I just moved through the streets, trying to get away from the house. I'd come home from school to see my dad almost passed out drunk in his recliner. If I'd been ten minutes later, I would've made off fine.

But I hadn't.

And when I closed the door to the house, he'd woken up and started yelling at me. I barely caught what he shouted. He was talking about me and Merle, my mom, his shitty job.

I wasn't surprised when he took off his belt and gave me a lick with it. I felt the sting as it broke skin and I gritted my teeth. I used to cry, when I was younger. I used to scream for him to stop. That only made it worse.

He used to hit Merle sometimes. But Merle got into trouble a lot now; usually because dad wouldn't go visit him in jail. I never thought about doing something to purposely get out of here. It was just normal; Come home, get yelled at, get a lick or two.

They didn't normally leave a scar. But I knew this one would. I could feel the way my skin stretched then broke open that it would leave a mark.

He was too drunk to really know where he was hitting. He stopped aiming for my ass and legs a long time ago. These had ended up somewhere on my back.

After three more, he collapsed onto the floor near the fireplace. I was breathing heavy as I sat hunched over on the floor. Normally one or two would satisfy him. I didn't know what I'd done to deserve five of them. I groaned quietly as I saw his breathing even out. He was long gone.

Slowly and painfully, I stood up and limped over to the couch. I picked up the blanket that hung on the back of it and loosely threw it over his body. I limped up the stairs to the shower. I didn't bother shutting the door and finding fresh clothes. I knew if I stayed in the shower long enough, under the hot spray, the blood would clot itself and I wouldn't have to go to the hospital again.

I couldn't remember what I'd taken or drank. I knew there was a bottle of pills at my feet somewhere and I faintly remembered putting a handful in my mouth, washing it down with a big gulp of whiskey that burned on its way down.

Dad had passed out a long time ago I think, but I couldn't remember. I'd found the nine millimeter he kept in his room and I was running my fingers over the smooth black metal. I couldn't remember why I'd gotten it out of his room, but it was important.

I knew that much. It was important for me to have this gun. And then I heard it. The little voice I could normally push away. It was like that little devil they said sits on your shoulder. He wanted me to kill myself. But I had to do it somewhere public, somewhere that they would remember the son of the town drunk.

Merle would be proud! I'd finally make it big time! Nine o'clock news, here I come!

So I stood up and stumbled down the stairs, only tripping once. I counted this as a win and picked myself up. I couldn't feel the lashes on my back from earlier, but I knew they were there. I fumbled with the front door, not bothering to close it behind me. There was no point. I stuck the gun in my jeans and clumsily buttoned one of the buttons on my plaid shirt that was hanging open off my shoulders.

I walked for a long time, or so I thought until I looked up and saw the sign for the library. It was starting to get dark and they'd close soon. That would work. I'd do it there.

I stumbled up the steps and I didn't see it, but I could feel the looks from other people. There goes the kid of the town drunk, lookin' just like his pop! I knew what they said behind my back.

The lights of the library were too bright; I had to cover my eyes. People milled around the shelves like it was all they had to do. I guess it was. It's not like any of these people got beat on a regular basis.

"Sir, can I help you with something?" A girl, maybe about my age, asked. I could barely read that she was a library assistant.

"Fuck off, stupid bitch." I slurred, continuing forward as best as I could.

She didn't look surprised like I had wanted her to.

I just kept walking until I got to the little stage they used for kids plays in the summer. I stood up on it and pulled the gun out, firing off one shot at the ceiling. "Are y'all payin' attention?" I shouted.

Instead of watching me, they screamed and began running out the door.

I didn't understand. How was I supposed to kill myself if I didn't have an audience to notice that I had actually died to begin with?

"Hey, come down from there." The girl told me, coming closer as people pushed past her to flee the psycho.

"Make me." I grinned.

"Please come down from there." She asked again, softly.

I laughed. "Fuck you, bitch. I ain't comin' down for shit."

"Why not?" She asked.

"I need somebody to watch me kill myself." I smiled down at her, my brain swimming.

"Why do you need somebody to watch?" She asked.

"Why the fuck are you questioning me?" I yelled, pointing the gun at her, uneasily. My back was starting to ache from earlier. Maybe I hadn't taken as many pain killers as I thought.

"Decent people don't point guns at other people. Are you a decent person?" She asked me.

I laughed. "Decent people." I wiped a tear away; from laughter or my own depression, I couldn't tell. The whiskey had too much of a hold on my brain. "Decent people don't beat their kids. Decent people don't pass out from drinking all day, or take off with random waitresses. Decent people don't give a fuck about fucked up people like me."

"I give a fuck. Does that make me not decent?" The girl asked me and she was starting to piss me off.

"Who the fuck are you to give a motherfuck about me?" I asked, loosely pointing the gun at her.

"My name's Emma." She said.

"Daryl." I told her, then remembered why I was here. "You're the only one left so you get to pick. Through the teeth or the ear?" I asked, demonstrating as I bit gently down on the barrel of the gun before pressing it to my temple.

"Why would you want to kill yourself?" She asked, coming closer to me.

"Fuck you, bitch. You wouldn't know shit. You're perfect and everythin'." I yelled at her.

She was only a few feet away from me. I could've kicked her if I'd wanted to. She pulled up the sleeves of her long shirt, relieving red and white marks across both forearms. Scars. She looked up at me and despite the drunken haze I was under, her brown eyes felt like they were staring into my soul. "I'm sure your life is a peach too, Daryl."

I flopped down on the stage and roughly took her arms in my hands, running my thumbs over the scars on her arms and I looked up at her, my gaze caught with hers.

None of my scars had been self-inflicted. All of mine came from a monster that lived at the bottom of a bottle. Through the foggy cloud that was my brain, I wondered what had happened in her life to make her want to do this to herself.

"The devil on my shoulder made me come here. He told me to kill myself somewhere that had an audience." I told her, unaware I was talking until the words spilled out of my mouth.

"So why did you stop at the library?" She asked.

I shrugged, her arms still in my hands. "It felt right."

"Maybe you weren't sent here to kill yourself. Maybe you were sent here because someone knew you could be saved." Emma told me and I didn't know why, but my brain latched onto her words and they clung to me.

I roughly pushed her away, my temper flaring. "Ain't nobody give a rat's ass about some redneck kid that's son of the town drunk. Ain't nobody!" I yelled at her.

She still wouldn't leave. I knew she just told me her name, but I lost it in the haze. "Are you still going to shoot yourself?"

"Damn straight." I said, pushing the gun to my temple and closing my eyes.

I was surprised as the gun moved away from my head. "Then you can shoot me first." She said, the gun resting against her chest, over her heart.

"I ain't gon' shoot you!" I told her, surprised at her comment.

"Why not?" She asked, almost as surprised.

"You ain't done me no wrong!" I told her.

"But it'd be the same thing if you shot yourself. You'd be taking an innocent life long before it's number is called." She told me, her face serious.

"It ain't your choice." I told her, wrenching the gun away from her.

"Well fine. But if you're going to shoot yourself, shoot me first. If you're not feeling the heart, you can aim for the brain; it'd be the quickest. Or the stomach; it'll only take me five or ten minutes to bleed out." She told me.

"Stop talkin' crazy. I ain't shootin' you!" I yelled at her, trying to get her to understand.

She just stood there, not a foot from me, watching me.

"Stop lookin' at me like that." I told her, feeling unnerved.

Suddenly, surprising me, she took my hand that was free of the gun. She didn't say anything, just held my hand. I wanted to pull back, away from her. But something stopped me. I looked down at our hands. Nobody touched me except my old man since my mom died. She'd always been good to us, me and Merle. She'd loved us as best she could, my pop too.

I forgot what it was like to have contact with another person. Now, she made me want more. I took her hand strongly, barely realizing I was doing it. "Is this ok?" I asked, not wanting to hurt her with my grip.

She smiled at me and it was genuine; it was real and she meant it. That smile, it was just for me. It wasn't for nobody else. It made me kind of smile. "It's just fine, Daryl."

"Ya really think I was supposed to come here to not die?" I asked, the words tasted funny in my mouth.

"I absolutely think you were sent here not to die." She told me.

"I ain't much of a decent person. I pointed a gun at ya and everythin'." I said, suddenly ashamed of what I'd done. In my embarrassment, I let go of her hand and turned away from her. Merle always had a girl for some reason I couldn't quite make out, and he was never real nice to them, which never made sense to me. But I'd always told myself I'd be better than that.

She quickly took my hand, turning me back around. "Daryl, don't leave."

I looked down at her confused. She was only a few inches shorter than me. "Your eyes are so pretty." I told her, not even remembering the words as I said them. The edges of my vision were blurred. All I saw was her.

She blushed and ducked her head and it made her look kinda cute. "Think maybe you can put the gun down now?"

"What if I still want to kill myself?" I asked her.

"What if I want you to kill me first?" She asked.

I scrunched my eyebrows together. "Why would ya wanna do somethin' like that?"

"Life is hard, real hard. It ain't no peach. But it's worth it. And if you kill yourself right here and now, I won't be able to live it down. Your blood will be on my hands the rest of my life." She told me, standing her ground. "So if you wanna kill yourself, that's certainly your choice. But you'll have to kill me first."

I didn't mean to; I was trying to hold it back, but the whiskey let a tear leak out of my eye and I just let it fall.

She reached up and wiped it away with a little smile. "You're worth something, Daryl."

My knees gave out and the gun fell out of my hands as I hit the ground. I started crying, wrapping my arms around her waist. Her hands combed through my hair, whispering comforts as I heard heavy boots hit the floor. "I'm so sorry." I cried against her stomach, holding her tightly.

"It's ok. It's ok." She whispered, running her fingers through my hair until the point they put me in handcuffs and pulled me away from her.

"I'm so sorry, Emma." I told her, remembering her name. I barely saw her through my tears as two police officers hauled me out the doors and into the cruiser outside.

The next day was a blur. I woke up with a splitting headache and my back hurt liked no other. It was easily one of the worst beatings I'd gotten from pop. They had tried to call my dad, but he was still passed out I guessed. I didn't have any grand-parents they could call. My neighbor, Ms. Matthews ended up coming to court with me, as the officer informed me pop had split town.

He usually did so I wasn't surprised.

Ms. Matthews was a nice old lady that lived just down the street. She didn't care for Merle any, which always set him off, but she saw something in me that I couldn't place or explain. I had no idea what it was, but she had listed herself as one of my emergency contacts in my school file when I'd hit 9th grade. Here it was almost three years later and she still came to court for me if they called.

The judge was disappointed in me and made it plain. He took a little bit of mercy on me as this was my first offense with a firearm. All my other offenses had been stupid little things. Instead of one year in Juvie, he knocked it down to eight months.

It was an hour car ride to get to the closest Juvenile Detention Center, as we lived in the middle of nowhere. I'd always found out that while Merle was currently out of state, he'd got busted for a B&E.

I went through the process of getting booked in, it was kind of a blur by the time they put me in the cell with my bunk mate. I didn't learn his name. He was friendly, despite our circumstances and I ignored him, not caring for how or why he got in here.

It'd be hard enough lasting eight months, just to get attached to someone who leaves.

Wednesday was visitation rights. Anybody you knew could come visit you for a four hour period, as long as they called first to be put on the list. If you'd been in for less than two months, you had to talk to someone from the other side of a Plexiglas shield. If you'd been here longer than that, they let you and your visitor into the rec room to sit and hug or whatever it was that people with visitors did.

I stayed on my bunk as they opened the cell door. "Dixon, Myers, visitors." The guard called.

I looked over at him; obviously there was a mistake. But the glare he gave me made me roll off the bunk and follow the kid out of the cell. I had no idea what kind of miscommunication happened. No one would come visit me. I was an hour away from my home town.

The guard led me and small fry into the room with the Plexiglas phone booths. One guard led small fry down to a booth and the other guard led me to another booth, making me sit down.

I was confused at the girl in front of me. She seemed familiar, but I couldn't put my finger on who she was. I picked up the phone as she motioned to it.

"Hey Daryl." She said with a gentle smile and I knew I'd seen it somewhere before.

"How do you know my name?" I asked.

She looked a little hurt. "You told it to me. At the library." She said and I didn't know what she was talking about. I didn't go to no library. "When you had the gun." She said quietly.

My eyes widened. "Emma, right?"

She smiled. "Yeah." She said, ducking her head a little.

"What the hell ya doin' here, girl?" I asked, not being able to stop myself.

But she just smiled. "Talking to you, silly boy."

I shook my head. "We're an hour from Willisburg. What ya doin' here?"

She just smiled gently. "I wanted to check and make sure you were doing ok."

Suddenly, in a flash of light, the whole night came back to me and I pulled the phone away to hang my head in my hands. I couldn't look at her. I'd waved a gun in her face and threatened to take my own life. And then she'd pointed the gun at herself. It could've gone off at any minute. One whiskey induced finger twitch and she could've died and I'd have been in prison.

I heard her say my name through the receiver, despite the fact it sat on the desk. I couldn't look at her. I picked it up and put it to my ear. "I'm so, so sorry."

She paused. "I know that."

Slowly, I looked up at her for what seemed like the first time. Her brown hair had flecks of red and black in the florescent lighting. Her brown eyes were bright and clear. Her teeth showed in her smile when she meant it. And there, on the right side of her chin, was a little half-moon scar.

I waited for the hatred, the anger to surface; hell, even fear or worry wouldn't have surprised me. But none of these emotions played on her face. "Why are you here?"

"I had to make sure you were ok, despite your circumstances." She told me.

"You drove an hour up here just to check on me?" I asked her.

She nodded her head with a smile. "I got my license last month. I work at the library part time. I saved up enough money to buy a little car. It's not much, but it gets where it's supposed to."

I just sat there, phone still to my ear, watching her. I didn't know what to make of her. She was odd and she stood up to me while I had a gun in my hand. She even drove an hour to check on a complete stranger. "You didn't press charges." It was the only thing I could think to say.

She smiled still, shaking her head. "You're damaged. No reason to make it worse."

"I ain't damaged!" I said, louder than I'd wanted to.

The guards came over on both sides of our booth. "I'm sorry. I upset him. It's fine. We're ok." She said to the guard on her side and he nodded.

"I ain't damaged." I said weakly. But I knew as I said it, it wasn't true. I was very damaged.

"Damaged isn't bad, Daryl. Damaged can be fixed and repaired. See now, if you were broken, that'd be harder." She told me.

"How ya know I ain't broken?" I asked her.

Emma smiled. "You woulda shot me."

I shook my head. "I'm so sorry."

She put her hand on the Plexiglas and I wanted to hold her hand again, to feel human touch. "Stop apologizing, Daryl."

I shook my head. "I'm gonna apologize for the rest of my life."