Daryl Dixon (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} littledixon) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} makebelievelog, |
He let out a disgusted snort as he shouldered his crossbow and went stomping away from her. If she wanted to talk, she would have to chase his sorry ass, because he was not sticking around to hear this shit. He didn't have the patience for it; he didn't have the damn desire to hear it. Daryl had already gone over every damn thing that he figured she might try to say, and in the end, it just didn't fucking matter. Every damn time he went looking for someone, it always ended up being thrown back in his fucking face, and he was damn tired of it. He was tired of giving a shit. He was tired of chasing people down. He was just fucking tired.
"It ain't my damn problem," he snapped over his shoulder as he kept stomping away, not knowing if she was following or not, but offering his words since she seemed so damn intent on getting him to talk. "You ain't my damn problem! You can do whatever the hell ya want. I'm done."