Stray // Daryl Dixon

Throwing it All Away

I sat on an old floral armchair, my butt sinking into the cushion comfortably. Everything in the room was spotless, something that was so normal yet so foreign to see. I scanned the room, my eyes landing on a bookcase behind me. There wasn't a space on the shelf that was empty. Then my eyes landed on a clock, my lids squinting together when seeing it actually tick. A lamp sat upon the side table to my left, a box of tissues and a candle placed on it for decoration.

"Scar?" a woman's voice called out my name trying to get my attention. My eyes remained still on the lamp, seeing that they had well-running electricity. So much so that the lamp remained on during the day, even though there was more than enough sunlight filling the room through the open windows. "Are you okay to talk?" she asked.

I finally turned my head towards Deanna. She leaned forward on the couch across from me, her arms rested on her knees with a notebook snuggled into her lap. She had a video camera set up beside her, the lens pointed at me. Everyone was requested to participate in an interview, I was one of the last of our group for her to speak to. I guess it was their own version of the three questions.

"What?" I asked, my face blank. I was trying to process everything all at once.

"Are you okay to talk with me?" she asked, her voice gentle. I nodded my head slowly, swallowing hard. I had no idea what she wanted to know from or about me, but I was petrified. Petrified that she may ask me a question I didn't want to answer. Or if I did and she really knew who I was or what I had done, she'd throw me out right here and now. "Rick said you guys have been out there since the beginning. That you didn't know each other before all of this. Is that right?" she asked.

"Yeah, that's right," I answered, my voice meek. I rubbed my hands along my pants nervously.

"What did you do before all of this happened to us?" she questioned, crossing one leg over the other and placing her notebook back down on her knee.

"I don't think that really matters anymore," I shook my head.

"Oh, I know it does. I was a congresswoman and my husband Reg is a professor of architecture," she explained. "I was on my way back to help my district in Ohio with the crisis when the army stopped us and directed us here. They were supposed to show up later but never did. And there was this huge shopping mall about to be built, so my husband along with my sons took the supplies and built up these walls. It does matter."

"You've been behind these walls this entire time?" My brows furrowed.

"We need people who have lived out there," she stated, "your group is the first we've even considered taking in for a long time."

I shook my head, leaning back in my chair as I thought to myself before answering. If these people really knew what it was like out there, they would keep their doors closed. They would keep people like us out. People like us know what it's like to survive out there with others who are just as desperate. Those who will measure you up and find your weaknesses to take what they need or use another person just long enough to spare their own life. Then her statement dawned on me, how much they really did need us. They had no idea what it's like, but we do. We can keep this place safe for them and Alexandria kept us safe from having to go back out.

"I only worked at a shooting range on the weekend," I answered, not knowing how much help that would be. "I grew up on a farm with horses and goats. That's it."

Deanna nodded her head, scribbling something down in her notebook. "Where do you think you fit in... in your group?" Deanna then asked.

"What do you mean?"

"I am exceptionally good at reading people, which is another reason I like to hold these interviews," she smiled warmly. "You know if I didn't win reelection I was going to become a professional poker player," she laughed, "But I also like hearing from people who they think they are."