Author's Note: Rated for gore and blood. Just a random idea that popped into my head; hope you enjoy, R&R would be lovely.
Daryl Dixon remembered a lot of his firsts.
He remembered his first kiss, in the fifth grade with an absolutely precious girl named Beulah. He hadn't enjoyed the name as much as he'd enjoyed the peck on the lips she'd given him after he had slammed his fist into the face of one of the other boys, who'd been teasing her about her parents or something. To be honest, he hadn't really been listening, but there had been something about the way she was sobbing that had made him lash out. The kiss that followed had lasted barely a second before the principal was dragging him inside by one ear, ranting hysterically.
That was also the first day he was suspended, but it certainly wasn't the last.
That had also been the night he'd had his first taste of alcohol. Ma had gone absolutely ballistic on him when he'd gotten home, screaming that he was better than those other boys, that he didn't need to drop down to their level. She'd smacked him upside the ear with a wooden spoon (and Jesus, you never forgot that feeling) and sent him to his room without supper. At about half past seven, his older brother Merle had slid into his room, grinning madly, bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand.
Daryl got one sip down before he threw up, narrowly missing Merle's sneakers. By the time Ma came upstairs, his brother had disappeared, conveniently leaving the bottle of alcohol in his room. Ma had, thankfully, cleaned up his vomit before she whomped him again, leaving him with a burning cheek and a sore stomach.
He remembered the first time he ever felt a girl up (but then again, so did every guy). He'd been in the ninth grade and Merle, a senior, had been throwing a party. For some reason, he'd let Daryl stay downstairs in the basement with them instead of sending him to his room with threats of a beatdown. Daryl had only vaguely recognized some of the people from school and, at least at the beginning of the night, most of the girls just gave him these little weird sideways looks, followed by that absolutely aggravating giggle that meant they were talking about him and they wanted him to know it.
In the end, he had the last laugh (not giggle, laugh. Daryl Dixon did not giggle). Once the girls had gotten some Southern Comfort into them, they were a lot more willing to talk to him. In one case, the girl had been willing to do a lot more than talk. She was a good Southern girl named Lorraine, with long blonde curly hair and high breasts that looked like they belonged on a porn star. For a few moments, Daryl was even convinced that they were fake; he didn't think it was possible for a normal girl to be that big.
He found out five minutes later, when Lorraine dragged him into the corner of the basement and stuck his hand up her shirt, that they were definitely real. He did feel a little bad, considering Lorraine was undoubtedly drunk but when he tried to pull away, stammering an apology, she only yanked him back, practically thrusting her chest at his face.
Of course, Merle chose that moment to grab him by the scruff of the neck, whomp him in the face and throw him up the stairs, yelling something about him needing to respect women or something or another. Daryl didn't really pay any mind to it; Merle was about the least respectful person he knew, so he already knew that he was a step above him, even if he had copped a feel.
Besides, based on the noises Daryl heard later that night when he was trying to sleep, Merle was doing a lot more than feeling Lorraine up.
After that, of course, was the first time. To be honest, Daryl would have preferred if he couldn't remember this particular first. It had been typical, a series of fumbles in the front seat of his first truck that had led to an embarrassingly short round of sex. Neither he nor the (arguably unlucky) girl mentioned the incident to each other ever again; in fact, they rather fell out of contact after that.
Merle still found out that he had slept with Lorraine, somehow and he still kicked the shit out of him.
When he was in his early twenties, there'd been the first time he had kicked Merle's ass, instead of the other way around. He had stumbled in at an ungodly hour of the morning, pungent with the scents of alcohol and something Daryl couldn't place. By the time he had stumbled downstairs, still half asleep, Merle had already gotten Ma out of bed, demanding that she cook him breakfast. Despite the fact that the sun hadn't even risen yet, Ma had agreed, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes while she fried eggs on the stove.
And Merle had just sat there at the kitchen table, limbs jittery, obviously strung out on something, taking advantage of the unconditional love Ma had for him. For Daryl, it was the last straw. He'd come up behind Merle, locked his arm around his brother's neck (just the way he'd shown him when they were kids) and dragged him out of his chair. Merle had tried to fight back; he'd flailed his legs, scratched madly, sunk his teeth into Daryl's arm. None of it worked; even with Ma screaming in his ear, he got Merle outside and tossed his good for nothing ass into the dirt, slamming a kick into his ribs for good measure.
Don't you come back until you're cleaned up. Ma doesn't need you and I certainly don't need your worthless ass.
He'd had to call the sheriff eventually, who picked Merle up as the first sliver of sun popped over the horizon. Ma had been weeping and babbling and when Daryl had tried to hug her, she had only slapped him and returned inside, locking herself in her bedroom. They didn't see Merle again for another three years, when he was released from prison for drug possession.
There were many other firsts that Daryl had experienced but that he only vaguely recalled; his first cigarette, his first bar fight, his first funeral. But not one of these firsts could compare to one that he knew would stay imprinted in his mind for the rest of his life (however long or short that would be). He just knew that, even if he lived to be an eighty year old man (and face it, that was unlikely), he would still be able to remember the entire scene perfectly.
He would never forget the first time he killed a Walker.
He'd heard some of the reports coming out of the big cities but he'd dismissed most of them; the whole thing rather reminded him of the huge avian flu thing that had happened a few years back and that situation ended up not being anything that special. So he had shrugged them off and just continued living his life, going to work and coming home to the farmhouse he'd inherited when Ma had passed on. There were no animals anymore; he'd sold them off. He wasn't a farmer; he was more of a hunter.
The television had been blaring in the background as he made supper, just something simple and hearty. It was all he knew, really. He heard the front door creaking open but he blamed it on the wind; if it had been Merle, he would have heard his truck come screeching up the driveway.
But there were footsteps. Even over the television, he could hear them, hitting the floor heavily, thud thud. They didn't sound like any human footsteps he'd ever heard and a chill had gone up his spine. He couldn't help but flashback to all the horror films he'd watched as a child, peeking between his fingers. Slowly, he grabbed a butcher knife from the counter and spun around, raising his hand.
Lorraine was in his kitchen but there was obviously something wrong with her. Her skin was a mottled grey color, like a pebble on the beach. Blood was trickling out of the corner of her mouth and when she turned her head slightly, Daryl could see that the side of her throat was torn out. She was wearing the remnants of a satin nightgown, the fabric hanging in shreds off of her body.
Lorraine, are you okay? He didn't know why he was asking; hell, he didn't know why she was even here but it was quite obvious that something was definitely wrong with her. She took a step around his table, slowly bringing one arm up to reach for him. The only sound that came from her mouth was a low groan, like no noise he'd ever heard her (or any woman, for that matter) make.
That was when he'd stopped thinking and started acting. His hand had automatically swung, sending the butcher knife through the top of her skull. Gore and blood had splattered the kitchen, dousing the cabinets and the white counter. For a moment, she had continued to stare at him with those horrible, empty eyes but then she'd dropped like a rock to the floor, landing in a heap of limbs. Daryl had dropped the knife to the floor and backed against the counter, stomach having relocated to his throat for the time being. When he was convinced that he wasn't going to puke, he ran upstairs and gathered everything he could before booking it for Merle's house.
He thought that, after awhile, when all the bodies blurred together into a mass of blood and crossbow bolts through brains, that he would be able to forget, that he'd no longer remember Lorraine's face as he had slammed a knife through her head. If she'd been somebody random, somebody anonymous, he could have but he'd known her; he hadn't talked to her in years but he'd known her.
And the truth was that he didn't know if he could do that again. He didn't know if he could actually kill somebody he knew, even if they were no longer a person. After watching Andrea blow her sister's brains out, he was even more convinced that, even though he had told all of them that he wouldn't hesitate to shoot them through the eye if they turned into a Walker, he would fail when the time came.
Pulling himself out of his reminiscing, he gazed around the camp, giving everyone a quick one-over. As hard as he was trying not to get to know them, it was happening regardless. He regarded most of the people in camp as allies; some, he reluctantly admitted, were actually on the way to becoming his friends. Lorraine hadn't even been a friend; she'd just been a broad that he'd had a past with, someone he knew. If it came down to it, would he be able to kill the old man? What about Glenn? Hell, what if, somehow, he had to be the one to kill one of the little ones? Swallowing heavily, he turned his gaze back towards the fire, turning his thoughts towards the squirrels roasting over the fire.
Those were firsts that he didn't want to experience.