Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to The Walking Dead, AMC or any of their affiliates. This is purely for entertainment purposes and is a fan created fiction. This story does not reflect the actual Walking Dead series and doesn't claim to be anything but a fan (me) expressing my appreciation for the characters and the wonder that is The Walking Dead. All OFC's (Original Fictional Characters) are a product of my own imagination. Any resemblance to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental.
This Story is based on what would Daryl's life be like before the outbreak. It does not go along the lines of the show and is completely from my imagination. It is rated M because it contains detailed sexual encounters, strong language and may not be suitable for all readers. Please follow the guidelines set by FanFiction regarding the ratings. Thank you for your reviews they are greatly appreciated. Enjoy!
This story is currently going through a rewrite 8/24/13
Life with Joy
Chapter 1
Today my attitude wasn't living up to my name. Most days I didn't feel like I should have been named Joy. My mother claimed that Joy seemed like the only logical name for me because her and my father had tried unsuccessfully for years to have a baby and when I came into the world she was overjoyed. My father never passed up an opportunity to remind her that my first months on earth weren't such a joy. I was a colicky, fussy baby that had her days and nights mixed up. After I settled down some and began to grow she quickly realized I wasn't the sweet little girl with a happy name. Still my mother tried to dress me up in frilly dresses, lacy socks and patent leather shoes. Before I even left the house the dress was stained the shoes were scuffed and my hair looked like it had been combed with a blender.
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I never grew out of being a tomboy or a night owl. Now though I loaded up on caffeine to trick myself into thinking I was an early riser. And I chose simple clothing with a slight sexy style. My lipstick was always red, my nails usually black and my hair long and layered. I liked big, dark sunglasses and comfortable clothing, jeans and a t-shirt, although I did wear them a little snug. Not by choice I had a sweet tooth and never met a cake I didn't love. I went to weddings for the cake. I stalked my bakery and stared though the window like a child longing for the puppy in the cage at a pet store. To combat my sweet tooth I ran miles on my treadmill. I also lifted weights, twelve ounces at time on Saturday nights.
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My personality comes from my father. He tries to deny it, yet every time I called home he had a list of people who had died, a detailed story of his last bowel issue, and a dirty joke he heard at the VFW. My mother always scrambled for the phone in hopes that she could stop my father from corrupting me too much and not interfere with the plans she had to get grandchildren. My mother believed the only way I would ever land a man long enough to get hitched was if I stopped listening to my father's dirty jokes.
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My mother started every conversation the same way, "How's your love life? Did you get any new jewelry?" She always changed the subject without getting an answer because I think she had resigned herself to the fact that I was too much like dad. My dark sense of humor and cynical heart scared potential "sperm donors" as I called them, away. The truth was I wanted kids. I really wanted the whole settle down, buy a house, raise a hoard of obnoxious little smartasses, and live happily ever after kind of life. The problem lies in the type of men I always ended up with. Soft, want to talk about their feelings, metro sexual type of guys that spend more time staring at themselves in the mirror than paying attention to me. My current boyfriend was no different. I always chose the pretty boys. Or maybe they chose me because I didn't out shine them.
Even with the guilt and the crazy conversation I missed having my parents here in Georgia with me. They moved to Florida when I moved to New York City. They lived in the retirement capitol and spent their retirement days in cold storage playing bingo and watching TV. My mother swore it wasn't as hot in Florida as it was in Atlanta. I thought that was ridiculous until today. Today the Atlanta heat was stifling. The sky was a washed out grey haze with no blue in sight. That haze extended almost to the ground where it was broken up by the waves in the air from the heat radiating off of the blacktop. I was in my car, a 1991 Honda Civic, stuck once again on Interstate 75. I wished I had worn shorts this morning. My jeans felt like they were melting into my skin. Even my cotton t-shirt was too heavy. I had a wife beater style tank shirt in my gym bag. I debated the benefits of changing into it while sitting here in traffic. I took a look around at the other vehicles. A pair of large SUV's flanked my left while a pickup truck sat firmly on my rear bumper. He was so close that I swore I could count the hairs in the driver's goatee. I was mildly tempted to throw the car in reverse to knock his cellphone out of his hand.
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I ruled against that temptation, reminding myself that I got 31 miles per gallon highway. And that my air conditioner was capable of freezing half a steer in less than an hour; as long as the beef was positioned on top of the dashboard and directly in my line of vision. I flicked on my wiper blades once more to clean the frost that was accumulating in an oblong shape on the outside of the windshield. I was impressed that the heat index was well over 100 degrees and my tiny rust covered, gold and primer Honda was capable of turning itself into a slushy machine. But sadly my superior attitude was immediately knocked down by a trickle of sweat as it ran between my breasts. Today my old reliable rust bucket had decided to cool only that one section of glass leaving the rest of the car's temperature set at easy bake oven. I made a futile attempt to fan myself with my empty rent envelope. I planned on dropping the envelope into the mail slot minus one very important detail, the check for the rent. It was my sneaky way at buying an extra day or two before I actually had to pay the bill. Payday could not come fast enough.
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My lips were drying out in spite of the humidity in the air. I searched through my purse until I found a near melted chap stick. I tilted the rearview mirror to look at my reflection, getting a glimpse of hairy chin's air guitar solo. I rolled my eyes, but seeing him rock out made me miss my car radio. It had been stolen last year from the Wine and Spirit Shoppe I was employed at. The thief not only ran off with my radio he nabbed a box of glazed doughnut I had sitting on my passenger seat. I was still pissed off about the doughnuts.
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My lips were worse than I thought. I picked at the flaky skin a few minutes before caking on the cherry Chap Stick. I knew what men thought of my plump lips. They called them cock sucking lips. While woman just assumed I had injections. They also assumed I had breast implants. I hadn't had either. I was the proud owner and producer of my own fat cells, thank you. I just wished less of them accumulated on my ass.
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While I was critiquing my body and its flaws, my cellphone rang. By the time I got to it my voicemail had robbed the call and was holding it hostage. One glance at my caller ID told me it was Kevin. Probably calling about our date tonight, he always liked to remind me to be on time. Sadly I rarely was. We had been dating for a few weeks, around a baker's dozen give or take a few weeks. During the absent times in our relationship I hadn't seen or heard from him because he was busy with his career. Kevin played bass in a very popular local band that was finally getting their big break. By big break I mean he had out of town gigs. Kevin liked to tell me he had a recording contract. They just needed to iron out all the details. Details like what century they would enter the studio. None of this mattered to me. I enjoyed his company and judging by his eagerness to spend the night at my rundown loft apartment, I believed he enjoyed mine.
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I ran my hand through my long hair, sending it cascading back onto my shoulders. The woman sitting in the passenger seat of the SUV next to me caught my eye for a second and then her eyes trailed to my breasts. A minute later she beeped the horn and held a piece of paper with her phone number scrawled on it along with a little heart. I knew she had noticed the rainbow sticker in my rear window. It was there when I bought the car and I left it on. I had never pitched for that team although I was perfectly happy to cheer from the stands. I always believed in equal rights for everyone, so for me, showing my support with a sticker was A-Okay. I rolled my eyes thinking I sounded like my mother by using a phrase like A-Okay. Was I getting old?
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I redialed Kevin and got his voicemail. I waited for the prompt. "At the tone..." I rolled my eyes, worst voicemail prompt ever. I wanted to tell it to get a personality, the reason I didn't was because it was Kevin's voice instructing me to "leave a message at the beep." You're in a band, I thought, why don't you sing this, or have a rad song playing? This was a voicemail message from a sixty year old man, not a thirty eight year old rock star. My complaints were cut short by an actual beep from a car horn, coming from Mr. hairy chin behind me. The traffic had moved three feet while I was playing phone tag with my boyfriend. I muttered a New York greeting of, Fuck you and your grandma, while putting the car into gear. I moved the car two and a half feet, deliberately irritating the hell out of hairy chin, who flipped me the bird. It was that moment that I realized I just told Kevin's voicemail to go fuck itself. Instead of redialing again, I responded to the beep my phone gave me, indicating I had a new voicemail. I suddenly realized my phone was just as dull as Kevin's. They were made for each other. My smart phone had a socially awkward soul mate.
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Kevin's voice echoed in my ear. "Joy…" Long pause followed by a heavy sigh. Oh boy I thought here comes the, I need space speech. I've heard it from him before. Kevin went on. "I don't know how to tell you this other than come out and say it." Another long pause. "Joy, I'm in love." The voice mail cut off and my phone beeped again this time a text message. My hands were shaking so badly I couldn't push the button to retrieve the message. He had just told me he loved me on voicemail and now he was going to follow that with a text? Who does that? I had to get my head straight. I had to decide what I was going to text back. I was tempted to semi colon him a smiley face. What the hell, were we in high school or something? I finally got the nerve to view the text. "I didn't mean for this to happen, it just did. I'm sorry Joy. Maybe if we tried harder we could have had something together. But you can't fight fate and destiny. Kim is my destiny. I hope you find yours." I sat in stunned silence, staring at my break up text. I thought about calling his voice mail again and telling it to fuck off once more, but what good would that do? I surprised myself when I realized I didn't really care that I was dumped other than the fact that he did it via text message. I calmly typed one word "dickhead" I hit end canceling the message figuring why bother. Fuck You, on voicemail got the point across.