A/N: There is absolutely nothing funny about this chapter. You've been warned.


Too Close To The Son

Everything around Beth faded away, and when she opened her eyes, it had all been replaced with… something else. She could hear the slow-motion thu-u-ump of her own heart somewhere in the background. Or was that Daryl's heartbeat?

I didn't ask to come here, a thought ran through her head in a flash. I didn't try—I didn't want…

She'd been hugging him. She'd been pressed against his chest, a storm brewing above them. She'd been…

Her mind couldn't process that right now. All she could do was take in her current setting and surroundings. She had no other option but to accept that she was being shown… something.

At first, Beth was no more than an observer. She was the single member of an unseen audience, witnessing a glimpse of the past as though it were a play on stage. And she was struck with a sense of déjà vu.

Because she'd seen this memory before. Though not in this context, and not with this much clarity.

The pieces were clicking together like a giant jigsaw puzzle. But she couldn't focus on any of that right now.

All she could do was watch.


A tow-headed little boy stared up at his darker-haired, older brother. They were standing outside of a mobile home, warm afternoon sunlight pouring down over them. The little boy's left eye was swollen and bruised. His clothing was dirty and too small for his growing frame. His voice was whiny and high-pitched.

"Lemme come with you!"

The older boy—a teenager in a military uniform with a buzz cut and a clean-shaven face, towering a couple feet over his little brother—responded very sternly, "I already told ya, you can't come. You have ta stay here an' take care of Mama. I'll be back 'fore ya know it." He had a thick Southern accent and a scratchy voice, and his eyes were icy blue, pooling with the tears he was fighting to hold back.

The younger boy started to cry. Tears ran down his cheeks and his shoulders shook, small hands reaching out to grasp desperately at the hems of his big brother's uniform. "But I can't stay here alone with him! You can't leave me again! Why d'you always get to leave, but I don't?! It's not FAIR!"

The teenaged boy stiffened and frowned down at his little brother. "Life's not fair. Best you learn that now, baby brother. A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. And yer the man of the house now. Ya hear me? You don't let him beat her down. You'll be grown soon. 'S time ta step up."

But his eyes were still glistening with tears.

The little boy sobbed harder, tugging at his brother's clothes. The older boy finally peeled his hands away and shoved him back a foot or two.

"Please, Merle," the tiny blond boy pleaded. "Please, I'll do whatever you say! I promise! I won't come buggin' you when Dad starts hittin' me no more, I-I'll learn ta be tough! I'll do what you say! I swear, I will! Just stay here! PLEASE!"

The teenager squared his shoulders and cleared his throat. Then he gave the little boy's hair a half-hearted ruffle and muttered, "I'll be back 'fore ya know it, baby brother. Four years ain't so long. All you gotta do is survive till then." He gave the younger boy a stern look. "Don't let me down, Daryl."

The scene faded away like smoke atop the surface of water.


Beth was left with a painful weight in her gut.

Then she was taken somewhere else. But this time, she wasn't an observer. There was no audience.

She was living it. Similar to how she'd been inside Dale Horvath's head and heard his thoughts, felt his emotions. The difference being that she wasn't watching from a third-person perspective.

Beth saw everything through Daryl's eyes, and heard everything through his ears. As well as everything inside his head. She felt every bit of pain he felt and every emotion he experienced, and suffered all of his deepest shame, regret, and anger. If only for the briefest of moments.

And there was something constant—a sensation she could feel, but could not identify. Like the steady pulsing of a heartbeat that made no sound. It was warm. The only warmth she could feel in this place.

For the first time since she'd met him, she was really and truly inside his head.

Yet all the same…

She watched.


It was the worst when he got drunk.

The tiniest little inconvenience or hint of an attitude would set Will off, and the next thing Daryl knew, he'd be taking a hit to the face or the back. And then his mom would jump in front of him and direct the anger towards herself, even if it took a little antagonizing. The blows would fall down on her instead.

Daryl knew the routine by now. He knew to dart for the closet and lock himself inside—he no longer bothered hiding under the bed, because Pa had dragged him out by his ankles, kicking and screaming, last time. And boy, did he get the whooping of a lifetime for squirming around like that. Not even Mama could save him from that one.

So here he was, cowering inside the dank, dark closet, surrounded by clothes and boxes and the intense odor of mothballs. He kept his hands pressed tightly over his ears because no matter how strong he tried to be, he couldn't stop the sobbing once it started. And it always started when he sat there and listened to his mom's pitiful whimpering, her apologies, her pleads for Will to stop.

Some days were worse than others when it came to Will's sporadic temper. Daryl thought of the worst ones as his Bad Days.

Today had been… a really Bad Day. Daryl's dad was mad. Really mad. Angrier than he'd seen him in a few months. All because Merle had decided to ship off to the military. Somehow, it had become Daryl and his mom's fault that the eldest Dixon boy abandoned his family.

They pushed him away. They wore him down, just like they were constantly wearing Will down. Getting on his every last damn nerve. Eating up all his food. Never contributing a goddamn thing to the household.

But Daryl kept his ears covered. His eyes shut. His body curled up into a tiny ball within the closet. He hummed softly to himself to block out the sounds that were trying to sneak in. Even though he didn't want them to, the tears kept falling down his face.

Then the doorknob jiggled. He jolted, startled. He lowered his hands and went completely silent. He hesitated.

The doorknob jiggled again. He held his breath.

Finally, a soft voice came through the door. "He's gone. Come on out, baby. It's just Mama."

Oh, thank God.

Relief flooded through him and he leapt to his feet, scrambling to unlock the door and shove it open. As soon as the door swung wide, he looked up and saw her. The dim bedside lamp behind her seemed to cast a halo of light around her head, and she was smiling down at him. Her left eye was swollen, her cheeks were bright red, and her bottom lip was split, blood trickling down her chin. Her hair was a tangled mess, and the nightgown she was wearing had a few new tears in the fabric.

But she looked like an angel to Daryl. His angel.

She knelt down and opened her arms and he practically collapsed into her welcoming embrace. The sobs racked his body and the tears poured uncontrollably, but she just hugged him close and stroked his hair.

"Shh, shh, it's okay now," she soothed. "He went to the bar, he won't be back till mornin'. We have the whole night to ourselves."

Daryl pulled away just enough to look into his mother's face with concern, and he reached a hand up to wipe away the blood on her chin. "Mama, your lip—"

She smiled, grabbing his hand and holding it between both of hers. "I'm fine, baby. Your mama's tough, you know that."

A sob escaped his throat. "I didn't mean it—I didn't mean to say I missed Merle. I don't. Not really. I swear. I'm glad he's gone, just like Pa said I should be."

She just shook her head. "No no, sweetheart. It's okay. You should miss your brother. I miss him, too. Your daddy didn't mean it…"

Daryl sniffled. "That's what you always say."

Her face softened with an expression he didn't understand. "I know, Daryl… You won't understand now. You're too young. But maybe someday you will. Your daddy's mad because he misses Merle, too. He's scared of losing us. That's why he loses his temper. Some people…" She paused and glanced away, searching for the right words. Then she finished quietly, "Some people don't know how to show love in the right way. But that doesn't mean it's not there."

That didn't sound quite right to Daryl, but he nodded anyway.

He might be young, but he wasn't as stupid as everybody thought. He was observant. He paid attention. He picked up on things that most adults didn't even seem to notice. And he might be a mama's boy, like Merle said, but that didn't mean he believed everything she said.

But he also knew she would never, ever lie to him.

She believed the things she said. And nobody would ever be able to convince her otherwise. He knew that for certain.

"I'm gonna be big soon, Mama," he whispered, staring into her eyes. There was an emotion swelling up inside of him that he didn't recognize, yet it felt familiar all the same. "I'm gonna be big soon, and then he'll have to hit me. And I won't let 'im. When I get strong, I'll keep you safe. I'll keep you safe everyday. Not like Merle—I'll do better. I won't leave. Ever."

Her eyes were shining with tears that she fought to hold back. She squeezed his tiny hand between hers and forced a tight-lipped smile. "I know you will, baby."

She let go of him and stood up, turning away for a brief moment to compose herself and wipe away the rest of the blood on her chin. Then she straightened her back, squared her shoulders, ran a hand through her messy hair, and put on her best Mama smile. She reached out and took his hand.

"How 'bout a warm bath? I saved all the hot water today just fer you."

Daryl nodded. He asked tentatively, "Maybe we could read for a little bit…? While he's gone."

His mama beamed down at him. "Of course, sweetheart. There's nothin' I love better than hearin' you read to me."

So that's what they did. She knelt beside the bathtub and carefully cleaned all his new cuts, wiping away the week's worth of dirt and oil that had built up on his skin and in his hair, and asked him all about school and the book he was reading in class and how much he really missed Merle. She assured him that Merle went away because of how much he loved them, and that he wasn't gone forever. She promised he'd be back—he'd come back for them. He'd come back for Daryl. 'Cause they were brothers, and there was no stronger bond in existence. Daryl cried a little more, but that was okay.

When Pa was gone, they could talk about all these things, and Daryl could cry or laugh all he wanted without the fear of a slap to the back of his head. When Pa was gone, he was allowed to read for pleasure.

There'd been a time when his mama had acquired a small collection of kids' books for him, because he'd picked it up even before kindergarten, and he was smart. She could tell. She wanted to encourage his love for learning and reading. But as soon as Will realized books were something that Daryl loved, he started destroying them.

He hated everything that Daryl loved.

"Reading is a girl's hobby," Will had said, and his words stuck like glue inside Daryl's young mind, taunting him relentlessly. "Are you a fuckin' girl? Huh? You wanna grow yer hair out an' cut yer dick off like some kinda freak of nature? You wanna be a sissy boy?!"

But they didn't own a TV and never would, so books were the only escape. Daryl didn't care if reading was a girl's hobby; he liked it, and he was never happier than when he was swallowed up inside a fantasy world, far away from his own wretched existence. But he'd learned his lesson time and time again. He was careful not to ever let his dad catch him reading for fun.

Though it seemed that even the presence of books intended for him was enough to set Will off. He found every reason imaginable to start destroying the small collection, piece by piece.

Talk back to me? That's a book in the trash. Try to fight back while I'm hitting you? That's a book burned in the yard. Ask for food when you know we don't have any? That's a book thrown into the toilet. Walk too loudly across the floor? That's another book in the trash.

He destroyed everything that Daryl loved.

His mama was smart, though. That's probably where Daryl got it from. (Or she was just trained to be sneaky with her husband. Maybe Daryl was trained, too.)

Either way, they'd learned to hide Daryl's books somewhere that Will couldn't find them. His mama had a little hiding place beneath a loose floorboard in the closet. And that's where she kept her stash of children's books. And once in a while, when they got a night or two to themselves, they'd dare to pull the books out.

After his bath, Daryl's mama helped him dry off and get dressed in the pajamas he'd outgrown months ago, then she sat down in her favorite chair and pulled him into her lap. He squirmed around for a second before finding his favorite place, which was cradled in his mama's warm arms with the side of his face pressed against her chest. He wrapped his dainty arms around her middle and closed his eyes, and she stroked his hair, humming softly. He inhaled her comforting scent. Flowers and stale cigarettes.

Somehow, she always smelled like flowers.

For a long moment, they just sat there. In the calm. Resting. Comforting one another. Daryl thought he was the one being comforted, but sometimes he thought he could feel her whole body relax whenever he laid his head on her chest like this.

Her humming stopped, and then he was listening to her heartbeat. Steady. Certain. 'Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.' The sound filled his head and pushed everything else out. All the pain went away for a little bit.

She was still stroking his hair, her other hand cradling his lower back, as she whispered, "D'you hear that, baby?"

He nodded gently against her chest.

"You remember that sound, huh? You know what it sounds like from the inside." She kissed his forehead and he could feel her smiling against his clean skin. "I was your first home. And I'll always be yer home, no matter how far apart we are. Even after I'm long gone…"

"I'll never be far apart from you," he mumbled into her nightgown. "Never ever."

She hummed. "That's sweet. But you'll be a man someday. You'll make yer own life. And nobody lives forever… Someday, the Good Lord's gonna call me home. Neither one of us'll be able to stop it. But I'll always be with you. I want you to remember that, okay? Your mama will always be with you, I'll always be a part of you. 'Cause you're a part of me. No matter how big an' strong you get."

Daryl kept his eyes squeezed shut and nuzzled his face into the fabric of her nightgown, listening intently to her heartbeat. He didn't like to think about her leaving. Because then he'd be all alone. She wasn't just a part of him, she was everything.

She was all he had. Didn't she know that?

"You still wanna read to me? I picked out a book," she whispered. "I found a story we haven't read yet."

He didn't move or reply for a minute. She seemed to understand. He could lay here in silence all night, if he wanted. She never rushed him, and she always knew exactly what he needed. That was one of the things he loved about her.

But finally, he nodded and lifted his head. She gave him a smile and grabbed the thick book sitting on the endtable beside her. It was old and faded, the pages a little water-damaged from being stashed under the floor, but it was still good. The cover read: 'Greek Mythology For Kids: From Acastus to Zeus.'

She opened it up to a section in the middle and handed the book over to Daryl. He took it in his small hands and looked down at the pages, skimming over the words and sounding some of them out in his head while his mama slid the ashtray closer and lit up a cigarette. The title at the top of the page read: 'The Great Fall of Icarus.'

"You want me to read this one?" He asked, glancing at her with uncertainty.

She smiled reassuringly, and he could see the look in her eyes that told him she believed he could do anything. "Please?"

He smiled back and looked down at the pages. He cleared his throat and placed one tiny index finger below the first line of large print, so he could keep track of where he was. Then he began to read aloud, his finger moving from left to right along the page as he went.

"On the island of Crete during the age of King Minos, there lived a man named Daedalus and his young son Icarus…"

His mama sat and watched him the whole time, smoking her cigarette and listening. Completely content and at peace.

Proud, even.

His voice was shaky at first, but he built confidence as he went. He knew all these words, and the pictures formed inside his head with little effort.

For a very short time, he escaped from the real world.

"Daedalus stood staring at the entrance of the cave overlooking the seas, watching the waves crash on the rocks below and the seagulls circle over the cliffs. It was spring and the nests on the cliffs were filled with eggs and chicks.

"Icarus walked up beside his father and said softly, 'How I envy those baby birds, for soon their wings will be strong and they'll be able to fly away from this wretched cliff.'

"Daedalus blinked, a smile slowly growing on his face. He turned to Icarus, his eyes twinkling, 'Well then, my little fledgling, we'd best start working on strengthening your wings so you can be off with the others!'"


He hadn't slept this hard since the last time he had walking pneumonia and slept for 14 hours straight, all doped-up on prescription cold medicine and Tylenol PM. He wasn't even dreaming. And normally, he would've stayed asleep for another five or six hours.

But the smoke woke him up.

It filled his nostrils and jolted him out of sleep rather abruptly, so thick that he was coughing and wheezing even before he reached full consciousness. When he opened his eyes, he could barely see anything. Everything was covered in a black haze, obscured and distorted. He was still groggy, and now he was rapidly growing light-headed and woozy.

But despite all of that, the first thing that popped into his head was: Where's Mama?

That's when he heard her. Over the crackling of flames and the creaking and snapping of old wood crumbling within the trailer house. She was screaming from her bedroom down the hall.

He could hear her.

Without so much as a second thought, he stumbled forward and braced himself against the door. He wrapped his right hand around the doorknob—burning hot, so hot that it scalded his palm and sent bolts of pain shooting up his arm—and tried to turn it. Locked. He yanked and pulled, fighting against the pain to try and open the door. But it wasn't budging. He was too small. Too weak. He had to peel his burning skin off the surface of the doorknob.

"Mama?" He cried out. "Mama!"

Could she even hear him?

"Mommy-y-y!"

He stumbled sideways and fell into his dresser—Merle's dresser, it was only Daryl's now that Merle was gone—before reaching out blindly and grabbing for the baseball bat that he knew was leaning against the wall. He found it and clutched the narrow handle with both hands, just like Merle had taught him. And a second later, he was swinging with all his might at the wall beside the locked door.

One swing against the panel wood. Another swing. A third.

He barely made a crack. The bat dropped from his hands as he surrendered to a coughing fit that left him doubled over and wheezing for fresh air. The smoke was growing thicker by the second, filling his throat and clogging his lungs.

All the cheap materials and plastic belongings inside the trailer were burning up and creating black clouds of toxic smoke, so thick they dared to choke the very life from him. Poisoning him from the inside with every breath he took.

He could still hear her screaming. But it was growing quieter. Weaker. He was getting more confused by the second, more delirious and disoriented. He could no longer tell which direction the sound was coming from.

Where was the door again?

He dropped to his knees and began to crawl. Every inch felt like a mile. His head was so light, he thought it might detach and drift up towards the ceiling. His vision was getting darker and darker, and he could barely see the window at the other side of the room.

Wait—the window. No screen since Merle punched it out years ago. That meant fresh air. That meant escape. That meant survival.

He would come back for Mama. He would. But he couldn't do that if he died here on this floor.

He would come back for her. Just like Merle was coming back for him.

With a strength he didn't know he was capable of, Daryl crawled across his bedroom floor and to the window. Then he pulled himself up and unlatched it, shoving the glass open and using every last ounce of energy he possessed to hoist himself up and over the windowsill.

As soon as his body limped over the sill and a burst of cool October air hit his face, the blackness took over completely. He didn't even remember hitting the ground.

All he could hear were his mama's distant screams fading away. Quieter and quieter, just like all the other sounds inside of his mind.

All he could feel was the heat of the fire at his side. The cool grass beneath his tired body.

All he could think was, Merle's gonna be so mad that I let him down.

Then everything went black.


In his dreams, he was Icarus, standing atop the tallest cliff face in the world, looking down upon a vast and endless ocean. He was watching the waves crash on the rocks below and the seagulls circle over the cliffs.

And then he was leaping off the edge, taking flight upon the wind as though he were born to fly.

Up and up and up and up.

The sunlight became blinding.

Up and up and up and up.

It was all he could see: the giant glowing orb made of fire, filling his vision, warming his skin, swallowing up the sky itself.

Up and up and up and up.

He reached out—could he touch it? Was he close enough yet? He wanted to feel the heat on his palm.

Up and up…

But it burned his hand. Scalding hot. Searing metal that sizzled his skin and crisped it. The pain shot up his arm and jolted through his whole body.

Up and up and…

He wanted to get closer. But the sun had burnt him. He yanked his hand away. He wanted to go back down now. He didn't belong all the way up here. How was he supposed to turn around?

Up and up and—

Down.

Down, down, down. He was plummeting to the earth in a rapid spiral. His entire body was consumed in flames.

He had no control. He never had.

Then he opened his eyes.

Daryl found himself inside a sterile white hospital room. The sheets covering his bare legs were the softest he'd ever felt. The mattress was comforting, gentle, cradling him in a way that his shitty little mattress at home would never be capable of. He glanced down and realized there was an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose. His arms were at his sides, each one connected to an IV and several monitors. Machines beeped steadily around him. He could barely hear the sound of people bustling about just outside the closed door.

His right hand was numb, wrapped tightly in several layers of thick bandages. The sun had burned him—no, wait, that wasn't right. He vaguely remembered the pain. The smoke. The heat. He recalled peeling his own sizzling skin away from a scalding metal surface.

But the door hadn't budged. Because he was too weak.

He'd fallen. He'd never been meant to fly that high.

Then there was a voice. All too familiar. It sent fear coursing through Daryl's veins as soon as it hit his ears.

"'Bout time you wake up. Lazy fuckin' brat."

No. Not Dad. Please, not him. Where was Mama?

Daryl shut his eyes and heard her distant screams echoing in the back of his mind. Had that been a dream, too? He could barely remember. His head felt so light and woozy. All his muscles were tingling with pain medication and pure oxygen.

"You look at me when I'm talkin' to you, boy."

He forced his eyes open and barely turned his head, just enough to see his father sitting in the chair beside his hospital bed. There was a heavy scowl on Will's face, and his poisonous gaze was set intently on Daryl. He looked mad enough to spit.

Daryl's stomach bubbled with terror. Where was Mama? Why wasn't she here?

He opened his mouth to speak and realized his throat was dry and sore, as though there'd been something shoved down it recently. His voice came out hoarse and choked, muffled by the oxygen mask, "I'm sorry, Pa."

"Fuckin' oughta be," Will said. "You fucked everything up, you little bastard."

Daryl had to blink away the pooling tears, afraid to let his father see him cry. He didn't understand what he did wrong. But then again, he usually didn't.

"Where's Mama?" He croaked out. "I dreamed she was screaming."

Will's scowl curled up ever-so-slightly into a smirk. A sickening half-smile of pleasure that Daryl couldn't make sense of. He responded flatly, "She's dead. All burned up. That wasn't no dream, son. That fire gobbled her up, right along with that piece of shit trailer."

This time, Daryl didn't have a chance to blink away the tears. The memories came rushing back to him all at once, and he started crying. The tears poured from his eyes in an endless stream, hot on his skin, sliding down around the oxygen mask and dripping onto the collar of his gown.

"No," he moaned. "No, I tried to get to her, but I—"

"But you fucking didn't," his dad cut him off, leaning forward in the chair and glaring at him. "Couldn't even open yer own goddamn door without burnin' all the skin off yer hand, could ya? Worthless little shit. I always knew you'd be a weak one. I could tell. From the moment yer mama brought you home. All you ever did was cry, even when there wasn't no reason to cry." He scoffed. "Ain't nothin' changed since then."

Daryl didn't want to, but he cried harder. He tried to force himself to stop. He'd pay for this, he knew he would. Maybe not now, but later. He wasn't supposed to cry in front of his dad. Or at all. Why couldn't he stop?

But she was dead. His mama was dead. She was one room away and he couldn't get to her. Why? Why couldn't he just be stronger?

Why did she leave him, too? Didn't she know she was all he had?

"Best dry up them tears, boy," Will scolded. "Didn't Merle tell you it's time ta be a man?" He leaned back in the chair, shaking his head. "Nah, I reckon he didn't. Hauled ass outta here too fast. I always knew he was a fuckin' coward. And you ain't no better. How the hell'd I end up with two worthless kids?"

Daryl fought to stop crying. He took in deep breaths of oxygen and squeezed his eyes shut, forcing back the onslaught of tears. "I-I'm sorry, Pa. I'm sorry. Merle told me to be tough, and I tried, but I was—I was so scared." Another sob escaped his throat against his will.

The crying only made his dad angrier. Luckily, they were in a room where other people could hear them outside the door, so he had to keep his voice down. But that didn't soften the pure hatred that was evident in his tone. So loud. It was the only thing Daryl could hear.

"Yeah, 'cause yer a pussy. Fuckin' crybaby little girl. Oughta named you Darylina."

"I'm sorry," Daryl kept repeating. "I'm sorry, Pa. I tried."

"I don't give a shit whether you tried. What ya should've done was stay asleep in that goddamn bed. The hell you think you was doin', crawlin' through windows in the middle of the night? Huh? You think you was gonna pull one over on me? On yer own dad?"

"I-I didn't wanna die, I couldn't open the door. Pa, I swear—"

"Zip it. Swallow yer fuckin' tears. You know I hate listenin' to that bawl-baby shit."

Just like that, Daryl's breath hitched and he swallowed back his sobs. The tears stopped leaking from his eyes. He sniffled and forced himself to regain composure. He put on a brave face.

Will sucked on his teeth, watching Daryl from the chair with pure contempt. "You got any idea how much fuckin' money this shit is costin' me? Gonna take the rest of yer life to pay back what you owe. I shoulda been makin' money off yer sorry ass. But you always fuck everything up. Always gettin' me in trouble. You been nothin' but a problem since the day you shot outta my balls. Hell, I shoulda taken yer mama to that damn clinic when I had the chance, but I was dumb enough ta think you might come out a little better'an yer brother. I shoulda fuckin' known better. Nothin' good ever came from that bitch's womb."

Daryl wanted to shut his eyes again. He wanted to block out his dad's cruel words, but he knew it would only make it worse. So he forced himself to maintain eye contact. To take the abuse and shove it deep down inside, where it couldn't hurt him.

Then Will pushed himself up from the chair and stood to his feet. He gestured vaguely towards all the machines that were hooked up to Daryl's tiny body. "Already been in here a week. I'm takin' you home tomorrow, whether these asshole doctors advise it or not. Better learn how ta breathe on yer own, 'cause we got a lotta work ta do when you get home. New place, new shit to move in. And ya best start figurin' out how yer gonna get to school from here on out. No more bus that comes 'round where we're gonna be livin'. It's a long walk, and I ain't wastin' the gas on you."

Daryl nodded weakly in understanding. His lips were shut tightly, and he was still fighting back the sobs that wanted to escape.

Will walked to the door and grabbed the handle, pausing and glancing back over his shoulder. "Don't even think about writin' no letters to Merle, neither. 'F I find out you told him about the fire, I'll break yer other hand. That little prick can die over there with all them towelheads, fer all I fuckin' care. He ain't no Dixon."

Then he wrenched the door open and stormed out of the room. It fell shut behind him with a soft 'click.'

And Daryl was alone.

More alone than he'd ever been in his whole life. No Merle. No Mama. Just himself.

There was a hollow pit swelling inside his gut. And he knew… he just knew… that things would be worse than ever from here on out.

Even if Merle came home, he would be pissed. Disappointed. Angry. Daryl had let his brother down. He'd let their mama die because he was too weak to do anything.

His dad wished he'd died in that fire. And Daryl kind of wished he had, too.

to be continued…