Title: The Sanctity of the Arts

By The Bunnies Will Kill Us All

Summary: My name is Persephone Jones, and herein lies an account of my life both before and after the onset of the apocalypse. Do not read if you're sensitive to sarcasm and wit, because the zombie scourge hasn't put a damper on either of those things. DarylOC.

Author Note: So yeah, I decided I didn't have enough on my plate with multiple ongoing stories and university work and a job and a pressing desire to eat and sleep sometime this month, so I wrote another story... On the bright side, this one's been in my head for a while and I'm quite thrilled to be breathing life into it. Plus, anything apocalypse rules. Do R&R, it motivates me to update and I personally respond to every review at the beginning of each chapter.

Chapter One: The Cardinal Convergence

Entry 1: 14th June, 2012

Day 38 of the Zombie Apocalypse

The funny thing about the end of the world is that everyone seems to forsake the sanctity of the arts. Journalling might not technically be an art, per se, but it's really the only quasi-creative thing I'm qualified to do. So here I am, going against the post-apocalyptic grain, embracing the arts.

The other funny thing about the end of the world is how the status quo gets completely inverted. People who you never would have even walked near become super valuable. People like Daryl Dixon.

If I had seen Daryl Dixon walking down the street towards me in days gone by, I might've sharply changed direction or hidden behind a hedge. I didn't like him much back then, or at least, I didn't think I did.

Nowadays it is the Daryl Dixon's of the world who keep my breathing, and I am eternally grateful.

My name is Persephone Jones.

I have been tying my own shoes since I was six.

I have been reading and disliking Austen since I was nine.

And I have been preparing for the zombie apocalypse since I was twelve.

I'll start you kids off from a story from my youth, one I'll think you'll like.

It's the story of how exactly I came to know the crossbow-toting, squirrel-hunting quasi-racist known as Daryl Dixon.

When I first met Daryl I was sixteen and he was well into his twenties. I was on a geography field trip. This was obviously pre-apocalypse. It was six years before anything even remotely horrifying happened, in fact.

But yes. I was on a geography field trip in the wilderness that surrounded my hometown, a reasonably diminutive settling nestled in the heart of Georgia.

Me and Henry Steiner had been paired off and sent in the general direction of cold motherless nowhere. The aim was to find our team flag, the location of which had been mapped out for us. Henry was unintelligent and dull company, but he still surpassed me in terms of navigating, so he had taken control of the compass.

"Women have no sense of direction," he had said dismissively. I disliked Henry Steiner. I'm sort of glad he's probably dead now.

Dry, crisp leaves crunched underfoot and birdsong abounded. It was almost lovely, but for the fact that it was sweaty, tiring and the surrounding woods were infested with mosquitoes. Henry forged ahead, sending tree branches whipping back into my face. I muttered conspiratorially under my breath for the whole hike.

Eventually we had to stop to rest in a little clearing. Regrettably, there was also talk. I disliked having to exchange gratuitous small talk with cretins like Henry.

"I think we just need to walk a click or two that way," Henry said, pointing off into the distance. I took his word for it that we were going the right way. I didn't have the requisite skill-set to argue.

I shrugged and nodded, all the while scratching my mosquito-bitten arms. Angry red welts were already making their appearance. I muster an ounce of tired courtesy and reply: "Okie dokie, boss."

"Five minutes rest and we continue on?" He said, like it was a question. He was undoubtedly the play-maker here, I didn't know why he bothered pretending otherwise. He walked to the other side of the clearing and leaned against a tree. Leaning was cool, or at least that was the word. Henry fancied himself cool.

I nodded. I was parched, so I unscrewed the special outdoorsy water bottle that had been provided, and found to my horror that it was all but empty. "Fuck."

"Whassat?" Henry asked, whirling around, alarmed. I presumed he was talking about my expletive, but his eyes seemed to travel past me, just over my right shoulder.

I raised my hands defensively, "just out of water, chillax."

"No, behind you!" He pointed over my shoulder and I became all too aware of a rustling of leaves.

I turned around to see a filthy figure emerge seemingly out of thin air, brandishing a crossbow. A murderous woodsman, just like in the movies, kids.

I screamed and fell backwards over a tree root, as I was not graceful at the best of times. So did Henry, though he likes to think he kept his manly composure.

I grabbed my empty water bottle and raised it over my head like it was a cudgel or something. Like was going to do legitimate damage to the murderous woodsman with my empty water bottle. The crossbow-wielding maniac lowered his weapon and chuckled to himself.

I was terrified of him at the time, so my preliminary appraisal of the man I did not yet know to be Daryl Dixon was that he was an unwashed redneck from west of nowhere (which, to be fair, was true of a large majority of the people I called fellow townsfolk). I ignored the nice hazel colour of his eyes, and the overall pleasing nature of his features. He was a mean, scary hick, and nothing more.

He looked at me with those eyes, those mocking eyes, like there was something inherently funny about me. It made me immediately self-conscious. I pulled myself to my feet and brushed off the debris best I could without making too much of a scene of it. I held on to the water bottle.

"You right?" He said, slinging that god-awful crossbow across his back. "Didn't scare ya, did I, babygirl?"

I shook my head because frankly I was too scared to do anything else. By then Henry had recovered.

"Dude!" He said emphatically. I rolled my eyes in sheer amazement at the shortcomings of the American education system. Oh yes, we breed eloquent and literate youths down here in Georgia.

"You got something to say, son?" The crossbow man asked a little threateningly, brandishing a sheathed bowie knife that appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

"No." Henry said weakly, scrambling backwards and effectively abandoning me. Coward.

"'Swhat I thought." He reattached the sheathed knife to his belt and refocused his attention on me.

That's roughly when I rediscovered my voice.

"I also have nothing to say," I babbled, "except that that's a lovely crossbow you have there. So… menacing, and such."

He chuckled again, and eyed me like a cat eyes a mouse. "Don't you fret, babygirl. I aint gonna hurt ya. Just squirrel hunting."

"Squirrel… hunting?" I repeat, not quite able to keep the disbelief out of my voice.

He eyed me, taking in my apparel. "You aint exactly the outdoorsy type, are ya?"

"No." I reply. "I have a definite preference for the indoors."

"Thirsty?" He asked, nodding at my empty water bottle. "S'empty, aint it? There wasn't any heft to it when you went to try an' bludgeon me with it."

I blushed. "Yeah, it's empty. And I wasn't trying to bludgeon you with it, I was just... surprised."

He fiddled with one of the many packs at his belt, freeing a flask. "Here." He said, offering it to me.

I took it cautiously, belatedly realising that it probably wasn't just water that the flask contained. He seemed like the guy who travelled with a flask of bourbon or vodka or something. "What's in it?" I asked warily.

"Chloroform." He replied, not missing a beat. I had to admit it was a witty response. Well timed, too.

"Funny." I said bleakly, sniffing the lid cautiously. It certainly smelled like water. I took a slow sip.

"S'just water." He confirmed, walking around the little clearing we had decided to rest in. "What's your name, babygirl?"

I considered my options before replying. Perhaps it was best to keep the tone light and non-murderous. After all, that had been a big knife, and I didn't like my odds in regards to the water bottle vs crossbow battle either. "Persephone."

"Persephone what?" He pressed.

"Persephone Jones."

"Well, babygirl," he said, making a point of not using the name I'd just provided him with, "I'm Daryl Dixon."

"I'm Henry," Henry stupidly volunteered. Daryl sent an annoyed glance his way, his eyes flicking back to me all too quickly.

"What're you kids doing out here, anyway?" Daryl asked. "Gotta need to sneak into the woods to have sex on a school day?"

Oh, how I blushed.

"He's not-" I started.

"She's not-" Henry said with unnecessary disgust.

"We're not," I said emphatically, "it's a geography field trip. We have to find our flag."

He laughed. "Figures. You're too pretty for him anyway, babygirl."

"Hey!" Henry protested.

"You best not talk to me, son," Daryl said, "I don't like you much."

I couldn't bite back my laughter at that comment. Henry glared.

"C'mon, Seph, we're nearly at the flag," he said darkly, storming off into the trees.

"Wait a minute there, son," Daryl commanded, "I'm fair sure you can't tell your face from your ass, so you best hand the map over and let me have a look."

Henry was clearly as aware as I was that this was not a man to be messed with, because he handed the compass and map over to Daryl Dixon without hesitation. Daryl immediately shoved the compass back into Henry's hand, muttering something about its uselessness, and observed the map closely.

"See, you made a wrong turn at the crick," He said, "you wanna head south from here, otherwise you'll be walking till you hit Atlanta."

I glared at Henry. "You got us lost!" I said accusatorially. "Atlanta, Henry! I don't want to go to Atlanta!"

Daryl looked at me amusedly, and turned to leave, unslinging his crossbow.

I sighed and tried to make sense of the map that Henry had clearly misunderstood, finding it nothing but a mass of squiggly lines. I huffed. There was no way I was going to be able to make sense of this. We were well and truly lost.

"Well c'mon." Came Daryl's voice from the edge of the clearing. "I ain't got all day, babygirl."

And so I followed him into the thick wilderness.

This chapter of the story ends conventionally. Daryl led us to our flag with woodsman-esqe ease that I couldn't help but envy, and we had parted ways. This might've been the end of our story, his and mine, but for the unbelievable coincidence that followed.

Back then I worked the afternoon shift at a little local pub called Odette's. Because I was under-age I wasn't allowed to work behind the bar or come in for the night runs, but the tri-weekly afternoon shift suited me just fine in those days. I was still in school, after all.

I'd run home to change into my work uniform after the geography field trip. My uniform was a sad testament to the nature of things in my little town, combining a fitted white tee with the pub's logo on it with a pair of something that would show some leg. I opted for a denim skirt. I attempted to do something with my hair, which had not fared well in the wilderness, and applied a bit of make-up. I'd learned long ago that a pleasing exterior equated to bigger tips at Odette's. And I wanted to go to college.

The place I was from was a sweet little town, but even small towns had an underbelly. An underbelly crawling with unsavoury characters like Daryl Dixon. The rough crowd generally didn't come in until well after I'd finished work, but it seemed that today was an exception, and the trash was making a point of drinking early.

I heard them as soon as I walked in. Loud, bawdy, and just quintessentially redneck-y.

One of them had his feet up on a chair when I walked. I heard someone call him Merle. Then I saw someone else, someone all too familiar.

Daryl didn't see me, I didn't think. I had jumped behind a nearby wall reflexively as soon as I had seen him. I pressed my back up against it, unsure as to why I was panicking. Their voices carried, and I listened in to what they were saying.

"So, what's news baby brother?" Said the one I thought was called Merle.

"Nu'n much." Daryl was the one who replied, indicating that that this Merle was another Dixon. "Went squirrel huntin'."

"Old news!" Called one of the other fellows.

"When I ask for news, I mean what's news in the world of pussy, aint that right fellas?"

There was a rowdy babble of consensus. I blushed, though I wasn't really sure why. It wasn't like they were talking about me.

"Well," He paused, "I saw this cute little piece in the woods today."

I froze up. He couldn't mean…

"C'mon, son," That was his brother, I was fairly sure, Merle. "Gonna need more than that to keep us warm at night." There was general laughter, and my cheeks went fire engine red for what felt like the umpteenth time since I had met Daryl Dixon.

"Sixteen," he said, and I could tell from his voice that he was smiling, "Or thereabouts. Tall for her age, with legs that go on and on, boys." There was some laughter and hooting. "I'm tellin' you, she was tall and blonde and pretty as hell."

Never have I blushed like I blushed in that moment, pressed up against the wall of Odette's, getting flakes of peeling wallpaper on my clothes. I couldn't move – what if they saw me? I just stood there, frozen, in a bar where I was supposed to be working in within spitting distance of men I had no business knowing. Ever.

"Gotta name for us, son?"

"Persephone somethin'. An' she had big brown doe eyes, too. Wide as saucers when she saw me, I tell you."

"Girly wanted to play." Merle again, I guessed, vowing eternal hatred for the man. At that point I was a minor and rightfully enraged by the implication of his words. Also terrified. But primarily outraged.

"Give it two years, I'm not into jailbait," Daryl said casually, like he could've strolled up to me and just taken me if he wanted to.

He was such a pig back then.

"What are you doing?" Said Melody, a fellow server. I stepped away from the wall and muttered a distracted apology.

"You're supposed to be working, table three's waiting for you to take their order."

No prizes for guessing which was table three.

I procrastinated a little over by the bar, taking time getting my notepad into order and smoothing out my uniform. I checked my hair too, though at the time I convinced myself that it didn't have a thing to do with Daryl Dixon or his disgusting entourage. Sighing, and unable to fend off the glares of my boss any longer, I made my way over to table three.

The table didn't quieten upon my reaching it, and indeed Daryl seemed to be the only one who noticed me at all. He looked me up and down and I determinedly avoided eye-contact. Eventually the table quietened and I donned an expression of cheer.

"Hi, I'll be your server today," I said, leaving out the bit where I'd usually say my name, "what can I get for you all this evening?"

"Couple pitchers of Bud, darlin," Said one of the unknown men, winking at me. I suppressed the shiver that attempted to manifest along my spine and prayed that Daryl didn't say anything.

"Well hi there, babygirl," drawled Daryl. I wince.

"Hi," I said, trying to smile. "I'll be right back with those-"

"Hold up a sec, honey," that was Merle. Fucking Merle. "You look like someone I've heard of, wanna tell us your name, sweetheart?"

I paused, hoping that the moment would last forever, therefore forestalling the inevitable.

Finally I couldn't delay it any longer without being rude, so I grudgingly muttered "Persephone."

The table explodes in a cacophony of raucous noise. I wince, again, looking everywhere but at any of their faces.

"Well I'll be damned," Merle laughed, slapping his brother on the shoulder. Curiously, Daryl didn't look overly amused with the whole spectacle. "We was just hearing about you, girl."

"I see." I said thinly. I donned a belated smile and spoke, "I'll be right back with your drinks. Two pitchers of bud, coming right up."

I put the order in at the bar and I hid. Thankfully, due to the minor thing, it was Melody who had to bring the pitchers out to Daryl and his group, and I was spared the horror of waiting on them for the rest of their visit.

Sadly, however, the damage that embarrassing encounter had wrought was irreversible. He knew where I worked, and took advantage of that knowledge. From then on, every Tuesday afternoon was beer o' clock for Daryl and his little buddies. Every Tuesday afternoon for what would feasibly be the rest of my life.

And that is the story of how I met Daryl Dixon. I guess I'll tell you a little more about my world (pre-apocalypse) on the morrow.