Title: Daddy, I'm Home
Author: Sierra
Rated: PG
Disclaimer: I don't own it. Any of it.
Summary: I was working on "Hells Angel" and this popped out . . . go figure! Just a little drabble. Thinking about eventually writing some kind of extended version, but this is what I have so far.
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He was alone in the woods, just like the night before, and the one before that . . . maybe if he stayed long enough, the trees would become his new home, and he wouldn't be so scared anymore. That thought crossed his mind as Daryl crouched down by the river, scooping his small hand into the cool water and bringing it to his mouth before it all ran through his fingers; he gulped greedily, his mouth and throat dry as dirt. The sun beat down on him without mercy, hurting is already burned skin; it was starting to blister, and looking at his reflection in the water, he was the color of a freakin' lobster.
Daryl sighed and sat back on the rocks, still gazing into the river, a feeling of despair overwhelming him for a moment. He was never going to find his way home. Everything looked the same, he was sure he'd passed by that same goddamn tree at least twelve times! But no signs of anything familiar . . . his bike, the road he'd left it on, his backyard. Anything.
If only he hadn't gone chasing after that deer. Daryl rolled his eyes, disgusted with himself; did he really think he could take down a hundred pound deer with his bow and arrow? Drag it back to the house and cook up dinner for Daddy? Yeah right. All he'd managed to do was get himself ridiculously lost.
"Quit feelin' sorry for yourself," he muttered, and got back to his feet. His legs felt weak, he knew he hadn't eaten enough, and his stomach grumbled loudly, reinforcing that fact. "Not gonna find any food out here," he said, reaching down to scratch his ass, which had been itching something awful for the past couple days.
So he walked. He didn't know where he was going, but he figured it was better to keep moving than to just lay down and give up. He kept going, sweat running down his skin, legs growing weaker, until he thought he couldn't move anymore . . . and then he saw it. His house. A little one story sitting on a plot of overgrown grass, with a beat-up fence surrounding it; Daddy's pickup was in the driveway, his coon dog was tied to her house. Everything was normal and Daryl wanted to cry with relief.
But he didn't. Swallowing as hard as he could, he put on his bravest face and called out as he ran for the door: "Daddy! I'm back!" His feet leapt over the concrete steps and landed on the unsteady porch. "It's Daryl, I'm home!" he was shouting as he came crashing into the house, out of breath and exhausted, but suddenly feeling so excited he was sure he'd never be able to sleep. He stopped in the hallway, eyes darting around anxiously. "Daddy?"
"Huh?" a grunt sounded from the living room, from the nasty recliner that was planted in front of the TV. A football game was on, barely visible through all the static. Jed Dixon twisted around in his chair, his eyes bleary, only just barely focusing on his youngest son standing in the doorway. "The fuck have you been, boy?" he questioned.
Daryl paused. "I, uh, got lost . . . tryin' to track a deer."
The old man snorted. "Dumbass. Ya' hurt?"
"No . . . 'm fine."
"That's good . . . can't be affordin' no doctor bills." He gestured to the kitchen. "Go fix me a sandwich, I'm fuckin' hungry."
Daryl tried to speak, but suddenly found himself unable to form anything other than a little broken "ok", so he quickly turned and ran into the kitchen. He busied himself with getting out the bread and fixing Daddy a bologna sandwich, trying to stifle any feelings that were bubbling just below the surface. He spread the mustard onto the bread, and ignored the solitary tear that fell and landed right in the middle, soaking in and disappearing in just a second, almost as if it never existed.