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Death
His first brush with death came when Daryl was just eight years old.
He was walking home from school as he usually did. When he was six, his dad decided he was old enough to walk the mile from the school to home, so he did. Merle was in middle school and too busy to fool around with walking his little brother home. Once another boy walked with him, but once he realized who Daryl's brother was, that was the end of walking with him.
So he walked alone, his shoulders hunched and his stomach rumbling noisily. He didn't like being alone, but if he said anything about it, his dad would have beat his ass. He didn't want that if he could avoid it.
One Friday in particular, Daryl was almost home when he heard a small whimpering sound. Curiosity got the better of him, so he followed the noise around the corner and behind a trash can.
The whining became louder and louder until Daryl found the source of the sound. A small dog looked up at him with big eyes.
A dog! Daryl had always wanted a dog since he had seen Old Yeller and Lassie. With a dog, he wouldn't be alone all the time. He grinned at the dog and slapped his hand against his leg. And just like that, Daryl wasn't alone anymore.
Knowing his father probably wouldn't let him keep the dog unless he could prove he was responsible, Daryl hid the dog in his closet and fed it scraps of whatever he could find. At night, he would curl up on the floor of his closet with his dog. He never named it; just having the warmth and something of his own was enough.
His plan worked through the weekend until he awoke Sunday morning to the sound of his father yelling. Daryl searched his room for his dog, but when he couldn't find him, he ran out and to the bathroom across the hall. The door was locked and water was running. Screaming, Daryl kicked at the door and pounded the wood with his tiny fists. He was young, but he knew whatever his father was doing wasn't good. Nothing his father ever did was good.
He was right. That night, tears ran down Daryl's filthy cheeks as he dug a hole in the backyard, beneath the shade of an old oak tree.
He never brought another pet home again.
Death was not a foreign concept to Carol Peletier.
Her mother had died when Carol was barely a teenager, and her father died just before she married Ed. If she hadn't been so caught up in her grief and loneliness, maybe she would have taken more time with the relationship. Maybe she never would have married Ed at all. But even in her darkest moments, she never regretted her marriage to Ed. Without Ed, she wouldn't have her precious Sophia, and a life without Sophia was a life she couldn't imagine.
Standing in her front yard, Carol crossed her arms over her chest and enjoyed the warm spring breeze. It was a good time of the year; neither too hot nor too cold, it was absolutely perfect.
Nearby, Sophia played in the grass, her soft giggles floating on the breeze. At two years old, she was already walking and talking fairly well. Carol watched her like a hawk because if anything happened to her little girl...
"Carol!"
Carol jumped as Ed's booming voice carried from inside the house. Instinctively she ran her hands over her arms. Sleeves covered the bruises from prying eyes, and at the beginning of the marriage, Ed had been careful to avoid her face and arms. But as time progressed, he seemed to care less and less who saw her bruises.
Those two seconds she was distracted would cost her dearly. By the time she looked at Sophia again, the toddler was on the road. Carol's mouth opened in a silent scream.
Her legs were like jell-o as she forced them to move and carry her across the grass. Time crawled to a stop and her chest heaved with the effort her lungs made to take in oxygen.
"Sophia!"
A large truck came into Carol's peripheral vision. She was still a few feet away from her daughter, who had sat down in the middle of the road.
"Sophia!" Carol's own voice was a foreign sound to her ears.
There was the sudden, sickening screech of rubber on asphalt, and bile rose in Carol's throat as she tried to move faster. She couldn't lose her baby. This wasn't happening.
A blur suddenly moved across the street and Sophia shrieked unceremoniously as she was yanked off the ground by a pair of strong hands.
Stunned, Carol stared in disbelief as the truck sped through the spot where Sophia had been just a split-second before.
Sophia's savior stepped onto the grass as Carol finally reached the side of the road. He was dirty and wearing ripped up blue jeans, and his stringy brown hair fell carelessly into his azure eyes. No more than eighteen or nineteen years old, he carried himself as though he had already seen too much in this life.
"This yers?" he muttered, shoving Sophia into her arms.
Carol nodded, her arms instinctively holding her crying daughter to her chest. "Thank you," she breathed. "Thank you so much."
"Yeah...whatever." With a shake of his head, he started back across the road.
Carol watched him go, every part of her filled with relief. "Thank you," she called out.
The man looked over his shoulder and scowled. "Try ta keep a eye on her next time."
The man crossed the road and disappeared from Carol's sight, but his words stuck with her for years to come.
She would not lose her baby again.