Daryl Dixon — 2

You had been found at the camp outside Atlanta, with no one by your side despite being little more than a child and less than a teenager. You had always been a tough kid; life had taught you how to survive, and you learned fast.
You always felt uncomfortable being called "girl," and you'd never found an explanation for it. You preferred spending time with the men in camp, until you realized it wasn't that you liked them, you wanted to be like them, to be one of them. It was on the farm, where everything was "peaceful" and constantly having to escape didn't occupy all your thoughts.
That's how you and Daryl became close; he represented everything you wanted to be. He kept his distance at first, annoyed that you followed him around "like a lost puppy." Eventually, you won his heart. Thanks to him, you learned to hunt—not as good as him, of course, but it was something.

Now, in the present, once again in a place that seemed safe. The prison was damp, and the dim light filtered in from above. The sink was filled with your long, scattered locks of hair. This was the first official step you were taking. You tilted your head from side to side, looking at your splattered haircut in the dirty mirror, trying to do a decent job, but your only tool was your razor. When you finally "finished," the result was your hair all badly cut, some strands longer than others. At least it looked more like Carl's and Daryl's.

"Kid?" Daryl's voice behind you made you turn around, squinting as if looking at the sun.
"What are you doing?" He surveyed the scene, and the sudden realization of the situation softened his eyes slightly. "Uh... should we get you more clothes? You all can borrow some of mine in the meantime, if you like..." He looked away, unsure how to handle it or what to say. "Well, Kid, you're going to have to ask Carol to fix that mess in your head. It's possible, Kid."