We're heading into some dark territory for the duration, my friends. I want to give a clear warning: this chapter involves violence. Violence against animals, against women and children, and against walkers to boot (just in case anyone minds about them). So really, just be aware of this as we move forward in general from here on out.

This chapter was inspired wholesale by a piece of music recommended to me by the lovely and talented Designation. It's a remix of two lovely pieces—look up "This Bitter Earth / On the Nature of Daylight" to hear it. Then go check out her profile on here, and read her wonderful Walking Dead fics.

And this—this is probably my favorite chapter of the story so far. I'm not sure what that says about me. But it was crafted with love.

Jenny:

Ever since he could remember, Merle had been frightened.

Frightened of his father. What he would do next. Frightened of his mother. Of her silence—of her timid, empty presence in his daddy's house. Frightened—not of Daryl—but about him. Frightened that Daryl would leave him in the dust, someday—because Merle knew that Daryl was just too damned good for the life they'd been living at home.

But most of all, Merle was frightened that people would see him for what he really was. That they would see how little was really there inside his head. See the blank void under his skin, and know he had nothing—that he was nothing.

And Merle struggled—strained and strove and fought to find ways to hide from that dull nothingness inside. He was thirteen when his daddy started sharing the drugs with him, and he took to them right away. It was the best way he'd ever found to do it—the fastest way to escape from the void. To forget it was there.

That first time, Daddy held out some sort of pills for him—offering them to him with one of those unreadable smiles on his face. Those smiles never went all the way up to his eyes. And Merle hesitated. Wasn't sure about the whole prospect. Didn't even know what those pills were.

It seemed dangerous.

"C'mon," Daddy said.

And his daddy tilted his head to the side. Smirked.

"Be a man, Merle."

That's all it took. All it ever took—those four words were like a millstone around Merle's neck. His daddy would say them over and over again, whenever he was trying to push Merle around. And it worked every single time.

Daddy could get him to do just about anything, that way. And Merle was a willing fucking puppet, because he didn't have anything else to be.

So he swallowed all of those pills in one go. Clung tight to those strings, and let his daddy make him dance.

Merle pushed his way through the forest. He was looking for Daryl.

Merle knew that there were only so many places in town that he'd be able to hide with such a big group of people. He was going to try that old mansion on the hill, first. Was going to loop around back, through the woods, and check the place out.

If he were Daryl, that's where he'd take those quarry assholes.

Of course, Merle didn't know how many assholes there were left. He set a herd of walkers on them, way back when he lost his hand—that very night. Let them tear their way through the quarry camp. Got his revenge that way—let the walkers do the killing for him. And Merle didn't know how many had died—didn't stick around to do a body count. Didn't really think he owed them even that much, after what they did to him.

They took his hand—they took his brother. So the precise number of dead was beyond fucking immaterial to Merle.

And after that, Merle had found himself alone—alone in a world full of walkers with no real idea of what he should do. So he'd gone back home. There was nowhere else to go, really. And he met up with Timmy and the rest, and settled on in for the long haul.

And he and Timmy—they'd used that same trick again with the walkers just a few months ago. Set a whole herd on another group in town. They'd done it when they realized that other group had a pretty impressive stash of drugs.

It was easy. And the walkers were easy to draw out and plow down when it was over.

And he remembered one thing that struck him funny, at the time. He and Timmy were firing into the crowds from behind a truck, and Merle saw a living man get caught in the spray of bullets. A straggler the walkers hadn't killed, trying to run. He got shot in the chest, and fell. And later on, Merle could have sworn he saw that guy rise up from the pavement. He hadn't been bit, but he was a walker anyway.

But he shrugged it off, at the time—the guy must've been bit, Merle figured. Just didn't see it happen.

When the shit goes down, you don't always notice everything.

And the upshot was that they got to keep everything in that storehouse. It was a treasure trove. That stash could easily last them the better part of a year.

An hour later, Merle was hiding in the brush behind the painted lady, a little ways from the iron fence. He'd found them. It'd been easy to do—there weren't many places Daryl could have led them, really, and this had been the very first on Merle's list.

And as if they wanted to make it even easier for him, most of the group were out in the back yard, playing some sort of game with a football. Merle wasn't sure what sort of rules it had. It was something like flag football, but the teams only had three people each. They might have made the thing up themselves.

There was a girl he didn't recognize—real young and cute and athletic. Had short, darkish-colored hair. It was that girl, that asshole T-Dog, and that snot-nosed kid Carl on one team. Daryl was with fucking Glenn and Rick on the other.

That short-haired girl whipped past Glenn, and managed to grab the flag from his belt. Pointed a finger at him.

"In your face, little man!"

And Glenn just smiled, and scooped her up. Threw her over his shoulder. Spun her around. She was laughing, then—that flag still clutched in one hand.

"Hey! Hey! I am not a flag!"

And the others were still throwing the ball. Rick passed it to Daryl, and he took off running. And T-Dog came up from the side, and somehow tripped Daryl on his way in. Daryl landed on the grass. And Daryl—Daryl actually laughed out loud, at that.

"Watch out, man," Glenn said to T-Dog, putting down that girl, again. And she started hanging on his arm.

"He'll go all crazy, backwoods Legolas on you."

T-Dog helped Daryl up with one hand, and Daryl looked around at everyone—a little quizzically.

"What the fuck is a Legolas?"

And that asshole T-Dog shook his head.

"Don't look it up or you'll kill him."

And then it seemed like whatever game it'd been was over. They were all just standing there, talking. And Rick—Rick—he made some joke about something Merle didn't understand. Something about adding Glenn's ears to the set. Then he slapped Daryl on the back and headed back into the house.

And Daryl—Daryl picked up that little kid—Carl. Grunted. Pretended the kid was a lot heavier than he really was. And Daryl said he was getting way too big, then.

Merle used to do that with Daryl sometimes, when he was real little.

And then Daryl put Carl down. Let him run into the house. And he paused. Looked around the yard. Scanned the woods beyond the fence. Stared into the underbrush, as if he'd sensed something out there.

Merle stayed low on the ground until Daryl turned away.

Merle wasn't sure if he'd ever really loved his mother—he didn't really know her. But he'd always, always wanted her. Tried and tried to get her attention for years—and every time, she just faded further away.

He was ten years old, and he was angry. So angry he was sobbing. He didn't really know what he was angry at. Couldn't begin to understand the forces that were tearing at him. He only knew he had to hide—curl up somewhere like a wounded dog. So he went out into the tall grass, where no one would see him.

Except someone did see him. Mama. He saw her standing there in the tall grass, looking at him with a sort of blank fear on her face.

And Merle knew, then, that she knew—she knew what he was really like. She could see that empty hole he tried so hard to hide.

So he screamed at her. Threw the stones at her as hard as he could. And the whole time, he kind of hoped she'd fight her way through that barrage, and come to him.

But she ran away. All the way up to her bedroom. When he went inside, he could hear her moving around up there. And he knew better than to expect her to come down to check on him.

She stayed up there for hours, drifting around like a ghost.

At the painted lady, there was a slender woman leaning over the porch railing. She had short, grey hair. Merle recognized her from the quarry, but wasn't sure if he'd ever caught her name.

Really, she wasn't the sort of person Merle would have particularly noticed.

And she smiled—smiled at Daryl as he headed across the lawn. Said something to him that Merle couldn't hear. Walked down the steps and met him on the grass.

And Merle looked on with dull shock as she reached out and touched Daryl's face. Wiped off some dirt or something. And Daryl let her as if it was perfectly normal for her to do it—and no one else seemed to bat an eye, either.

And then Daryl put a hand on her arm as he turned—stroked it lightly, and stepped away to go up the porch stairs and into the house. That wasn't a gesture Merle thought Daryl had in his vocabulary. And it was casual—like he'd done it without thinking.

This was Daryl's life, now. And Merle was left hiding in some fucking bushes, watching it from a distance.

Some thirty years earlier, Merle was watching his mama put on Daryl's coat for him. It was a gorgeous day—way too sunny and clear and nice for first day in December. Too nice to stay inside.

So she was taking Daryl out in the woods for a walk.

And Merle watched from the door of his bedroom. She didn't look at him. Not once. Just took Daryl by the hand and led him away.

Merle looped back through the woods to where he'd stashed his car. Drove on out of there, thinking over what he'd seen.

He felt sick. Humiliated to have hidden there in the dirt like that, watching those assholes play their stupid little game. He still had some leaves stuck to his clothes.

When he made it back to his aunt's house, Merle could see Jenny and Joellen way out in the tall grass. They were walking together, through the fields. Those fields were so wide open you could see just about everything for miles and miles.

On a whim, he turned the wheel, and headed out on the country road to meet them. Pulled over alongside, and went into the grass. Watched the two of them wandering the winter fields from a distance.

The girls were talking about something or other, together, silhouetted against the sky. They ended up lingering by the largest tree on the property—a grand old oak, standing out all by its lonesome on the swell of the hill. Right where you could see the furthest out over the farmland. The sunset was just hinting at the corners of the sky, now. The hazy glow caught at the bare branches of that tree, and the ground around it.

And Merle was drawn there. His nerves were raw, and the girls were still and quiet. He wanted them to calm him down. So he walked out into the golden light. Squinted against it as he pushed through the grass.

Joellen had a little sprig of chicory in her hand. The pale, blue flowers had dried on the stalk, standing out in the winter fields. And he thought the two girls looked pretty together, out in the tall grass with the wind in their hair.

He came up to them. Stood at their side. Hoped they'd calm the angry red tension underneath his skin.

But when Jenny spoke to him, it only made that feeling worse.

"You find your brother?" Jenny asked. Didn't even say hello. There wasn't an ounce of bullshit in Jenny.

Usually, he was drawn to that—to that hardness she had. Had been for years and years. He couldn't really say he'd ever loved her—just like his mama—but he liked her.

And there weren't many people Merle liked. He could probably count them on one hand. Since he only had one hand, that was pretty damned convenient.

Merle nodded to her, once. Yes, he'd found his brother. He felt his throat tighten, thinking about it. Didn't want to hear any more fucking questions—especially about Daryl. But she just kept on in at him.

"They gonna leave us be? His people?"

And she was thinking forward, like she always did. Tough-as-fucking-nails Jenny.

But he gave her a look, then. Didn't want to hear it. And Jenny knew him real well—knew him since they were both just kids—so she shut up fast.

But Joellen. Joellen was just a kid now, and she didn't know him like Jenny did. And Merle figured she must have been curious—so she started pressing him.

"How'd you two get split up like this, anyway? You and your brother?"

He didn't say anything. She just kept on talking and talking, and Merle looked out over the grass and ignored her fucking chatter—until she asked something that peaked his interest.

"And who was that woman? She from around here?"

He turned on her. Stepped closer.

"What woman?"

"The one with your brother."

Merle looked at her. She started getting a little flustered. Anxious. Tried to explain.

"I dunno… she was a little older? I thought she was kind of pretty… and really nice."

Jenny touched Joellen's arm, then. Tried to quiet her.

"Jo…"

But Jo just kept on going. She was the type who talked when she got nervous.

"She said she wanted to take me with her... and she didn't like it when your brother was all after us like he was."

"What?"

"He really got in our faces. It was scary."

"And what, precisely, did he get in your face about?"

Merle stepped in closer. Got in her face, himself. And she realized it, then—she was in too deep. He could see it in her eyes. The fear. Her gaze was darting around like she was caught in a trap, and there was no way out.

She didn't say anything. Looked at him, pale and silent and desperate. And he pushed in, nose to nose.

"Tell me, Jo."

"About… about not sayin' nothin' about them comin' here… Didn't want us to know his name. Said the two of them were just figments of our imagination…"

Merle saw her land on the ground before he realized he'd hit her.

Her hair scattered on her shoulders. He heard a noise floating around in the air, and realized she'd started crying.

One day when Daryl was three, Merle went looking all around the house for him. Found him playing with his dogs in the backyard—throwing the ball around. No particular game. Just for fun.

And Merle wanted him to come inside the house. Didn't want Daryl to play with the dogs. Wanted Daryl to play with him.

"Hey, Daryl!"

Daryl didn't hear him. Was distracted with the dogs—and they were always desperate for any attention Daryl would give them. Would have stayed at his side constantly if they could.

Merle hated that. It was fucking pathetic.

And after that, it all went like it always did.

"Come here."

"Come here, you little shit."

And he threw the first thing he could find. A rock on the ground. Part of the old, fieldstone foundation of the house. That old foundation was loose and old and crumbling at the edges. It was one of the smallest stones—but Merle didn't know. He didn't check. He just grabbed something and threw it right at Daryl as hard as he could.

And it landed on his back. Left an angry bruise that lasted a good long time. But Daryl barely cried out when it hit him. Just looked up, and saw Merle there. And his eyes. Even at three, Merle could see it. Daryl didn't look angry. He looked sad.

And Daryl walked across the grass. Resigned himself to giving Merle what he wanted. Just came up to Merle and went back into the house with him.

And as they came in, Merle kicked one of those dogs. Didn't even catch which one it was. He just kicked at it. Knocked it right off the back stairs of his daddy's house.

Joellen was crying in the grass, out in the field. The shadows of the oak branches made patterns on her clothes.

And things got distant, for Merle. It was like he couldn't stop. Like he wasn't in control of his body.

He was kicking at Joellen with his boots. Hard. And soon, he could feel things breaking under the blows—under her skin—under the pale flesh.

She was little, and frail. Her bones shattered easy. Like birds' bones. Like baby birds.

Jenny was screaming something at him. Screaming his name. He could barely hear her. Everything seemed far away. And Jenny came right at him, then—tried to fight him off. Got in a good right hook before he could react. But she was just a goddamned woman—didn't have half his strength. Her strike left a little red mark on his jaw, but he didn't lose his footing.

"Merle! Stop!"

Jenny's voice echoed on the quiet hills. On the tall grass at their backs.

"Stop! For fuck's sake Merle, stop! Stop!"

Jenny was on his back then, tugging at him—trying to pull his handgun out of its holster. He'd forgotten he even had that weapon. And she wanted to get it—wanted to use it on him.

He threw her, and she landed hard against the side of the oak tree. The force knocked the wind out of her. She let out a strangled groan.

And Jo—she was lying there below him on the ground. She wasn't crying, anymore. A trickle of blood ran out from her mouth and down the side of her face. He kicked at her one last time—hard, in the spine. Heard a crunch.

Jo spasmed on the ground, a moment, and then she was still.

Jenny was pushing herself up on her hands. Whispered something.

"Stop…"

And she leaned over Joellen, then. Dragged herself over as she regained her breath. Touched the girl's face. Checked her pulse. Looked up at him from the ground. From the foot of that fine, old oak.

"She's dead."

When Merle was five years old, he spent a long Saturday afternoon tearing out every page of his mama's Bible. He scattered them all over her bedroom like autumn leaves. The paper was thin and it tore easily. Made a satisfying sound each time.

He'd just nearly finished on the book of Revelation when she came in her bedroom door. Saw him there, and gasped.

But still, she didn't do anything. Didn't get mad. Didn't ask why. Not her.

She just started picking the pages up again. He could still see her in his mind, long decades later. Her long, lovely hair falling over her face. The hem of her dress pooling on the floor, where she was kneeling. The little lace edging on it. The calico print with the little, blue flowers.

She gathered up the pages, smoothed them out with her hands, and started putting them in a pile on her bed.

Merle listened to Jenny saying something to him. Her voice sounded far away in his ears.

She was telling him that Jo was dead.

He looked up at the branches of the oak tree, hanging there above the three of them. That tree had to be a hundred years old, at least. It had seen a lot of winters over that span of time.

And Jenny just kept on talking.

"She's dead. You killed her…"

It was like she couldn't quite believe it had happened. Merle couldn't really believe it, yet, himself.

"How—how could…"

She was choked up. Had trouble speaking. Started again.

"How could you do it?"

"I don't—"

He cut himself off.

I don't know.

He felt like he hadn't done it. Like he'd just stood there the whole time, and it happened all on its own.

"She's just a kid, Merle…"

And Jenny. Tough-as-fucking-nails Jenny—she was crying. Crying, and leaning over Joellen.

Over the body.

Merle was with Daryl—back when they were both in their twenties. They were walking along the edge of the creek. Looking out at the stars on a fine, fall evening.

And they ran across Jenny. She was wading out into the water—where it got wide and the swift current moved smoothly over the sandy bottom. The surface was like black glass. And Jenny was with some of her friends. A group of girls, swimming naked in the cool, night air. He could see their pale arms in the moonlight. Their laughter echoed out over the water—light and lovely. Inviting.

Jenny. That creek water must have been ice cold, that late at night. But Jenny didn't care—didn't give a fuck about anything but what she wanted. And that always got Merle going, just thinking about it.

And Merle. He wanted to go out to them. Wanted Daryl to come along. Wanted Daryl to join him with those girls—really, he wanted him where Merle understood the rules. Where he could keep him. Wanted to draw Daryl into his world—into the black water, where the current ran fast and deep.

But when he turned back from Jenny, he saw that Daryl was already gone.

He'd slipped away into the trees while Merle wasn't looking. He had this amazing knack for moving silently in the woods. That was Daryl's world, and he moved through it effortlessly. Was like a ghost, himself, sometimes.

Merle watched Jenny sitting there under the white oak, hovering over the body in the grass.

And things got real quiet, then. He could hear some birds calling out, somewhere far away.

He paced around beside her. The light grew warm and long and low. It glided over the yellow grass as the sun set beyond the hills. And Jenny didn't move from Jo's side. Just looked at her beaten body—white and cold, with the blood on its face.

He was numb. Jenny was still crying, slow and silent. And he didn't entirely understand. Hated that he didn't understand. Hated being confronted with the black hole inside his chest.

So he almost envied her. Felt a strange impulse to ask her what made it so she could do that—cry over the girl. Wanted to ask her what kind of thing there was inside her that he didn't have. But he didn't. He couldn't. Didn't have the words.

At long last, she sighed—hard. Staring at Jo's face.

"I'm out, Merle."

She shook her head.

"I'm done."

Jenny looked up at him, and her voice was dull and flat.

"This here is done."

And it was then that Merle saw Joellen moving at Jenny's side. Just a little—real slow. Her eyelids fluttered. A hand twitched. As if she was starting to wake up.

Merle was seventeen, and his daddy had just called him up to his room—like he sometimes did. Sometimes he wanted to talk, when he did that. Joke around. Sometimes he wanted to get high.

This time, he wanted to push Merle down the stairs.

He made it to the top and his father hit him—hard. Straight out of the blue so Merle couldn't prepare himself. And he was rolling, falling—out of control. Felt a bone crack inside his arm. It might have been his imagination, but he thought he could hear it breaking. Hear the ugly snap.

The pain only came later, when he was lying in a pile on the floor downstairs.

When he finally managed to stand, he knew was banged up pretty bad. Had some bruised ribs, and a broken arm. And he could hear his daddy walking back into his bedroom. Heard the door latch shut behind him.

He needed Daryl to help him set that arm—and Daryl did it. He was always there for things like that, even though he was only ten years old. And then—then Daryl just lay there next to Merle on his bed. It wasn't like he could do much more to help, but it seemed like he wanted to be close.

And so his kid brother stayed with him, in his room, that whole night.

Daryl.

Eventually, he drifted off to sleep there, right at Merle's side.

Joellen started tugging at the grass with her hands—trying to get some purchase and raise herself. And after that, everything happened in seconds.

Merle didn't understand what he was seeing, at first. But part of him—part of him that was buried deep down—part of him got hopeful. Maybe he hadn't really done it. Maybe she was going to be ok.

Then Joellen raised her head from the ground, and he saw her eyes. Clouded. Dead. He knew those eyes—had seen ones just like them countless times. Coming at him, hungry and blank and cold. Staring right into his flesh in the instant before he stabbed or shot or beat some dead thing down.

She was a walker. She'd never got bit, but she was a walker just the same.

He started forward. Almost shouted out to Jenny. Almost warned her. Almost tugged her out of the way.

But he didn't. Something stopped him. He just watched.

The dead girl grabbed at Jenny's arm. Too fast for her—she hadn't been looking at the body when it started to move. She'd been looking at Merle.

She gasped—didn't have time to scream. Joellen clamped down on Jenny's bicep. Dug in—hard and fast and unyielding. Tore a whole chunk of the flesh away.

Jenny.

Jenny out beneath the railroad bridge where the creek runs by. Jenny with her long legs draped across his daddy's sofa. Jenny under the high school bleachers, pulling a cigarette straight from his lips and taking a good, long drag.

Jenny at fifteen years old, laughing at his jokes and throwing beer bottles at passing cars. Jenny pacing around in his bedroom, wearing one of his leather jackets and nothing else.

Jenny's mouth. Jenny's breasts. Jenny's eyes.

And Jenny's blood—Jenny's blood running onto the grass by the old, oak tree.

Merle pulled his .38. Shot Joellen as she moved in for Jenny again. She collapsed to the ground—dead for good, this time. And at that close distance, the sheer force blew out a good part of the back of Jo's skull—splattered Jenny full over with Jo's brains and bone and blood.

And then Merle was standing there at point-blank range, looking down into Jenny's bloody face. And he thought of what she'd just said to him.

I'm out, Merle. I'm done. This here is done.

And he was frightened. He was always frightened. The way she'd been looking at him, since he'd killed the girl. Jenny had seen him—she'd seen that blank, empty hole inside.

She'd seen. She knew.

But Jenny was bit—so she was good as dead. And he knew that if he took care of her now, none of the others would hear anything about what happened—what he'd done.

One more gunshot, and no one would hear he'd killed the girl. No one would ever know.

And Jenny—she read it in his face. Held up her hands.

"No, Merle."

Jenny. Tough-as-fucking-nails Jenny. Her hands were shaking. There was blood running down her left arm in thick spurts—a heavy, rhythmic flow that followed the pace of her heartbeat. She didn't even try to staunch it. Just let it all run over her and away.

"Merle—no—wait. Just wait."

She looked right up at him with those big, dark eyes of hers. Whispered his name.

"Merle."

A moment later, the report of his .38 was echoing off the hills, and Jenny was dead. Sprawled in the grass at the foot of the oak tree.