A/N: I really love Daryl's character, I find the fact that after everything he experienced as a child he still had the compassion to comfort Carol after she lost Sophie. That's not something every person could have done. I also love the relationship between Merle and Daryl, most of the time we only get to see how rough Merle is on him but you know Daryl wouldn't have survived without him. Merle kept him alive through it all and showed him how to stay that way.
Disclaimer: I don't own The Walking Dead.
Summary: Daryl's five and spills his cereal making his father furious. Merle takes the beating for him.
Breakfast by FlyingNymphLady
Our house is awake at the crack of dawn but not because everyone's woken up, rather it's because no one ever went to sleep. Most nights can be like that around here, Daddy will call his friends over and they'll go drinking down by the crawfish hole. When he gets home he keeps drinking however, and then he gets real mean. Merle's warned me to stay away from him when that happens. He says it's just common sense to stay away from flying fists and the faster I learn that the better.
It's not until sunlight creeps across my bedroom floor that I rise from my sheets and head into the kitchen. My dad's sitting at the kitchen table, still not satisfied with the drunken stupor he's worked himself into. He has a beer in one hand and a dazed look upon his face, not quite asleep but not really awake either. I debate whether I should continue my search for breakfast or head back to my room but he doesn't seem angry so I conclude it's safe to venture onward.
Breakfast is a skill I've acquired over the past couple of years, not out of a desire for independence but a necessity to survive. Ever since I was an infant there's been a question of when I'd get fed, my parents often times would forget about me until a wave of nurturance washed over them long enough to stick a bottle in my mouth. Merle was the one who remembered to feed me the most often; I'd probably have died without him.
I pull a chair over to the counter and climb onto it with familiarity, a regular practice of my morning life. I choose the box of Frosted Flakes, my favorite, Coco Puffs, having been devoured last week in a drunken munch fest. I set the box onto the seat of the chair and climb down next to it, making my way to the floor and placing the chair back where I found it. I then take to the task of attaining some milk to go with my crunchy meal.
The milk is a bit harder to get but I've learned if you climb into the refrigerator and pull it down gently you can avoid most of the nasty spills. Once I've grabbed my bowl I finally know I'm ready to start making my meal. As difficult as food is sometimes I do feel like a big kid when I sit down at the table with a meal I've made all by myself.
It isn't until I start to pour my milk that everything goes horribly wrong. I'm just beginning to pour the liquid into the bowl when the bottle slips from my grasp and hits the edge of the table, its contents splattering all over the dirty floor. My father seems to awaken from his daze at the noise and surveys the ground groggily before deciding I deserve punishment for my crime. He rises from his chair a bit too fast for his hung over head but that doesn't stop him for long and before I know it he's after me. I don't run from him when he reaches for my arm with his rough hands. Merle would have called me stupid for not running when I had the chance, weak little brother that I was. I couldn't run though, I was too scared.
I cry out as my dad hits the side of my face, having not yet managed to bend me over his knee properly. In between the stream of tears I spot Merle rushing into the kitchen. He looks panicked by the scene and tugs at our father's arm, attempting to coax him away from me. It works but Merle pays for it, taking the beating I was supposed to receive instead in the other room. After the beating is finished Merle returns to find me sitting in the puddle of milk, the liquid soaking into my clothing.
Merle doesn't say anything, he just pulls me out of the liquid mass and places my body off to the side of the kitchen. He heads over to the closet and grabs the old ratty mop that smells of beer and other drunken messes. The milk cleans up relatively easy I think and pretty soon Merle's hauling me back to my room, stripping me of my dripping clothes. He has me lift my arms so he can pull a big shirt of my head, I think it was one of his old ones he outgrew.
Looking at my face Merle wipes away the tears I didn't know I was continuing to shed, "Don't cry little brother. One day you and me are gonna get outta here. One day we're gonna go where they can't hurt us no more."
I nod my head and wrap my arms around his neck hugging him closely. Merle hugs me back and for I moment I wish that this is what a family was like, sharing hugs to make one and other feel better. We stay like that for several minutes not wanting to return to the continuation of time. However, after a while Merle frees himself and swats me out the door, encouraging me to go find something to do outside. I listen and race out the porch door pasted the kitchen, the cereal bowl still sitting on the table.
- End -
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