd find amongst prescription bottles and bandages. As he pops the lid open, you’re met with a familiar sight: a sewing kit filled with buttons, thread, and patches of mismatched cloth.
Hershel locks eyes with you before speaking, “This is what I want you to do. Each time you thread this needle, visualise yourself letting go of whatever it is that’s holding onto you.” He places it into your palm; it’s a little rusted, but you’ve seen worse. “I want you to practice it—each stitch, mending those parts you want to fix.”
You glance between him and the needle, trying to process his words.
“If you ever feel like you’re losing control—which you will—I want you to imagine you are here. Threading the needle. Safe, focused.” Before you can reply, Hershel plucks it from you, dropping it back into the small biscuit tin for safe keeping. With the lid secured, he gestures for you to put it in your pocket.
“But first, you need to clean yourself up. You might not be sick now, but staying covered in filth,” he says, taking a pause to look you up and down, “it’s only a matter of time.”
You find yourself agreeing.
It’s strange, you think. In this moment, the old man could tell you anything—to stick your hand in flames or jump from a tall building—and you fear you would. It’s a dangerous countenance he has. One that instills trust.
You don't argue when Hershel offers to walk you back through the winding corridors to Cell Block D. His gait makes you feel a little guilty—he's missing a leg, after all—but your appreciation for his presence outweighs it.
As you pass by the windows overlooking the courtyard, the air carries the faint smell of damp concrete, rusted metal, and people—too many people, their voices filtering in with the breeze. You prepare yourself to face their scrutiny. The nicknames they thought you didn’t notice:
Loony Bin
You had keen ears, and that one was loud.
In an obvious attempt at distraction, Hershel begins to tell you about his daughters. “You’ll like Maggie,” he says, a faint smile in his voice. “She’s strong—headstrong, sometimes—just like her mother. And you’ve already met her husband.” He notes the confusion on your face before adding, “Glenn.”
Your steps falter. Glenn. The realisation sinks in slowly as you draw the thread between them all. Hershel’s warmth, the glimmer of trust in his eyes—it wasn’t random. He had Maggie’s smile, Glenn’s optimism.
And you’d almost killed his son-in-law.
“Though he might be off on some errand,” Hershel continues, oblivious to the tangle of thoughts in your mind. “That boy never sits still.” He then chuckles softly, like he’s sharing an inside joke. It does little to calm your nerves.
By the time you reach the entryway to Cell Block D, you’re already on edge. The low hum of voices carries through the open door, a stark contrast to the relative quiet of the medical bay. You spot a small group gathered near the common area—a brother-sister duo whose names you’ve already forgotten, Carol, Maggie, and a young woman you can’t quite place.
“One of my girls will show you to the washroom,” Hershel announces, nodding towards the brunette in the corner. She offers a polite smile but seems less than thrilled at the prospect. “And this is my youngest—”
“Beth?”
The name tears out of you before Hershel even finishes.
Across from you, she stands motionless. Unaware. There’s a good ten years between you—at least—but her face, though older and sharper, holds the same softness you remembered. You still see her as the kid who played piano, sang shy and did good. Beth Greene. You’re certain it’s her, recognised her from the recesses of your memory. Sweet, quiet Beth. Alive.
But she can’t be real—can she?
Her face is full of confusion at first. But that disappears the moment she takes a step forward, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. “Sweet Jesus,” she breathes, “Is that really you? What happened?”
You chew over the question: what happened? What didn’t? The answers feel too jagged, too large to fit into words. Your mind is racing, unraveling. She’s not supposed to be here. The auditorium—you’d been so sure. You’d seen them fall, heard the screams, the countless bodies. She’d been there. Hadn’t she?
Hadn’t she?
“Beth Greene?” you whisper again. You’re not even sure if it’s a question or a plea.
She moves again, tentative but willing to close the distance. “Oh my God,” she mutters. “It’s really is you.” Her fingers brush yours, grounding you to the moment, to her.
Beside you, Hershel clears his throat. “You two know each other?”
Beth retracts her hand to acknowledge him. “Yes, Daddy. She—” She glances back at you, taking in the sight. “She used to teach music at the old college. On Sundays. I used to beg to go.”
A silence lingers for a moment; you catch Maggie's stare, Carol's intrigue.
“She could sing real good,” Beth adds, barely above a whisper.
Her words slam into you like a punch to the gut. You see it now—her sitting on the edge of the stage, pouring over sheet music in her lap.
Before you can say anything, her eyes are suddenly wide, frantic. They pin you in place. “Oh my goodness. Were you there?”
You try not to cringe, to give yourself away. But your silence speaks volumes.
“I think it's time our newest arrival took a shower,” Carol announces, shielding you from the question. “Here.”
She hands Beth a set of clippers. They’re the old kind. You squeezed; they buzzed.
“You’re going to have to crop that hair,” she says briskly, gesturing to you. “It’s too matted.”
You shoot her a look. Neither of you exchange any words, but you can tell Carol understands. You're thankful for her redirection. She's definitely good with children.
“No.”
Beth's voice brings you back to the moment. To the group of people and their prying eyes.
“It was pretty,” she says, but it's mainly to herself. “I remember bein’ jealous, it was so long.”
You look down at the tangles hanging over your shoulders, at the filth caked in the strands. You're not precious of it. In fact, you couldn’t care less.
“It’s disgusting,” you counter. “I don’t want to turn p—people off their food.”
Beth shakes her head, her brows drawing together in protest. “Give me a day,” she says. “If I can’t fix it… we’ll shave it.”
Your eyes find the clippers in her hand before coming back up to meet her.
“One day,” she reasserts, her voice soft but firm.
One day. A single tally mark.
You nod.
—
It takes the full day.
Not just an hour or two. No quick fixes or shortcuts. It’s a full day of prying away the layers of filth that had buried themselves into you over the past three-hundred-and-ninety-seven days.
You’re sitting beneath her on a wooden chair in the corner of the washroom. The place is damp, steam rising from the water you’ve drained three times already. Your body aches from the scrubbing—you’ve lost count of the hours—and beneath your fingers, the skin feels almost new.
Then there was your hair…
At first, you thought it was futile; the clippers were a far easier alternative. But now, as the last few knots on your head give way under Beth’s patient fingers, you can hardly believe it. You’d gone through the prison's entire supply of shampoo. Four near-empty bottles now lined the edge of the sink, their contents spent in the battle against the god-knows-what was in your hair.
When you’d muttered an apology for using up so much, Beth had only waved you off. “Don’t worry about it,” she’d said casually. “Daryl and Michonne can find more.”
The thought made you wince; another burden, another thing you’d added to their list. But Beth hadn’t seemed bothered in the least. If anything, she worked with more determination, as if this—your restoration—was her personal mission.
But she never overstepped.
Besides her odd instructions, “pass me that comb, tell me if it hurts, try not to move,” the two of you barely spoke. Beth had made the effort at first, but your mind was far too loud for her to get a word in edgeways.
When was the last time someone had touched you like this? When was the last time you’d let them? You can’t remember. It’s easier that way—to keep people at a hatchet’s length. Safer, too.
Yet, here she is. Beth Greene, picking you apart, piece by piece, like she’s unearthing something she’s determined to save.
Why?
The question gnaws at you as you sit there, letting her hands work through the last of the tangles. You can’t fathom what she sees in you that’s worth saving: a patchwork of sores and sins, held together by whatever instinct still clings to survival. Even now, you’re barely hanging on.
“Why weren’t you there that day?” you ask her.
The question’s out before you can stop it. Your heart pounds behind your ribs.
“What?”
You swallow hard, forcing the words out again. “That Sunday. Why weren’t you there?”
Beth doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she resumes her work, her fingers methodical as she begins to braid a lock of hair. “My daddy wanted me to stay home,” she says eventually. “Maggie was sick, and he thought she needed me more.”
You nod, a hollow kind of relief settling in your chest. If she was there, she’d be rotting in the auditorium with the others. Those first few days, the faces all seemed to blend together—one corpse at a time. You’d been so sure she was among them.
Her voice pulls you back. “I’m glad I wasn’t there,” she admits quietly. “But I hate that you were.”
You don’t reply.
“Was it bad?”
You feel tremors picking at your skin as the memories come back to you. The screams. The blood. The bodies piled on that same stage where you used to hold concerts. Your throat tightens. “It was…” You pause, searching for a word that could do it justice. Somehow, none feel adequate.
A bloodbath? Carnage? Despair?
“Hell,” you say finally, barely above a whisper.
This time, Beth stays silent.
“Why are you doing this?” you press. The words come pouring out, circling the drain like four bottles of shampoo.
It’s been weighing on you the whole day. The girl behind you can barely be called an acquaintance. She’s just some kid you saw every other week for a-half-hour when her parents—like most folks—likely needed a break.
She has no reason to be here.
Beth stills. You feel her hands rest on your scalp. “Because I remember what it’s like,” she finally answers. “To lose everything. To feel like there’s nothing left of you.”
As she reaches for her comb, you see it again: that scar on her wrist, too perfect and straight to be accidental. You don’t reply, but she doesn’t seem to expect you to. “You might not remember, but my aunt died a few years back,” she says softly; you hear Hershel in her voice. “The last thing I wanted to do after the funeral was go to that damn music class—sorry—but my daddy thought it’d be good for me. Couldn’t stop crying in the truck.”
You glance at her, something tugging at the edges of your memory.
“I don’t know if you did it on purpose,” she lets out a faint laugh, “but you sang a good song that day. My favourite. Did your best Dolly impression for all us kids.”
Beth ties off your braids with a gentle tug, stepping back to survey her work. “It brought some life back to me, you know? And I wanted to do the same for you.”
As she circles the wooden stool, coming into your view, you see the sincerity in her eyes. In truth, you could hardly remember it; the image was as foggy as the room in which the two of you stood. Did you even do it for her? Possibly. Or maybe you were hungover and Jolene just had it coming.
Either way, it had made her smile. And that was enough.
“Alright,” she says, nodding toward the mirror across the room. “Let’s see it.”
You hesitate. You’re not sure you want to see. Not yet. It’s just a mirror, you know, but you can’t help remembering the reflection you saw yesterday, at the end of the hall in Cell Block D.
“Go on,” Beth urges, nudging your shoulder just enough to make you move.
You can’t avoid it. You shuffle closer, the tiled floor cool beneath your bare feet. The mirror looms before you, its surface slightly fogged from the lingering steam. For a second, you don’t look. You focus on your breathing, on the steady rise and fall of your chest.
Then, slowly, you lift your eyes.
The person staring back at you is familiar.
Your hair is neatly braided. Two long plaits trail down your back, each bound with a simple tie. The scent of lavender clings to you, fresh in contrast to the mould you’d grown used to. And the clothes—borrowed from Beth—fit like they belong to a version of yourself.
She watches you, arms crossed, expectant. You catch her gaze in the mirror. “Well?” she asks, one brow arched in challenge.
The outfit it nice, simple. The body in it could use some square meals. But overall, it's not bad. You’re more weedy now, all elbows and knees, but you could grow to accept this.
“It’s me,” you say.
Beth’s reflection joins yours as she sways slightly on the balls of her feet. “Yeah,” she agrees. “It is.”
The image holds you in place, locking you into this moment. Somehow, you’re still here. Not the person you were before, nor the hollow shadow you’ve been dragging behind you. Something in between. Someone half-stitched back together, the seams raw but holding.
Beth leans in. “So, what do you think?”
You glance down at your hands—rough but yours—and when you look back at the mirror, you almost don’t recognise the faint curve of your lips.
“It’ll do,” you say.
Beth laughs, and for a small moment, you feel it—something fitting into place.
— It's too damn late.
Daryl’s boots echo over the metal catwalk, one dull thud after another. He’d been hunting most of the afternoon, causing a ruckus out there in the woods. But now it's dark, quiet, and he's reminded just how little sleep he's gotten these last few days. How he'd kill to be one of these snoring bastards in the cells next door.
Last night was rough.
He'd cursed you at first, tossing and turning in his bed as he tried to shake the image of you curled up on the floor. At breakfast, too, he could barely stomach you. But as soon as he got out of those gates, into the world and the trees and everything beyond four concrete walls, he felt nothing.
Well, he felt something.
Just not the burning contempt he felt initially when the sun first shone into his eyes. This was different. He'd realised it some hours ago, during the time he spent tracking a deer. It was a small thing, barely enough to feed the kids, but once Daryl had it at end of his arrow, wide-eyed and frantic, he couldn't bring himself to shoot it.
It's the first time he'd come back empty-handed from a hunt.
That stupid look on it's face reminded him of you.
Rick had filled him in earlier, told him that you were looking... different. Better, he’d said. Like some semblance of a woman now, instead of the half-dead thing Glenn had brought back from the brink.
Daryl doesn't know what he expected, but as he passes your cell—still illuminated by candle light—he's surprised by how much that change has settled in. You don't notice him, which gives Daryl time to survey you from afar; he knows better than to cross the threshold. You're sitting near the door, back straight, eyes wide, not a hint of sleep on you. No blankets, no covers—just you, focused on something in your lap.
You're wearing Beth's clothes, they fit better than Glenn's, and long, twin braids fall down your back. But the biggest change is your face, warm in the candle light—
It's less biting now.
Daryl almost doesn’t know what to say. No quips come to him, no bitterness held from the night before. Instead, he speaks honestly, “Ya look better.” He shifts on his feet, then adds, “Smell better, too.”
A huff of dry air escapes him. Lavender. That’s new.
“You have Beth to thank,” you respond, without missing a beat.
Daryl blinks, thrown off by the reply. You knew he was there, and your stutter... It’s gone.
He should leave, he thinks.
But instead, he watches you fiddle with that fabric—sewing, he realises—and takes in the way your fingers work the needle. He knows nothing of the stitch you’re weaving; he’s more concerned by the fact your hands have finally stopped shaking. It's a kind of concentration, the same way he focuses when he hunts. Steady and unbroken.
“Ya know,” he says after a long pause, “‘M pretty sure whatever tha’ is can wait.” He gestures at the remnants of a shirt in your lap. “Ya should get some sleep.”
His words are meaningless; you don’t even look up. But when you shake your head, it's with certainty. “If I do, you won’t.”
Daryl scowls. The memory of earlier—of how you looked trembling in the dark—flashes in his mind.
“I’m sorry,” you add. Then, using your sewing needle, you to draw a line in the air across your throat.
Daryl would’ve laughed at that, usually. But not from you. He doesn’t know you like that. Hell, he’s still not sure you won’t decapitate him the next chance you get. “Quit sayin’ sorry,” he says instead, more sharply than he meant to.
“Sor—” You catch yourself. “It won’t happen again,” you finish.
And it can’t, Daryl thinks. He’s made damn sure of that. Rick’s got that thing reserved for firewood only—a duty he’ll make sure you’ll never have.
But he doesn't tell you that, so instead the moment stretches out, the soft scrape of your needle stitching through fabric. He should really leave now. Yet, his tired eyes catch something on the cell wall across from him, pinning him in place.
One faint, vertical line, followed by chicken-scratch words he struggles to decipher:
Loony Bin
His eyes flicker over them before snapping back to you. He’d only said it once—muttered it under his breath at breakfast—but he had a feeling you’d heard. If not, you’d surely felt it in his stare.
He swallows thick. “Ya best be careful,” he says, trying to think of something—anything that comes to mind. He tries a joke. “A head ain’t something ya can just sew back on.”
The laugh that follows catches him off guard. A dry sound, but genuine. It cuts through the tension like scissors through silk, and seems to surprise you, too.
Daryl clears his throat. “Get some sleep for real,” he says, stepping back from the door. He tries to sound like he’s giving an order, but it comes out more like a suggestion. “Tomorrow, Rick wants ya to learn ‘bout this place. How we all keep it runnin’.”
He’s not sure what the hell you’ll be doing; he can’t imagine you playing well with others. Maybe watch duty. Something distant. Something that’ll keep you out of the way.
But then, before he can leave, he tests his luck. “You know how to shoot?” he asks. Tiredness is thick in his voice. “Could use more eyes on them walls.”
You pause, and for a moment, Daryl thinks he’s gone too far. He’s half-joking, but there’s something about you that makes him feel like a kid again. A kid too stupid for his own good, who wants to push, prod, and only find out where the line is once he's crossed it.
You look up. Daryl catches the flash of something in your eyes—defiance, maybe. It’s gone as quick as it surfaces. “No,” you say, quietly. “I can’t.”
Daryl’s shrug is automatic. He hadn’t expected you to say yes, wouldn’t trust you if you did. “Mm. A’right.”
He leaves without a goodbye, halfway to his cell before he hears it. That flicker of a voice calling out to him:
“But I’m pretty good with a hatchet.”
A/N This chapter was bloody massive. I deliberated on the structure for ages, but I felt each part was necessary to paint the picture I'm going for. In all honesty, I was a little worried you guys would think ''there's not enough Daryl'' and considered interjecting more of him. But at this stage, it's just not realistic. It doesn't feel natural. I want each of their interactions to mean sometime, so please be patient with me as I set them up. And let me know your thoughts -do you appreciate this style? The relationships she's building with others? I'm keen to know :) As always, thanks for reading! x
