FIVE TIMES MERLE WAS NICE TO HIS LITTLE BROTHER
Merle was ten when his Ma brought home the new baby. His little brother was all squirmy and wrinkly and loud. Pa did not appreciate the loud. Things weren't great around the tiny trailer even when it was just the three of them but now baby Daryl occupied the busted up crib in the corner Merle's tiny room and he did what babies do eat, crap and cry. Merle spent most nights with his pillow pressed over his head while his Ma tried to rock baby Daryl to sleep.
Sometimes, when Pa got home from whatever bar that he had been kicked out of, Daryl would still be crying. Those nights Ma would tell Merle to barricade the door the flea market dresser while she went to deal with him. Daryl would cry without his Ma, drowning out the sounds of fighting outside and Merle didn't know what to do. His Ma only let him hold him when she was watching and anyway he never really liked holding his brother; Daryl smelt funny, like a mixture of soap, milk and sick.
So Daryl would keep on crying until the fighting stopped and Ma would knock quietly on the bedroom door. Merle would slide the dresser out of the way and Daryl would have his Ma again, even if her face was bruised and she was crying as much as him.
One night the fighting and screaming got so loud that even Daryl stopped crying. He was one year old and Merle was glad that he had finally learnt to shut up because whatever was going on out there, making noise made it worse. Instead, Daryl just sat there in his footie pyjamas looking at Merle with those big eyes, sucking on his fingers and snuffling slightly.
"I don't know what you want me to do about them," Merle said, he'd given up trying to defend his Ma because what chance did an eleven year old have against fully grown drunk man with no problem hitting his kids.
Daryl got up on his unsteady feet, leaning against the rails of his crib and holding his arms out towards his big brother.
"I ain't hugging you," Merle told him, "I ain't your Ma,"
Daryl didn't seem to comprehend this, holding his arms out more insistently. Merle got up from his bed uncertainly and lifted Daryl carefully from the crib. He had grown a lot since the first time he'd held him, when Ma had brought him back from the hospital.
"If you do anything gross, like crap or dribble, I'll drop ya," he warned Daryl who seemed quite content to hang to his shoulder and breathe noisily against Merle's ear.
Merle surprised that it wasn't his Pa that ended up being the thing that killed his Ma. He was in juvie at the time so he only found out when the counsellor, the one who lead the dumb group meeting where they had to think about what they'd done, had asked him into his office. Apparently his Ma had been knocked down by some drunk driver on her way back from the store. The counsellor seemed surprised when Merle didn't cry, he just shrugged. At least he got a sympathetic early release.
The trailer was even more of a shithole than Merle remembered. There wasn't anybody home, he knew that his Pa would be at the usual place and Daryl would be…at school? Did he go to school? Merle guessed so, he was seven after all. So, he cracked open a beer from the refrigerator and put his feet up on the table. Hell, Ma wasn't going to tell him to take them down.
He sat there savouring the cold beer before noticing a slight sound that was just perceptible over the humming of the refrigerator and the chirping of crickets. It seemed to be coming from his old bedroom. He got up, his booted feet thumping on the floor and making the noise shut up quickly. It had definitely come from his room, from underneath the bed.
Merle bent down slowly, seeing a glimpse of scruffy hair and dirty skin before he was knocked back by about fifty pounds of Daryl.
"Jesus," Merle bellowed, falling back on his ass but managing to grab an ankle before a half feral Daryl managed to slip away. Daryl fell forward on to his face, curling into a protective ball before noticing who he was trying to hide from.
"Merle, I thought…I thought you were…" Daryl stuttered.
Merle assumed that he must have thought he was their Pa from his reaction. Move fast and stay low was always the key to avoid getting hit to badly. Merle flicked Daryl's ear by way of greeting before getting to his feet, finally getting a good look at him. The last time he had seen Daryl was outside the courtroom clinging onto their Ma as Merle was lead away to juvie. That had only been about five months ago but Daryl was skinnier than ever and dirty with greasy hair that was a little too long. He probably hadn't bathed or eaten properly since Ma died. Merle pulled Daryl to his bare feet before ruffling his hair in what he supposed was an affectionate manner.
"D'ya want a sandwich?" he offered.
Merle was only passing through, just checking up on Daryl before he moved on to wherever the hell he liked. He was sitting on the scrubby patch of grass outside their trailer drinking a beer, smoking and feeling pretty damned pleased with himself. After all he was nineteen, had about fifty dollars to his name and a truck of his own. He was pretty much set up.
"Merle!"
The cry brought Merle out of his reverie; Daryl was standing in front of his with a horrified look on his nine year old face. He was holding out his hand towards Merle and dripping blood on the dusty grass.
"What the hell did you do to yourself?" Merle demanded.
Daryl didn't answer just insistently held out his bleeding hand; Merle grabbed his wrist and inspected the gash across Daryl's palm. It wasn't too deep but it was just gushing blood.
"Don't cry," Merle instructed Daryl whose bottom lip was already beginning to tremble. Daryl nodded shakily, "Dixon men don't cry,"
"Ok," Daryl said, tears threatening to fall.
Merle groaned as he led Daryl by the hand and into the trailer, hoping they still had some bandages and antiseptic.
"What did you do anyway?" Merle asked later, more softly, sitting on the side of the bathtub and bandaging Daryl hand. He hand thankfully managed not to cry.
"The knife," Daryl said, not meeting his eyes, "I caught a squirrel and I tried to skin it,"
The one thing that their Pa had managed to do while sober was raise two hunters and for Daryl's ninth birthday he had stumbled into the house with a six inch hunting ninth for his youngest. It was, of course, stolen.
"I'll show you how to do it," Merle said, finishing with Daryl hand and ushering him out of the bathroom. He tried to ignore the enormously happy look on Daryl's face.
Merle wasn't sure why he'd come back home.
Maybe for the first time in his life he could return to the trailer without worrying about his old man. Mind you, he hadn't worried about being hit by his Pa for a long time. By the time he was sixteen he poised enough of a threat to be able to live in the trailer unscathed.
But now the old man was gone, really gone. He and Daryl had just returned from the funeral home with the cheapest urn full of their Pa's ashes. They were both sitting at the kitchen table drinking beer, ignoring the urn which was placed in the middle of the table.
"What do we do with it?" Daryl asked eventually.
Merle sat in silence for a few more moments before getting up so suddenly that Daryl flinched away from him. He grabbed the ugly-ass urn, kicked open the front door and hurled it out. It smashed on the ground outside, the dust that used to be their Pa mixing with the dirt. Merle couldn't think of a better end for him.
"Sorted," he said returning to the kitchen. Daryl was trying to decide whether to be shocked or to laugh, "Another beer?" Merle offered.
Merle hadn't been this sober in a long time. This was bad, because the dead weren't dead. They were up were up and walking, and eating people. Merle wasn't surprised that Daryl showed up on his doorstep. There was no one that Daryl trusted more than his big brother.
They were safe for now, sitting in the battered truck that Merle had bought all those years ago. They had turned off the highway and were taking a moment to…have a rest? Collect their thoughts? They were taking a moment to have a smoke. Merle glanced over at Daryl; his little brother was staring blankly out of the window, the cigarette in his bloodstained hand turning to ash.
It was been one screwed up day.
Merle patted Daryl comfortably on the back three times.
"Come on," he said quietly, "Lets get moving,"