Hey! So I haven't posted a story in years but I gave myself a challenge to write at least one story (mostly one-shots) for each of my fandoms. When I thought about it logically, I figured I should give myself a more attainable goal so I am working only on active movies/tv shows/books with the exception of one or two (Firefly will never die).

Anyways, here is the first one for The Walking Dead (which I do not own).

The Family Album:

Nestled up within the mountains of Northern Georgia, far removed from the civilization offered by the large populous, was an old run-down house. The poorly shingled roof leaked and the cracked windows allowed all manner of woodland creatures within. Unlike the well-kept homes of suburbia, here there was no daintily landscaped flower gardens or precisely mowed grass. A few free ranged chickens ruled the yard and the occasional feral cat could be seen poking around the barn out back. The interior of the shack matched the exterior, as one would expect. Paint, faded and peeling, covered the walls. Pests, their legs numbering from four to eight, skittered about, out of sight within the dim lightening. The rooms reeked of cheap booze, cigarettes, and mold. A few of the windows were boarded up but most were open to the elements. Back in one of the far bedrooms, at the rear of the house, a large queen bed filled most of the space. It's sheets, moth eaten as they were, were stained and dingy. There was little else within the room, if one were to ignore the empty bottles and cigar butts scattered about. Trash was piled everywhere, it left no where untouched.

In this room stood a man. His chestnut hair was long, hanging over his eyes in sweaty strands. The same salty moisture clung to his exposed arms and to his forehead. His clothes were nondescript but filthy. Some rips had been patch-worked back together, clearly done by someone with more delicate fingers than he if one was to examine the stitching. Other holes had yet to see such treatment. His gaze was upon the floor and a disgusted frown was upon his chapped lips. He kicked half-heartedly at the nearest empty liquor bottle at his feet. It rolled across the floor, the glass clinking against the other containers until it stopped near the foot of the bed. Deep blue eyes were clouded, as he watched it's progression, lost the dark memories the room had to offer.

"Daryl?"

The sudden call caused the man to jump, turning his neck to look over his shoulder, fully expecting to see the rotting jaws of a walker or the outstretched hand of his father. He was met with neither, yet he still did not relax his hold upon his crossbow.

"Daryl, you clear?" The voice called again, slightly echoing off the paneling of the hallway. The redneck broke himself from his thoughts before exiting the room and heading back to the front of the house. The front door was open, hanging off one hinge, and within that empty frame stood Carl, his own gun drawn. The weapon's aim instantly raised to level with Daryl's head as he appeared and the older man found himself mentally praising the kid for remaining vigilant.

"Yeah, kid." He confirmed, waving a hand for the youth to walk in as well. "Raid the kitch'n. I gotta take a piss."

Daryl grunted, shouldering past Carl and out the door. He didn't really have to go but he had to get out of there. Away from the memories. He wouldn't go far, in case the kid got in trouble. A walker could appear at any time in this new world and he couldn't, wouldn't let anything happen to Rick's kid. Especially not after what had happened only a few nights before.

The teen nodded, shrugging off the cold response as he turned to examine the room, putting the touchy redneck behind him. Daryl had been fine earlier. His usual gruff, little-talking self, sure, but fine. They had found this tiny town, looking nearly untouched by anyone. So the group had begun going house to house in search of food. Most of the population, small as it had been, had seemed to have fled, seeking sanctuary with the government when this had all started no doubt. There had only been a few walkers for them to dispatch and, deciding it to be quicker, the group had split up. Right then, Michonne and Rick were a mile down the road, searching another home.

The elder Grimes hadn't been thrilled with the idea, the group only just having found each other again and reeling from the attack and the murders they had been forced to commit in order to protect themselves, but Carl had insisted. He would go with Daryl. He had made was wisecrack about not allowing the guy from his sight after he had 'wandered away' once before and Michonne, always his advocate, had made up some lame excuse of needing to talk to Rick alone. Carl wasn't sure what she was gonna come up with with that one, but he wasn't worried. He had gotten his way. There was no way he was gonna come out and share his true reason for wanting the time away from his father.

The brutality of his actions haunted his son who, despite the post-apocalyptic world they now lived in, was still young. Having to survive the world as it was now, he held no disillusions about the nature of people. The governor had forced him to acknowledge that, but with the hordes of the undead everywhere, munching on anything living, something as childish as 'stranger danger' was not something he had thought he would need to contend with. He had forgotten how perverted some could be.

Such knowledge haunted him. Even now, if he allowed his mind to wander, he would once more feel the grimy hands on his face, on his hips, and the buckle of his belt. He would wake, panting hard, his body still tingling with the phantom touches.

Carl was relieved such a disgusting man was dead. Remorse in this world was too strong an emotion, guilt as well, and the teen had enough to grieve than to ponder the morbid death of one low-life pedophile. But, understand as he did, the image of his dad with his knife embedded within the man's abdomen was permanently scarred within his mind. The sounds, vivid as they were, filled his dreams.

So, he had sought out some much needed space. Searching the backwoods homes for anything that had been left behind had proven the best opportunity.

Glancing over his shoulder and out the front window, Carl could see Daryl milling about in front of the house. He seemed to be pointedly not looking back to the structure, instead focusing on the dirt at his feet or the surrounding woods in search of possible threats. A lit cigarette hung from his lips, the thin wisp of smoke rising above him with each exhale. Carl had noticed the man growing more tense with each step as they had begun to near the home. He had muttered something about this one being a lost cause to search this run down heap. Carl had simply looked at him inquisitively before trudging forward, not paying the older man any mind. 'Taking a look won't hurt.' He had argued.

Now, standing within the old, dingy kitchen, Carl had his own doubts. The cabinets were worn down and most hung crooked. He began to methodically search each pantry, shooing away any mice that he found or tearing down any cobwebs with no regard for the spiders' intricate homes. He had little luck, only finding a small jar of unopened peanut butter and two cans of tomato soup. Running down his mental list, the teen continued to search. He was rewarded with a few half empty boxes of matches and a small pocket knife. Moving from room to room, the bathroom yielded nothing, along with the second bedroom. The master bedroom was the last place he had to raid. Slowly he picked his way around the debris, until he reached the back closet. The sun was shining through the window and the dust that he had just stirred caught the light as it danced upon the air. It was almost as if it created a bright golden barrier between him and the wooden door. For some reason, one that Carl did not understand himself, he felt drawn to the closet. He somehow knew he needed to look in there.

He had to tug hard upon the door's handle, forcing the ill-used panel to open. The teen jumped backwards when a few mice ran over his feet, escaping as their home was disturbed. The space was rather empty, with only one denigrating cardboard box sitting in the far corner and Carl's shoulders fell. He had been hoping for a new jacket, his was covered with dark, dried blood still. Reaching forward he pulled the box from the dim shadows and placed it upon the disheveled mattress.

"Hey, let'z go. Yur dad is comin' up the road now." Daryl said, having entered the shack once more and he was now leaning against the door jam, the cigarette, while shorter, was still between his lips.

"Just a sec, found something." The teen replied, his gaze not leaving the dust-covered container. The once-damp cardboard collapsed within his grasp, crumbling as he pulled the flaps open. Inside there still was not much worth while. Empty syringes and pill bottles. Someone's stash.

"Come on, kid."

Carl was about to turn around and forget the random box and it's useless contents when something else caught his eye. The ratty corned of a photo was sticking out from underneath everything. He enclosed the piece between his thumb and pointer finger, tugging it and revealing the full picture. The photo was old, in age but also in time period. It looked a lot like the pictures that his parent's had shown him of their own childhoods. It showed a small boy, maybe five years old or so. He was looking upward into the camera, his large eyes bright with tears. Dark hair had been brushed back so it did not obscure the dark, painful looking bruise that covered his swollen cheek.

Carl had no idea why someone would have taken such a picture. Maybe there was a story behind it, falling out of a tree or a fight with some school boys. Reaching in further, Carl withdrew a small stack of pictures, each was of the same child, all of different ages. The ice in the teenager's stomach was growing with each photo. There was one, of the boy's face again, his eye swollen shut and his lip split, blood staining the flesh. Another showed him shirtless, his torso was discolored and shrunken. Carl could count each individual rib, his skin stretched tight over the bones. The fourth and last one Carl looked at was very troubling. He looked to be the same age as Carl had been, when this had all started. Bruises were the least of his problems this time. They were there but over them, seeping blood, were the lashes. Crisscross welts patterned his back and the offending weapon lay near kneeling boy. A thick leather belt.

The cruelty and pain that was present within the picture held Carl's attention captive. So captive, that the teen did not hear as Daryl walked up behind him.

"The'r here, we should move-" He meant Rick and Michonne but, living the way they did, Carl instantly assumed he meant the walkers. Carl looked up quickly, the photo falling from his hand as he reached for his holstered weapon. The paper fluttered down and it landed, face-up, between them.

Carl was about to ask how many they were up against when the words died on his lips. Daryl had gone white, all the blood draining his face as he saw the picture, but within seconds, it had all rushed back. His flesh was red with anger.

"I know. Sick, right? Bet the kid is better of now, if he's still alive." Carl muttered, stooping to pick up the paper once more. Down the hallway, the other half of their group arrived, calling softly out to them, Michonne announcing that she had found more cheese, in a can. None of this broke Daryl's gaze, which was still locked upon the image. Within the blink of an eye he reached down and picked up the photo.

"Get out." He growled, not looking up at the kid.

"What?" Carl was clearly bewildered but Daryl did not bother to explain. He instead grab the youth by the shoulder of his shirt and pushed him out of the room. The thick, wooden barrier then slammed behind him, the force so strong the young Grimes could feel the vibrations. The sudden noise spurred Michonne and Rick into quick action, both of them running towards the noise with their weapons ready.

"Carl? You okay?" The former Sheriff asked, resting a hand on his son's shoulder as he scanned him for injuries.

"'m fine." He grumbled, shrugging his father's hand off. "Daryl's in there. He shoved me out and slammed the door, don't know whats wrong."

Michonne sent Rick a look. One of her looks that very clearly stated her thoughts.

'I got Carl, you find out whats up with our resident redneck.'

Nodding, Rick waited until the two of them had walked away before raising a hand, rapping his knuckles lightly upon the door.

"Daryl?" He paused, hearing only shuffling from behind the door. When a long moment had past Rick spoke again. "I'm comin' in." He warned before turning the doorknob.

Inside, his first thought was to search out Daryl but he did not have to look far. The man was on the old, dingy bed, his dirty shoes further staining the sheets. He picked his way into the room, around the debris and closer to the man who only days before he had called brother.

As Rick drew nearer he still said nothing, walking around to the other side of the bed to sit down as well, while maintaining his space in a 'manly fashion'. He took note of the clear mason jar within one of Daryl's hardened fists. The colorless liquid's volatile odor gave away it's very nature immediately.

"Where'd you find the booze?" The former sheriff asked, having to fit back that old nature of himself to the illegal beverage.

Daryl said nothing for a moment, taking another gulp of the drink before responding. "Dad always kep' a stash fur 'mergencys."

Rick did not fail to catch the key words, mumbled as they were. 'Dad'.

"You lived here?" He asked, his voice betraying his disbelief.

Daryl said nothing, did not look up at the man beside him, just sat there. The box still sat at the foot of the bed, useless items still sitting around. While his one hand was busy with his drink, the other was clutching a stack of the photos. His thumb was absentmindedly running over the smooth paper, the oils from his hand causing it to drag.

"What are those?" Rick attempted to ask another question when the first was ignored.

"Nun ya damn business." The words were growled but Rick knew not to allow that to deter him. He knew by now the redneck used such gruff nature to kept people at an arms length. To keep them from getting too close.

"Baby pictures? How cute was Daryl as a baby?" He could not help but tease though in the back of his mind he had a darker thought, one that he knew to be true but he really, really hoped wasn't. Grimes had heard Daryl talk about his life before only briefly. He avoided reminiscing with everyone, avoiding talking in general, really. If Daryl had something to say, you knew it would be important.

Daryl did not rise to his goading, simply taking another swallow of the strong moonshine.

They sat in silence for a long time, neither saying a word yet neither growing uncomfortable. Daryl was not one to offer up information easily and Rick was not one to push. He knew, if Daryl needed or wanted him to know, he would tell him but Rick could also be stubborn, very stubborn. After a while, long enough that they could physically see where the shadows cast by the sun had moved along the bedroom floor, Daryl acted. He had polished off the mason jar but had pulled another from underneath the bed and was halfway through it as well. Releasing a big sigh, he raised his hand, the photos still within his fingers. He offered no explanation as he handed them to Rick, his gaze still trapped in front of him.

Rick took them in silence, looking down to study the snap shots. His bewilderment turned to rage, only growing as he flipped through each one. Each and every one showed the same child. They were taken with an old Polaroid, the kind that would develop your picture moments after it was taken. One picture, the very last picture provided Rick with so much fury, so much hate, he could barely contain himself.

The young boy was perhaps fourteen. He was shirtless, with only ragged jeans sitting low on his slim waist. Laying on the dingy floor, one Rick recognized as the type in this very room, the boy's muscles were pulled taunt, stressed to their maximum. His face was contoured in his pain and his back arched in response to it. Around his neck, locked with a padlock, was an electric dog collar.

"My dad were a sicko..One of them sadi-thingies." Daryl confessed, his voice nearly a whisper. He still was intently studying his boots instead of looking up. "He liked the pain..damn bast'rd."

Rick felt like a fish out of water, his mouth nearly hanging open like in some cheesy morning cartoon. "This-this is you?" He asked, hoping, praying for the answer to be 'no' but he knew better. Rick held up the picture, not intending for the redneck to look at it, to have to relive any further horror, so much as to signify his question.

Daryl glanced at the picture, shuddering slightly as though the pain was once more coursing through his body, before turning away and nodding. "Kept that on me most th' time."

Small, bony fingers reached up, already aware their actions pointless, but still needing to try. Tugging, clawing, twisting at the collar. Attempting to pry it loose to no avail. He tried, forcing himself to remain completely silent, until blood stained his blunt nails.

"Didn' like no noise."

The slightest whimper would sent it off, would send painful electric jolts down his spine.

"Guess thatz why I don' talk much...Bast'rd nearly killed me. He'd mess wit me, wit those." Daryl waved a hand to the photos still within Rick's own grip.

Trembling, he would reach out. The pads of his fingertips ghosting over the upside-down pictures. Which ever one he overturned, would be the one he would be subjected to. Some were horrendous, the child had no doubt would one day kill him, others were not as bad. All he could do was pray that he would walk away with a few cigarette burns and not something worse.

Once Daryl had begun to talk, the words came easier, seemingly rushing to get out after so many years of being hidden. "I weren't strong 'nough to fight 'im. Not ever really-too much 'a coward."

Running, hiding, disappearing in the woods for days on end and only returning when weather or hunger forced him to. Many nights were spent, laying on the old dog bed he had 'scavenged' from the neighbors a few miles down the road and in too much pain to sleep. He would consider running for it for good, or taking his crossbow and ending the monster who masqueraded as his father, but he never would. He was not like his father.

The redneck suddenly cleared his throat, sitting upright and stumbling slightly as he left the bed. "Don' matter no how. Bast'rds dead." He growled before he marched out of the room with his crossbow slung over his shoulder with one hand while the other carried his sack. He shut the door behind him, a clear sign that if Rick were to follow, the conversation was to remain within the room.

Rick was torn. His head reeling from the abrupt way he had learned such dark secrets. Many thoughts and questions remained unspoken on both accounts but Grimes knew better than to run after Daryl and demand he talk. Daryl wouldn't appreciate that, besides, it's not what men do.

With the few words that had been said, Daryl had expressed the abuse he had once faced, the trauma that surely still haunted him, and, with no words, Rick had offered his comfort, simply sitting in silence beside his friend, his brother. Rick knew pressing the man to talk would do no good, his actions would only pick at the painful wound.

No, the knowledge of the broken past would be filed away, not spoken of unless it became relevant once more.

Looking down at his hands, at the photos, Rick studied the young boy one last time. His bright blue eyes staring up into the camera, still so young as to beg for relief, for love. For his family to love him.

Perhaps, in such a world as it was now, there was no relief but there was love. There was family, even if it were not blood. That small, hurt boy was gone. He had died long before the apocalypse. In his place was a strong, loyal, and tenacious individual who would do anything to keep his group safe.

Standing himself, Rick casually walked over to the nearby bedroom window where the glass had broken out. Despite his thoughts that were lost elsewhere, Grimes still possessed the frame of mind to scan the outside for movement, the living or dead, before he crawled through the opening. He did not go far, kneeling down. His right hand reached out to run along the grass and dirt, fingertips skimming over the twigs and tender green shoots. Curling his fingers, he began to dig. He did not spend long on the hole, only digging until it was big enough for what he needed.

The former sheriff's own blue eyes closed for a moment, mourning the loss of the small child who's pictures he held in his hands, before he placed the pile into the hole, covering it once again. Burying the horrendous past of his best friend. Rick was grateful that, despite the circumstances, Daryl had been given a chance at a new life. That he had not fallen to become just another statistic in the society that had been so fractured as to fail so many innocent children.

That he had survived and was still surviving despite it all.

Well...what did you think? I attempted to stay in character for everyone as much as possible. Daryl's not much of a talker so he was not about to sit and have a heart to heart, at least not that I could envision, but get him riled and some booze in him and I felt he would at least let a few things slip.

Don't forget to review! Love feedback!

The next one I will be posting will be for Arrow from the CW. I'm not sure when it will be finished but keep an eye out if you are a fan of the show!