It wasn't so much about where he was going but where he had been. What he was running from.
His life has been a series of unexpected twists and turns much like the road he now traveled. His future was unclear and his past was something he would never escape.
Most of his life had been spent hiding from his father in forests, much like the ones that flew by him, and the other half was spent caring for his brother who was never able to keep himself out of trouble. With his fathers body reduced to ashes and his brother serving life without parole Daryl now belonged to no one. He was his own.
It was that very freedom that terrified Daryl more than any of Daddy Dixon's lashings ever had.
To say that Daryl Dixon grew up on the wrong side of the tracks would not be correct as there were no tracks, no trains would dare to travel out that far. There was nothing but miles of foliage surrounding the small shack. And thats just how Daddy Dixon liked it. The "family" owned a single vehicle, an old beat up Ford that looked as though it had seen better days, and only one person held the keys.
While his father disappeared during the day to do whatever it was he did, little Daryl would take the hour and a half long walk into town with his mother. Dust from the dirt road picking up with each step clinging to Merle's hand me downs that never fit quite right, pebbles inviting themselves into the holes of his well worn sneakers.
It was these times that Daryl would come to treasure the most, for it was during these long journeys into town that his mother would spin tales of the woodland queen and the archer boy. Where she would she the stories of her people, teach him about mother nature and her healing powers. It may have been Merle that taught Daryl how to kill, but it was his mother who inadvertently taught him to hunt. Teaching him the different tracks of animals, sharing her keen observant eye for the world around her. Daryl clung on to every word she spoke like a lifeline.
After arriving into town and finishing up the day's errands, dust covered and exhausted, his mother would pull a few ratty notes from her breast and usher him into the creamery. The words "Don't tell your father" were uttered each time the greasy haired teen from behind the counter would pass him the cone filled with the brown cream that made him hand sticky as it melted under the hot Georgian sun.
"Don't tell your father"
Those words went without saying. Daryl suspected that his father had not always been a cruel man for there was no way his mother; his smart, beautiful mother, would have fallen for him.
His mother often told him stories from way back before he, and even Merle were born, eyes heavy with sadness as she spoke. Stories of a young couple, native and very much in love. But years of gambling debt and substance abuse had chipped away at the bond, turning the once loving man into a monster. There were just some things that love could not overcome.
Even as a young boy, Daryl could see the toll the abuse had taken on his mother. Worry lines became etched into her beautiful face, bags lay heavy under her once sparkling eyes. Her hair showed more grey than brown though she was still quite young. It was only during these trips into town that smile on her face wasn't forced. That her eyes sparkled with happieness.
His fondest memory came one hot afternoon on the return trip from market, Daryl was licking away the evidence of his mother's kindness for his small fingers. Black clouds had overtaken the previously blue sky, releasing a rain of biblical proportions. He could only watch as she slipped off her shoes, shook her long hair from its usual braid, tendrils clinging to her face.
Together they danced in the water soaked field, mud squishing between their toes. Both their spirits flying free.
She was there every day of his young life until suddenly she wasn't. He remembered the day well. She had seen him off to school that morning, with a kiss on the head and a promise to walk him home from school as she always did. He waited outside long after the school parking lot had cleared, it was only as night began to fall and bugs began nipping at his skin, that he began the long trek home, alone.
Night had long since fallen by the time he returned home, his only greeting being from his father who ordered him to fetch a beer.
He'd only asked once where mommy was and that earned his the first of many brutal beatings. After that night the words mom never crossed his lips, except in the darkness of the night and then not at all. All traces of her having been moved from the house, she became nothing for than a memory. One that he wouldn't have been sure even existed had it not been for the faded picture and handmade leather vest with angel wings carefully sewn in that he had hidden away under his mattress.
...
Just a little drabble I've had sitting around, I might add more later if the interest is there but for now its complete.
Thanks for reading and please review!