Chapter 1
January
He sniffed in and spat on the ground, leaving precious little moisture in his mouth, but the gesture felt good all the same. He shuffled from the garage that he worked at to the shitty trailer behind it. He hardly paid attention to the exterior anymore; tall brown grass and sun bleached wooden steps leading to a rusted metal door. The owner of the garage rented it to him for more than it was worth- but it was still cheaper and easier than an apartment.
He hurt. With age, with tired, with the subtle and large humiliations of a life half lived. Straight away he walked to the fridge and opened a cold beer, downing it quickly. He crushed the can, then hurled it across the room; the small act of defiance working little against his feelings of impotence and despair. Merle had abandoned him here 'Just for a spell' after a drug heist he had done went poorly and he had ended up with a warrant. Daryl brought him up supplies to his hideout in the woods, but the day to day grind of loneliness had begun to ware on him.
There had been two women in the shop today, probably too young for him, getting an oil change on an old Ford. They hung out, drinking soda after soda out of the vending machine; talking and texting on their phones until he was done. He was gruff as always. Never gave a hint that he was smitten with their gentile laughter, tan legs, and easy manner. It was when they thought he was out of earshot that he heard them talking about him. Teasing each other to 'blow the gross old redneck for a discount'. It hurt. In ways he didn't know how to articulate, and never would have, even if he had the chance. Not that that was even an option. His closest friend was his brother, and god help those girls if Merle ever got a hold of them... he let go of the thought. He opened another beer, kicked off his boots, then hit play on the shitty old tape deck that he kept on the kitchen counter. One of his small guilty pleasures came on -The Allman Brothers. He smiled a little and scratched the patch of white on his chin as 'Midnight Rider' started to play.
After a couple of deep pulls off of the cheap beer, he began shuffling off the old blue coveralls. His joints cracked, and his back was threatening to go out on him. He pulled his smokes out of the pocket of the rumpled blue fabric on the floor. Four left. He might actually have to leave again tonight. He pulled one out, turned on the electric stove, and lit his Camel on the orange curl. He took a long, deep breath of smoke in before switching off the nob and heading for the toilet.
The cigarette hung loosely at his lips, dick in hand, as his pissed into the caked yellow bowl. The tobacco had long since numbed most of his sense of smell to his surroundings. The rot in the walls, dog shit wafting in from the neighbor's yard, even his own sour stink of alcohol, piss, and B.O. But in his gut he knew it would bother others, that they would take offence of him, that they would notice him. And that he could not abide. Because once people notice, then they begin to pity. Like the teachers in school who held their breath when he walked by, and shook their heads when he ate nothing but white bread and peanut butter day in and day out, but could never be bothered to do much more then be aghast. He shut down that thought too- pushed it way back into the recesses of his mind.
'Fucking Allman Brothers, why do I listen to that shit? It just makes me remember crap that don't need remembering.' He thought to himself, rushing back into the kitchen and hitting stop just as the first refrains of 'Melissa' began to play. He ejected the cassette and shoved in a Moterhead tape with a lot more force then was necessary.
He opened the fridge and poked at the remains of a two-day old pizza; hard, greasy, and mostly gone. 'Just like me.' He thought, a dry chuckle dying in his chest.
He headed to the shower. He stripped off his sticky, sweaty underwear and stepped into the lukewarm water. He let it cut through the grime, standing still, forcing himself to forget the day. He had to get out of here. Fuck the city, fuck the people, fuck his shitty job. He washed up quickly; ignoring the small jolt of pleasure he got from washing his cock. 'Ain't nobody on earth wants a piece of that- not even me today'; he reflected, pushing away thoughts of the girls again.
He dressed quickly and packed his bag for several days' worth of hunting, before switching off everything he had turned on and heading out the door. He made a beeline for his bike, suddenly aching for the idea of being on the road. With his pack and bow strapped securely to the back, he ran the pads of his fingers over the gas tank of his bike, dusting it softly. Then he straddled her in one fluid motion, kicked the stand, and flexed his fingers in anticipation of the ache that would soon set in. He reluctantly pulled on his helmet; then took off in a spray of dirt and debris. He could almost feel himself pulling away from those girls. Almost.