Funny Valentine

Each step I took was precise, articulated before my foot hit the ground. The forest floor remained coated in a bed of fallen leaves, but not a single sound was made as the tread of my shoes crumpled them. My hands clenched tightly around Daryl's crossbow. He had me tracking what we believe to be a single walker. Fortunately, the woods had been silent for a day or two now, allowing me to practice with the crossbow.

"I got some movement up here. Looks like a walker staggering back and forth," I whispered, my voice barely above an inaudible mumble.

"Or it could be a drunk," Daryl responded. He only stood a few inches behind me, watching my every move.

Although, my predictions were correct. The trees opened up to a small clearing, what looked to be a meadow at one point. Now the long grass had been flattened and a single walker stood in the middle. Its back was turned to us and I could hear its teeth gnawing down on some unfortunate animal in its hands.

I was dialled in. I rested the crossbow on my right shoulder while slowly inching closer. I took long, measured steps. I was a couple of feet away when I took my last step, steadying myself with the dominant foot. It wasn't a thought that crossed my mind when my right foot hit the ground. I was expecting the slow crunch of the layered grass, but instead, my heel landed on a metal object before the contraption sprung shut on the back of my ankle. The pain was immediate. The yelp I let out attracted the attention of the walker as my body hit the ground.

Knowing that I had our only weapon in my hands, I aimed the crossbow at the walker's head. The arrow pierced through the walker's jaw, knocking it back a few steps but not killing it. Before I had the time to load up another arrow, Daryl yanked his crossbow from my hands. He lunged forward, using the base of the weapon to crush the walker's skull.

"Can you move it?" he asked as he knelt beside me. He clicked a button on the side of the metal trap, releasing my heel from it. I spun my ankle around in a circle. The bone was sore, but it definitely wasn't broken. At the moment I was beyond thankful for the thick combat boots that I wore.

"I'm okay," I responded. He grabbed the bottom of my arm, helping me to my feet. I tried to take my first step with it, but my knee instantly buckled in pain.

"Alright, hold up," Daryl said. I watched as he threw the strap of his crossbow over his head, positioning the weapon on his chest instead of his back. He then stepped in front of me, his back to me as he bent his knees down to my height. "Hope on," he ordered.

"You serious?" I chuckled, almost in disbelief.

"Yeah, it's a serious piggyback." I laughed before obliging to it and hopping up onto his back. "You're heavier than you look."

"Shut up."

Thankfully, we didn't have to travel too far before we stumbled upon a new building to scope out. Lucky for Daryl too, because I don't think he'd be able to carry me for much longer. We stood at the far end of a quaint cemetery when Daryl placed me back on my feet. The sizable white building that sat on the other side looked more like a historic home rather than a mausoleum. Either way, it was somewhere new to hold up that wasn't in the middle of the woods.

"What if there are people in there?" I asked as Daryl helped me limp across the graveyard.

"If there are, I'll handle them."

"Hey, I know I'm injured but I can still hold my own," I joked lightly.

"I'm sure you can," Daryl scoffed, "but let's stay on the safe side."

We approached the steps to the mausoleum, the porch pillars towering over us. Daryl helped me up the steps before he swung the front door open, allowing it to slam against the wall. If there was anything inside we wanted to draw them to us. He banged his hand against the door frame, telling me to give it a second. But there was nothing. No sounds of movement, no people calling out to ask who's there, just silence.

"It looks so clean," I gasped as I set foot onto the mahogany-stained hardwood floor. The decor was untouched by the new world and definitely resembled the taste of my grandparents' home; floral wallpaper, crochet decorative pillows, a bouquet on every side table, knick-knacks placed here and there.

"Yeah, someone's been tending to it," Daryl responded, looking over his shoulder to me. I shut the door behind me. "May still be around, be careful."

We ventured further into the house, taking our time when looking into each room. It was clear that someone had or have been living here and we needed to make sure they were not crouched down in a corner somewhere waiting to attack. Once the main floor had been cleared, we passed a flight of stairs leading to the basement as we headed back to the kitchen. Daryl nodded his head to me, motioning that we needed to go down.

I accompanied close behind him, hobbling down one flight before the narrow staircase turned down to a second flight, hiding whatever was around the corner. Daryl walked down first and I watched him intently. His shoulders dropped, relaxing and signalling to me that it was safe. I then went, entering into what was only a small room. Two bodies laid upright on a metal table. Although these bodies didn't look like walkers at all, they just looked like dead people. Their skin wasn't the usual rotted, pale grey colour, there was no torn skin or missing limbs, and their faces looked almost peaceful. Someone had spent a lot of time applying makeup and dressing them in their best suits to make them into what they once were. Humans.

"Let's get that ankle wrapped," Daryl said, pulling me out of my thoughts. He had been digging through the cabinets, pushing things aside messily to find what he wanted. He turned when he found a package of bandages, I could feel his eyes studying me as I stared down at the two bodies. "Looks like someone ran out of dolls to dress up."

"I think it's nice," I said softly, not being able to take my eyes off of the young man that laid in front of me. I don't know what I was feeling at the moment, the best I could describe it was nostalgia. I have become so accustomed to seeing walkers, passing them by dead in the woods, littering the streets, or at the front end of my weapon that I forget they were once people. But seeing this man prepped for his funeral made me finally look at him for what he was, someone's son, brother, husband. "I wish I knew the person who did this when we buried Roy." I could still feel Daryl's eyes on me, burning a hole in the side of my cheek. I finally looked up at him, "Whoever did this cared. Don't you think that's nice?"

"Come on," Daryl said as he placed his hand on my arm and led me over to a vacant table to sit on. He didn't answer my question, but before he changed the subject he looked at me for a long while like he was feeling the same thing as me.

Once my ankle was wrapped up tight we ventured back to the kitchen to assess the food situation. The kitchen wasn't massive, there was no dishwasher or standard fridge, but there was a sink, a decent size rectangular table in the middle, and cabinets that left no room for any wall space.

"Whoa," I exhaled as the two cabinets I pulled open revealed the jackpot of snacks.

"What you got there?"

"Peanut butter and jelly, coke bottles, crackers, canned corn, pickles. The list goes on," I said as Darly peered in the cupboard.

He took out the jar of jelly, analyzing it, "Nah, hold up. There ain't a speck of dust on this."

I furrowed my brows, "So?"

"Means somebody just put it here," he explained. I still wasn't sure what he was getting at, we already figured that someone had been living here. "This is someone's stash. Maybe they're still alive. Alright, we'll take some of it and leave the rest," he suggested. I smirked, side-eyeing him as I held a jar of pickles in my hand. "What?" he questioned, taking notice of my amusement.

"You going soft on me, Daryl Dixon?" I chuckled.

He nudged my shoulder playfully, "Shut up. And hey, those pickles are mine," he said, trying to grab the jar from my hand.

I jumped away from him, almost stumbling when I landed on my bad foot, "Don't you even think about it," I laughed, making a break for it to the living room.

Daryl gave up quickly, leaving me to eat my dinner while he left to seal up any doors into the house. The living room wasn't much of a living room, it had still been set up for the last viewing prepared before the outbreak. I lit a few candles around the room as the sun began to fall, it'd be getting dark in here as soon as the natural light began to fade. Then I sat down at the piano stationed by the far wall, just to the left of the open casket, making myself busy.

I remember my mom trying to teach me when I was younger. I recall mostly getting into fights with her when I'd see my brothers outside playing soccer while she insisted I practiced. But it was like muscle memory, as soon as my fingers hit the keys I was able to play her favourite song 'My Funny Valentine.' I wasn't much of a singer, but I could still hold a tune, and I found myself getting lost in the song. For a moment I forgot where I was, I drifted away from reality. I looked to my right as my fingers continued to play. My mother sat beside me, her posture immaculate, her short, greying blonde hair spun up in a clip. Her studying eyes broke eye contact from my fingers as she looked back at me. I felt my memory transform into my eight-year-old self, looking to her for approval. All she did was smile down at me, her hazel eyes crinkling at the crease.

Just then my mind snapped back to reality as Daryl cleared his throat from behind me. My mother disappeared from my side as I turned to look at him, my hands immediately dropping from the keys.

"The place is nailed uptight," he said. His tone was hesitant like he was afraid of interrupting me. "The only way in is through the front door." He dropped his crossbow on the couch and I nodded in understanding. He then turned to the casket, analyzing it before hopping inside to lay down.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"This is the comfiest bed I've had in years," he responded like it was no big deal.

"Really?" I didn't like looking at the image of him lying in a casket, it made me sick to my stomach.

"I ain't kidding." He laid back, positioning himself to get comfortable for the night. He looked back over to me, his arm rested behind his head to prop it up. "Why don't you go ahead and play some more?" he asked, "Keep singing."

"I'm not very good. Just something my mom used to make me do," I responded. My eyes were no longer able to meet his.

He was silent for a moment. "More the reason to keep playing," he finally said.

After thinking it over for a moment I turned back around on the bench, my fingers playing the notes I left off on.

"But don't change your hair for me

Not if you care for me

Stay little valentine stay

Each day is Valentine's day."