[A/N] Thank you so much for checking out my story! The story starts at the point when Merle is handcuffed on the roof in Atlanta and from then it will pretty much follow the storyline of the show. The first chapters are only Merle's POV, but soon it'll switch POV's between Merle and Emmaly (oc).

Also, English isn't my native language, so bear with me here. Reviews/feedback are very much appreciated.

I hope you'll like the story!

Rated M for language (cursing) and violence.

I do not own the Walking Dead. I only own my OC and the storyline I created.

Merle Dixon wasn't exactly the definition of a hero.

No. He was far from that. But he wasn't a coward either. Even though he did some pretty fucked up things in his life.
And now he was being punished for it.

The Atlantic sun was blurring his view, while his tongue seemed to dry up. He was getting dehydrated. His skin was probably burned already, but Merle felt numb anyway.
Not sure how to be, what to say, what to do, Merle looked up in the sky and closed his eyes for a moment. Fuckers, he grumbled to himself. But he only burst out in laughter.

A noise. Was it from the sky? Was He trying to send him a message? For all he knew, he could be dead already, because this surely felt like an appetizer to hell. The realisation hit him and he felt the handcuff around his wrist again. "No, no no," he said, begging, feeling trapped like an animal.
Merle tried to turn around, to see where the noise came from, with the little energy he had left.

Hands.

Hands from the dead, trying to get through the door. Shortly after, he saw their ugly ass faces. Fortunately the door was chained, however the idea of them actually breaking through and getting him, while he was helplessly handcuffed to a pipe, made him panic. He kept yanking his hand back, causing more blood to spill.

"I know I need t' be punished," he pleaded, hoping the Lord would hear him. "I deserve this, I deserve this.. Help me now, show me the way, I don't know what to do.. Help me. Please, please, please."

But why would he pray or plead.. Did that motherfucker ever help him when his Ol' man beat him up? Or when his momma set herself on fire, even though she promised to be there for him?

No, that selfish ass didn' care 'bout me then, so sure as hell he won't care 'bout me now.

Anger was flowing through his veins.

His body fell down and he rolled under the pipe when he suddenly realised the nigger dropped the tools earlier.

The belt was lying there and he managed to get it with his free hand, so he could try to get the hacksaw by using the belt. It was his only hope.

"I ain't begged you before.. I ain't gonn' start beggin' now. I ain't gonn' start beggin' you now. Don't'cha worry 'bout me."

His eyes were still blurry, but he could see clear enough to use the belt. Soon he realized what he was about to do in order to get away. "Fuck!" he yelled, causing the walkers behind him to groan louder while they tried to reach for him.
Merle knew he had to use his belt in order to reduce the bleeding and he dearly hoped it would actually work.
He threw the belt towards the hacksaw and tried to scrape it towards him. 20 minutes passed, before it finally seemed to work. The hacksaw was in front of his feet now, so he could grab it with his free hand. "Th' nigga makin' me cut m' own arm off," he groaned to no one in particular, while grabbing his belt and attaching it on his wrist. He tightened it until he was sure it would stay. His other hand trembled as it took the hacksaw, but when he heard the walkers making even more noise, he bit his tongue and did what he had to do.

He saw his own blood. He wasn't scared of his blood, but to see his own hand in front of him was…horrifying. Even for Merle.
He took off his shirt without thinking and pushed it to the wound, causing him to bite his tongue until he tasted his own blood. Ya fuckin' pussy, he said to himself, ya ain't gon' cry like a bitch now. He moved, but he felt dizzy because of his blood loss. While forcing himself to walk, he tried to regain his balance. There was another door. Almost feeling relieved, Merle staggered towards it and opened it. I ain't dead yet, he said to himself.

He couldn't see shit; it was too dark. If he didn't do something about his wound, he would probably bleed to death. "That'd be a shit way t' go," he said with his rasping voice, causing him to burst out in laughter because of the pain.

Merle tried to stay steady, but he fell. And somewhere, he feared he couldn't get up anymore.

He thought about Daryl.

What if Daryl would find him like this? Or worse, what if he wouldn't find him at all?
How would he feel, if it were Daryl handcuffed to a roof?

Toughen' up. Ya soundin' like a damn woman.

He wasn't sure if he heard Daryl in his thoughts, or if he was going insane. Was this what dying felt like? Spending your last minutes in bitterness, while going insane?

He heard footsteps behind him, but he didn't bother to turn around and defend himself. "Ya got me—ya better 'njoy m' body, it went thru' a lot."
"Sorry, I dorn't fuck oan a first date."
The voice startled him and he looked up to the person's face, that was now hanging above him. His view was blurry and so he couldn't see the person.
"Too bad, I'd give ya a good time."
His lips curled into a smile, not knowing whether this was all happening inside his head or if it was real. If it was another dream, Merle wouldn't mind.
And while thinking about it, he lost consciousness.