A/N: I've never been able to really ship Daryl with anyone, because it is my belief that he was sexually abused, and it prevents him from becoming intimate with anyone.
Mosaic
The silence roared so loud that it deafened him. The only sound was his cautious, stolen footsteps as he moved towards his bedroom, precariously balanced on the tips of his toes. A lingering stench of cheap whiskey hung in the air, and it made his stomach turn. He twisted the handle of his bedroom door as quietly as he could, and cringed as the rickety old hinges creaked in protest. He paused for a moment, ears pricked for any sign of life within the house, and then stepped in. He stripped his clothes off quickly, turned away from the fractured mirror that stood in the corner of his room. His reflection showed angry welts, bruises and burns- a blank canvas marred by his father's anger. Cause and effect. Casual nexus. Ripples in a pond. Once he had changed into a pair of sweats and an old t-shirt -the closest thing he owned that resembled pyjamas- he sat gingerly on the edge of his bed, staring impassively at the filthy floor of his room. His dull blue eyes travelled from the letter of suspension from school sitting on his desk to the spattered bloodstains across the opposite wall. He thought to himself that perhaps he had deserved that one.
Daryl could never be sure if he was beaten because he was bad, or if he was bad because he was beaten. Up in the mountains of Northern Georgia -redneck country-, a man would be hard pressed to find a family where the belt wasn't used as a means of control for the unruly offspring that ran wild, but Daryl was well aware that no other kid his age got it so bad as him. The neighbours would hear his strangled sobs, they'd see the tears running down his blackened cheeks, and some would even throw an awkward smile his way, but no one would ever pass comment towards Daryl's father. In their community, discipline was not something to be interfered with or questioned. It was a man's own right to decide how they wished to punish their kids, or even if the kids actually warranted punishing. Some children only had two purposes as far as their parents were concerned- to fetch booze and cigarettes, and to be used as punching bags, and Daryl was one of these youngsters. The parents of these outsiders, few and far between, slept easy in the knowledge that their kids could roll up to school with more bruised skin than not, and the social services would never be called. The only time anything would ever be done was if a kid died from his or her injuries, and that was rare sure enough.
Several of the kids in Daryl's class, considered by most to be the troublemakers of the school, would compare the residual marks from the beatings they got over the messes they were always making, and the eleven-year-old couldn't help but feel a spike of jealousy as he looked at the bruises that were so minor in comparison with his own. He knew that all of these kids received punishment out of love, but Daryl's marred skin was a result of apathy. No one loved him, or cared for him. His mother had died years ago in a fire that had engulfed their childhood home, and Merle had disappeared three years back without a trace, without a single word of comfort or a promise to come back to rescue his baby brother some day. When the brothers' father had finally realised that his first-born son wasn't coming home again, he transferred his anger from Merle to Daryl, and the beatings had begun suddenly, with no warning or a soft word for his remaining child. The teachers at school would look at the marks, and some would even grimace, but none had spoken about it. He was a child, and he was suffering, but no one cared enough to do anything. Daryl thought he must be a truly horrible person.
Gradually, he learned to accept the crack of the belt across his delicate skin and the slaps and punches to the face. He cried less, got angry more, and school had started to describe him as 'aggressive, with tendencies to violent outbursts'. He was the broken product of a broken home, but he could deal with that. Bruises and burns healed, fractured ribs knitted themselves back together again, and every scar reminded him that he was not worthy of love. He took it all in his stride, but there was one element to his father's inadequacy as a parent that Daryl couldn't deal with.
Most every weekend, Will Dixon would have his brother and at least a couple of buddies round. They would all drink themselves into a stupor with the cheapest, most disgusting liquor they could get their hands on, and one by one would drift off into a drunken sleep. All except one.
Daryl wasn't even sure of his real name, only that his friends called him Buck. Daryl hated Buck.
The sound of footsteps and the creak of his door was enough to make Daryl cold with fear, as the man stepped into the room with his fingers on his lips. It had started with the occasional night-time visit in which Buck would bring him little gifts- a bar of chocolate, a small woodcarving of an animal, even the hug that Daryl so desperately craved. Buck started to tell the young boy that he was 'a fine, handsome young man', and it made him swell with pride. The first time the redneck had brushed a hand over Daryl's crotch area, he had been too stunned to say a word, and Buck had even given him five dollars afterwards, telling him to keep it their little secret and there would be more cash in store for him. So the eleven-year-old had kept it to himself as Buck stripped him of his dignity layer by layer, all the while telling Daryl how beautiful he was.
He'd never forget the day when Buck had, as he'd said, made a man out of him. His heart had started its usual pounding beat as he'd heard daddy's friend staggering down the hall, and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut as the door creaked open. Pressing a hand over the kid's mouth, Buck had started to undress him. In a moment of dumbstruck thought, Daryl wondered why he'd even bothered with trying to silence him. Even if his daddy was sober enough to hear, why should he care?
He was spurred into action when Buck started to pull at his pants, kicking out with his feet only to be restrained by a man at least twice his size and with three times as much strength. He was flipped over to his stomach, cringing as a hand ran over his bruised skin. He could feel hot breath tickling the nape of his neck, alive with the acrid odour of cheap vodka.
When Daryl was penetrated, he cried out in shock at the man who he thought had been the only person to care for him.
The man that found him beautiful enough to split open and make a silent composition out of him.