daryl was strong. daryl was not weak. daryl did not cry. he could not let himself shed tears over the bullshit around him. with his dad. his dead mom. his fucking brother. he was an apathetic monster with no feelings because he knew how to get rid of them.
he started off big. he had heard some of the weird goth kids talking about doing it back in high school, and he took their advice a few years late. one big slice vertically up and down his arms. he bled a lot, sure, but when he was feeling something again he wrapped some gauze around it. thank god it was winter and he could always wear long sleeves.
it was not as dramatic the next time. just a series of horizontal cuts scattering his left arm, and the his right when the left got too crowded. he wore a leather jacket straight through july.
he was not scared of the other people around him finding out. he was daryl. daryl was strong. daryl did not cry. daryl was a mean man who had no feelings. nobody cared about him, except his brother. merle was not even a free man that year, and he could not care less about his older brother.
over the years it slowed down. it stopped coming in waves of blood-soaked sleeves and turned into burns covered in gas station aloe vera packets. they were on his wrists and hands and there was one in the center of his chest. they were not too scary, just cigarette scars on top of razor blades and knife marks.
daryl thought it was behind him for a while.
then the world ended.
then merle died.
then beth died.
then he felt those pangs in his chest for a while, like how he did all those years ago.
now, that pain he could handle. he knew where to find alcohol and there was the crumpled pack of smokes in the pocket of his vest. but when that pain stopped? that is when daryl found himself too hopeless to function. and he reverted back to the hopeless man he used to be, and burnt his feelings back into his body.
and he cried.
daryl is strong. daryl does cry. above all, daryl does not feel.