Don't own walking dead. Just the Jacobs family.

The first time I met him, I knew. To me, it was obvious. I couldn't understand how no one could see it. How could anyone look at him and just keep walking, ignoring the obvious signs of abuse? How can they continue to stand there and call themselves human while being completely oblivious to the facts? Because, that's what the signs were; facts.

Little Arron Jacobs looked like a mini Otaku. Which made since, he thought as he smeared the 'Mud' hair styling jell in both hands, considering I am one to an extent. Arron was rather small for his age with mousy brown hair and gray eyes that bleed into a deep blue in the shade. His mother always said he was a ladies man, whatever that meant. At the age of seven, Arron didn't want to be a 'Ladies Man.' 'Ladies' had the tendency to pinch his cheeks until they were painfully raw and fuss over how 'cute' he was. Arron scowled at his reflection as he ran his tiny hands threw his hair, tossing his bangs to the right side of his forehead along with the short hair on the crown of his head. I'm not cute, his thoughts growled. He smoothed down the stubborn licks of hair, growling when a lock of hair refused to do down. "Dang it, go down," he hissed at it through the mirror as he ran both hands down the left side of his head repeatedly, hoping it would at least flatten out a little more.

"Arron!" his mother's voice drifted through the open door way of the bathroom. "Let's go! You're going to be late!"

"Coming, Muma." Arron huffed at his reflection, deciding to just say 'oh well.' It was a lost cause anyway, he thought as he reached over the sink to wash the product off his tiny hands. Looking up at himself through dark eyelashes, Arron frowned. He really did look like a girl with his rounded face and huge eyes. It really annoyed him sometimes. Drying his hands on a nearby towel, the child stood up straight on his baby blue step stool. "Hm," he hummed in a childish attempt to be classy, "Not bad, handsome," Arron purred at his reflection as he shifted his shoulders to the side at the same time as he ran his hands down the front of his navy blue blazer, a move he had seen his dad do a million times before his weekly dates with his mom.

"Arron!" His mother called up again, "Let's! Go!" She punctuated each word before turning to her husband, who was chuckling as he grabbed his suitcase and keys from the kitchen counter. "This is your fault!" The woman playfully growled at him, throwing a manicured index finger in the man's direction.

"My fault?!" He gasped in false hurt as he turned to his darling wife. "Why are you blaming me? You're the one who has to go to the stylist every time you get a split end!"

"You know that's not true!"

"Is too!" He threw back at her childishly as he made his way out the door.

"Is not!" The woman called just as the door clicked closed.

Arron caught his mother sticking her tongue out at the door as he made his way down the stairs. He paused wryly on the last step. "What are you doing?" He asked, giving the woman an odd look, that made his mother want to squeal. Her son was just too adorable.

"Nothing. Nothing," She giggled. "Welp, you ready now?" Arron was still giving her the look; even as he tried to slip past her, little hefty, she'd admit, frame, like one would a sickly person when they didn't want to catch what the person had, to get his sactual for school. Sometimes, her son was too cute for his own good, she thought, contently, as she watched him.

"Mom," Arron snapped, annoyed. He was already out the door, down the small walk way, and waiting at the car door. Seriously, she was so slow sometimes. "Let's go!" Arron completely ignored the déjà vu feeling. It felt wrong to be the one rushing his mother when she was just doing the same to him at just the moment before. To make matters worse, he could hear his mother's laughter and his face grew a little hot in sudden embarrassment.
_

Unbuckling his seat belt, Arron opened the car door eager to get out of the car. His mother was so suffocating. She kept going on and on about boring work stuff. Telling him things he really didn't want to know. Things he was pretty sure a mother shouldn't tell her seven year old son. It must be the therapist in her that makes her forget I'm only seven, he thought as he leaned over to absentmindedly kiss her soft cheek. "Bye, Mum," He said, already hopping the short distance to the ground.

"Bye, sweetie," She called just before the door closed. "Oh," she remembered, quickly reaching for the window control. "Hey," Arron paused, mid-step, looking back at her from a few steps away. "I'll probably run a little. I have a late session today, so I'll pick you up at the Café. Ok?"

Nodding, Arron said, "Okay."

"Love you!" She yelled, but he was already going up the steps to the school. "That kid." Reaching over to shift the car in drive, the mother pressed on the gas as she rolled up the car window. "Always in a hurry."
-

His name was Merle, and he was Arron's new table mate. Arron wondered why he had never noticed Merle before. Arron saw everything, knew everything that happened in his classroom, from the kid in the third row who still picked his nose when he thought no one was looking to the little emo wanna-be who was always drawing fake tattoos of death on his arms. So, how did he miss this kid? Arron wondered as he stared at the small boy next to him.

He was tiny too, Arron noticed. Merle was tiny in both height, though probably still a little taller than Arron, and in frame. Actually, now that he was really looking at him, this Merle kid was way too skinny. He was almost malnourished skinny… with pale white skin and dark bags under his eyes. Arron bit his tongue. Something he subconsciously did to ease the pressure on his jaw from tightening the muscles too much. The way he holds himself… The kid looks about ready to curl into itself, Arron deduced.

Then, he realized what he was seeing at and wanted to be sick. Arron was a smart kid. He knew what was wrong with the boy next to him, probably because his mother was a Therapist and his father a Social Worker, neither of whom believed in censoring the truth, despite the fact that their son was only in elementary. There was nothing Arron could do for Merle, thought. This was a fact Arron knew as well, and it made him feel numb. The more Arron thought about it, the more his nose burned. Smart or not, mature or not, Arron was only seven. He still had an uncontrollable need to cry when he was upset.
-

Arron watched Merle for weeks, mostly because he didn't know what to do for the kid. He wanted to help. He really did, but he was just a child himself. Somehow, Arron knew that telling someone wouldn't help either. At least, it wouldn't help Arron get in Merle's good books. Maybe? He didn't know if Merle had good books… or even books at all. Even so, Arron just watched, collecting information, little things he noticed now that he was aware of Merle's existence. Little things like how Merle never took notes, never talked to anyone. Well, more like no one talked to Merle, he thought as he watched the kid sit down at lunch, only for the other kids to move away. He watched Merle scowl angrily, grinding his teeth as he stared at the table where the kids use to be, hands curled into fists.

He doesn't have a lunch, Arron noticed. It's lunch time, and he doesn't have a lunch. Arron looked down at his lunch as a wave of despair hit him. What kind of parents lets their kid go without a lunch? Arron looked over at the teachers table. None of them seem to be concerned, not for the lack of food nor the treatment Merle was getting from the kids. What kind of teacher doesn't pay attention to their students? Arron felt another, stronger, wave of despair hit him as the he came to another realization. No one cares. No one cares for little Merle, who sat alone in an angry cloud of frustration and hate.

Well, Arron stood up determinedly, not anymore. Arron wasn't going to sit by and watch this injustice anymore. Gathering up his lunch, Arron made his way over to Merle's table. The boy looked over at him when Arron silently let his body fall into the chair next to Merle. Neither said a word as Arron spread his food out in front of him again. Merle continued to stare at Arron in confusion and mistrust for a long time. Arron ignored Merle as he ate his sandwich. When Merle finally looked away, Arron relaxed a bit more in his chair. Pulling out the second sandwich his mother always packed for him, just in case he got hungry again later in the day, she always said, Arron slid it silently over the table top and into Merle's space.

Merle stared at the sandwich, unsure what to do, his mind still had yet to process what was happening. Why was the pretty boy from his class suddenly taking notice of him? Him, the white trash no one wanted to be around? Merle was confused, and he was sure it was showing. If he saw it, the boy next to him didn't show it. The seven year old in him wanted to take the offering, but the abused and neglected side of him snarled at the boy. He didn't want pity. He didn't need it. Merle turned to glare at the pretty boy, but the kid just continued eating, completely ignoring him.

Merle glared at him for a long time. He glared for so long; Arron was starting to doubt himself. His plan didn't seem to be working very well, he thought. Then, just as he was about to give up, Merle reached out and snatched the sandwich off the table, his stomach winning over his apparent hatred. Arron let out the breath he didn't know he was holding.

"Don' thunk t'is means I owe ya or nothin'," Merle snarled, his small hands already ripping open the zipblock baggy even as he spoke.

Arron grinned around his sandwich. "Wasn't thinkin' it," He replied as he chewed.

From that day on, Merle and Arron always ate lunch together. Maybe it was a start to a beautiful friendship, Arron thought, taking anther bite of his sandwich, then again… Maybe not. This is Merle we are talking about. Merle didn't seem the type to make friends.