Author's Note: It's been an awful long time since I've uploaded anything. This was done for my Creative Writing class. The first half is 1st person, present tense and child POV (in this case Daryl). The second half is 1st person, past tense, and Daryl remembering the experience in the first half. Kind of confusing, but it somehow became Bethyl. It's a little AU, but still follows canon in the same sense. Sort of. I don't know. I also hadn't watched much of the show at this point, so the characters might be a tad OoC, but shouldn't be by much. Tell me what you think?

Alcohol

I'm sittin' in a bar at three in the morning when I have my first drink. We're celebratin' my eleventh birthday. I am, a'least. Merle and Dad forgot. I'm not mad. Merle don't even know his birthday, and Dad sometimes forgets he 'as two kids.

Merle's laughing with a blonde girl by the pool table, lying 'bout his age and winnin' every round. I hear th'girl giggle, sloshing her drink. Her friend's leanin' on the table, watchin' the two.

My shoulders twitch when Merle throws back his fifth shot.

I spin'round on my stool, my cola sittin' warm on th'counter. The ice dances around the rim, shrinking into pebbles.

"Hey! Darlina, c'mere," Merle calls to me. I look over to him. His eyes flick towards th'girl's friend.

"Nah, Merle. I don'wanna." I take a large drink of my watered down soda.

The blonde girl giggles. She's pretty in tha' Barbie sorta way. Merle thinks she's real pretty. His arm's 'round her waist and he's laughing more'an usual. She giggles again. Merle's gonna come home late t'night.

Merle rolls his eyes, mutters, "Pussy," and leaves me alone.

Dad's sittin' next to me, his shoulders are slumpin' forward and he's nursin' his drink like it'll tell 'im why Mama died. It's light brown n'color. Dad only drinks alcohol now.

"Dad," I say quietly. He groans n'response. Dad's still conscious. He lifts his head. His eyes are blurry.

Nudging his glass over t'me, he mutters, "Keep n'eye on this while I piss, Daryl."

"Yeah."

"G'boy."

Dad leaves, stumblin' up t'the marked door and falls inside. I look down at the glass. Dad ne'er lets me drink. Says it's an Dixon curse to be alcoholic. Says he'll at least get me right, won't mess me up like he did Merle.

I take a'drink. It burns fire on th'way down, and I choke for a min'te. I'm dyin'. I feel my face go red and tears in my eyes. My throats bein' scorched t'dust. I don' like it.

I swallow hard.

'Dixon men don't cry.'

It tastes like th'burnt toast with molasses that we get down a' Chuck's. Dad and Merle like it more'an I do. I guess the same's with alcohol.

Putting the glass back on th'counter, I wipe my chin. Dad's stompin' his way back over, unsure on his feet.

"Keep n'eye on't like I asked?"

"Yeah, Dad."

"G'boy."

"An' I was sittin' in this bar, just sittin'. Was my birthday, I think," I muttered, rubbing the back of my neck roughly. I was perched on a windowsill, staring at the Mason jar in my hand. Biting nervously at my thumb, I tear the skin and spit it to the ground. I felt the familiar flames down my throat as I took a heavy drink. Fuck. "Tenth, 'leventh maybe. Bartend gave me a cola, I 'member. Didn't like cola then. Hell, still don'."

When I finished talking, I glanced at Beth. She was down by a wooden box, make-shifting it for a table. She sat on her shins, her brow creased. Her untouched moonshine was clutched between her hands; I could tell she was nervous as all hell. Beth was older than I had been when I had my first drink. Didn't mean it would hurt less.

I took a quick swig, sucking it between my teeth and burning my gums. I crouched down across from her, shuffling the sheet-made-tablecloth. I looked up at her carefully.

"Merle want'd me t'fuck this girl's friend, play wingman, or somethin'. Didn't want to, wasn't n'the mood. Too young, 'suppose. Wouldna done much for 'er."

Beth didn't respond. She pulled her hands away from her jar long enough to throw her hair up into a knot. I preferred her hair down. She preferred when I stayed quiet.

"Yeah?" she whispered.

I was shit at reassuring her that her first drink wouldn't hurt too bad.

"Yeah, an' my dad left t'piss, left his drink t'me. Took a drink, didn't hurt too bad. Felt kinda nice, warm."

"Promise?"

Not wanting her to be freaked by a full glass, I handed her my nearly empty jar. The clear drink tornadoed as she took it.

"Promise ya."