This one is dark and describes a lot of abuse, so if that's something you find upsetting, you should choose something else to read.

I woke up in the middle of last night with this in my head, nearly complete down to the word, so I crawled out of bed to my computer to get as much of it down as my semi-conscious mind could manage. Three hours later, I fell back into bed. When I woke up, the sun was shining, and I wasn't sure if I had dreamed it or not.

The Walking Dead does not belong to me.

BITCH

The first time he did it, he'd come home crazy. He wasn't just drunk – he was too keyed up for it just to be alcohol in his system. Shivering with the effort to stay quiet, she lay crumpled at the foot of the bed and tried not to breathe too deeply. The last kick to her side had left her with the grating of broken ribs. Twisting his fist into her collar, he hauled her up to scream at her some more. His breath in her face was like sour milk and rank-smelling slobber sprayed over her skin with every slurred word. There was never any use trying to avoid the venting of his rage, but he was less predictable on nights like this. Her legs went watery with fear when he drew out the knife.

~o~

At the quarry and the farm it was easier to hide. They still thought themselves civilized enough to value things like privacy, despite being reduced to living almost like animals. There were tents, and the RV, and even the farmhouse with its bathrooms. It was already bad enough without the looks of pity and disgust that would surely come if they saw how worthless she was.

SLUT

It was more than a year before he did it again, and though the first one had finally healed, she never forgot it was there for a moment. She could always feel it, glaring and ugly under the fabric of her shirt, despite the fact that wasn't possible. Even if she could have forgotten, he would never have let her. For months, whenever something she did set him off, he would dig his fingers into the scabbed cuts through her shirt until they bled freely again. Eventually it healed enough he couldn't make it bleed with just his fingers anymore. The second time he did it, she'd made the mistake of thanking the drinking buddy who'd half-carried him into the house after driving him home. He'd flown into a rage afterward, and held her by the hair, face down with a cracked cheekbone on the bathroom floor while he re-opened the scars branding her a bitch, and then made sure everyone would know she was nothing but a slut, too.

~o~

Hiding was harder after the farm fell. They lived closer, with fewer trappings of their old life to cling to. All of them knew she bore scars and marks – she couldn't hide them all. But she was careful to keep anyone from seeing just how damaged she was, despite the miserably close quarters. Changing clothes and washing up were done alone if possible, and if not, she kept her back to a wall and subtly distracted others with questions or comments to direct their attention elsewhere. She was very good at being invisible.

WHORE

When he did it the third time, he was high again, and this time, he didn't even have the flimsy excuse of a thoughtless thank you to blame it on. Foam flecked the corners of his mouth while he ranted, listing imagined slights and punctuating each one with a slap as he held her in a choking grip at her throat. When he pulled out the knife again, she fought him, and his eyes gleamed. He heaved her onto the bed on her stomach, pinning her with the weight of his body since she didn't have enough hair anymore to hold her down. She could feel him getting hard against her as she struggled and sobbed, and she realized with sickening horror just how much he'd grown to like cutting her.

~o~

Once they'd made the prison into a home, things were easier again. They had space, and the little bit of privacy the cells afforded made them value it all the more. Even after she'd been lost in the tombs and was kitten-weak, it wasn't hard to convince the others to let her change clothes and wash up on her own. But feeling safe and hidden wasn't enough to let her forget what she was.

CUNT

The fourth time, cutting wasn't good enough. There wasn't even a pretend list of things she'd done to deserve it. He just threw her to the floor and sat astride her stripped body while he lit a fresh cigarette. He laughed when he first brought the glowing tip close enough to the skin at her hip to make her scream.

~o~

After his brother died, Daryl had started coming to her cell at night. She supposed they had more in common than anyone else, and that's why he chose her. At first they just sat together, him taking solace in her quiet presence and then leaving without a word. Eventually, he talked to her – secret whispers in the dark, and she came to treasure what he shared with her. Sometimes he would ask her things, and occasionally she would answer, but there were some things she was too ashamed to tell even him.

PROPERT-

Apparently, he liked cutting better than burning. Once again, he came home out of his mind on God only knew what, but this time, instead of hurting her and then violating her, he tried to do both at the same time. He was so high, he passed out on top of her before he was finished, his erection and the hand holding the knife both going limp as he collapsed. She lay shuddering beneath him for a long time, waiting to see if he would wake before she ever attempted to crawl free.

~o~

One night months later, Daryl caught her off guard by reaching out to take her hand. Startled by the unexpected touch, she flinched, and he dropped her hand as if he'd been burned. He fled her cell, leaving her stuttering over an apology that he didn't hear. For a while he avoided her, until one day she came to him and reached for his hand instead. Over the next weeks, in hesitant fits and starts, they taught each other that touch could bring pleasure as well as pain. Slowly, they became bolder and more sure, learning how to love each other in the safety of darkness.

~~oOo~~

"Why?" Daryl asked, unknowingly tearing open the old wounds again.

Though they had sex often, she rarely allowed herself to be completely naked with him, and she never let him see her in the light. Tonight they had slipped away to one of the solitary cells in the tombs for some time alone, but he'd stopped her when she'd reached to dim the lantern.

She lowered her eyes and shook her head, at a loss for what to tell him. What could she possibly say to make him understand?

"We been doin' this for how long now? I ain't never got to see you yet."

She shook her head more forcefully. "I can't."

"But why? You ain't gotta hide nothin' from me."

"I just can't. Please... Please don't?" she pleaded. The thought of him seeing what Ed had done to her made her stomach turn and her throat close up painfully.

"Carol..." His ragged whisper pleaded back, begging her to help him understand.

When she didn't respond, he reached over to turn the lantern down to almost nothing, leaving just enough light not to leave them in pitch blackness. Sinking down to sit on the edge of the narrow bunk, he held a hand out to her. "C'mere."

Warily, she took his hand. He stretched out on the bunk, and she let him guide her to lie down beside him. Pulling her tense body close, he simply held her, asking nothing from her but to be allowed to offer comfort.

"'S okay," he murmured.

She closed her eyes and pressed her cheek to his chest. His heartbeat, steady and strong, soothed her trembling as her body began to relax into his embrace. Though he didn't see it the way she did, he was a good man – better than any man she'd ever known, both caring and kind. She knew she didn't deserve someone good like him. It was unfair and selfish of her to be with him when he didn't know what she was. A deep despair rose as she realized she couldn't hide anymore, and it could only lead to losing him.

"Ed...hurt me," she began hoarsely, then had to stop when her throat closed again. Swallowing hard, she forced the words out anyway. "Everyone knows that – it's no secret. I wasn't any kind of wife to him. I was...property. He made sure I understood that, and he never, ever let me forget."

Daryl's arms around her stiffened, and she felt his heart thump faster in his chest, but he waited quietly for her to say what she would. She took a steadying breath. "The things he did – terrible things... he ruined me. He made absolutely sure no one would ever want me."

Shaking and sick with nerves, she sat up and swung her feet over the side of the bunk, turning her back to him. She was cold outside of his embrace and hugged herself tightly as she worked up the courage to expose her ugliness to him.

At last she leaned over to turn the lantern up as high as it would go. Her trembling fingers fumbled with the buttons of her shirt as she whispered, "I didn't want you to see."

He pushed himself up and brushed her sleeve with his fingertips. "Carol, you don't have to-"

"Yes, I do." She didn't mean to flinch away from his touch, but it wasn't in her control anymore. "Daryl, it's who I am. What I am. It wasn't fair to keep it from you just because I'm ashamed. I'm sorry – I shouldn't have let things go so far."

As the final button came free, she hesitated, knowing that after this moment, he would never look at her the same way again. She straightened her spine and let the thin shirt slip from her shoulders to pool at her hips on the bed. His quick intake of breath was soft, but it cut her more deeply than Ed's blade ever had. She unfastened her belt and loosened her cargo pants enough to expose the burns at her hip, too. And finally she reached around to unfasten the last barrier, to give him an unobstructed view of it all, though she clutched the dingy white bra to her chest, unable to bare any more of herself than she already had.

She let him take in her mutilated body, and as the silence stretched, hot prickles of humiliation crawled up her neck to her cheeks. She dropped her chin and hunched tighter into herself in misery.

Bitch. Slut. Whore. Cunt. Property of Ed Peletier.

She hated what he'd done to her body almost as much as she hated herself.

When Daryl's fingers brushed over the curve of her shoulder, she hissed and jerked back from the contact. But his warm hand found her skin again, and when she didn't cringe away, he began gently exploring the ruined expanse. That he saw them was degrading enough, but the thought of Daryl touching the hideous scars Ed had marked her with made her ill. But he didn't hesitate or shy away from them. In fact, as he continued the soft touches, she felt no judgment or revulsion from him at all, and it confused her.

His callused fingers smoothed over her back, shoulders, and hip in soothing, hypnotic strokes. Her eyes fluttered shut at the strange sensation. Each gentle, caring touch drew out a little of the poison that tainted each of the vicious cuts and began to ease the lingering pain. Tears flowed silently and steadily down her cheeks, purging still more, but it ran so deep, she knew it wouldn't ever be gone.

She had no idea how long he caressed her skin like that or when he'd draped her shirt back over her shoulders, but now he curled himself protectively around her, his strong arms drawing her close against his chest and his scratchy chin resting on her shoulder. She leaned her head to rest her temple to his.

He stirred, the scrape of his scruff on her neck raising gooseflesh. "He was wrong. I want you."

Her breath lurched in a strangled hiccup that had tried to come out as both a sob and bitter laughter. How could he possibly still want her? She was just broken leftovers. Damaged. Used up. She wanted to believe him, but it just wasn't possible.

"I know this ain't somethin' that'll get better overnight, but I need you to hear what I'm sayin'. He did those things to you trying to make you think you deserved it – trying to convince you that you ain't worth anyone's love. But that piece of shit never got it so wrong."

She shook her head, denying his voice in her ear. How could he not see what was in front of his eyes?

But Daryl held her close and insisted she listen. "Ain't nothin' that man could do that would make me not want you. I know you don't see it like I do, but you're beautiful, and you're strong, and them scars are just the proof."

He paused to thread the fingers of one hand through hers. "What he did ain't your fault, and it sure as hell don't define you. You are not your skin."

She turned his words over and over in her head. Though she would never be able to accept everything he'd said, she was starting to think he might not be lying, either. He'd seen her deepest shame and hadn't turned away in disgust, and that had to mean something.

He squeezed her hand and asked tentatively, "You okay?"

She closed her eyes and leaned back into him with an unsteady sigh, taking what comfort she could for now. The terrible scars she'd felt so acutely for so many years were oddly muted now, blending almost invisibly into the warmth of his body at her back.

"I think...maybe I will be."