Home Is Where The Trauma Is

There was a flash.

Beth was catapulted out of Daryl's memories. For a moment, she was staring out at a vast and endless ocean. Moonlight trickled down, shimmering across the surface. Waves rippled through the water, teasing its murky depths. Salty sea air filled her lungs.

She wavered at the edge of a large cliff. Her mind was racing and reeling. She briefly thought, I shouldn't be here. I've already seen too much. I want to go back.

But she wasn't in charge. The tentacle-vines in her core must've been sleeping, because she couldn't feel their familiar tug and writhe. There was no elevator to step in and out of, no shoreline to follow, or thick forestry to trek her way through. There hadn't even been a doorway. It seemed she'd been caught so off-guard, in a moment of complete vulnerability, that she'd forgotten how to implement the technique.

Intent. Purpose. Control—I can't. How? Where do I…?

Dammit. Maybe she wasn't as powerful as she'd thought. Or maybe she was too powerful.

Then there was another flash. She was thrown back into Daryl's memories just as quickly as she'd been evacuated. Shoved inside his head, unable to pull herself back out.

Once again, she could feel the warm pulse, though she couldn't see it.

Suddenly, she knew exactly what it was. How had she not identified it earlier?

It was identical to the sound of Daryl's mother's heartbeat from beneath her nightgown. It echoed those same comforting words she'd spoken: I'm your home, I'm your home, I'm your home.

It seemed so obvious now; the only warmth that was to be found within the depths of his mind, pulsing along in a steady rhythm that was similar to the beat of Beth's own heart. Slow. Measured. Cautious.

It was hope.

She recognized it like an old friend from across the room, or a familiar voice on the telephone. She could sense it. She could feel it… Daryl's hope.

But she could also feel his pain.

Every last horrible ounce of it.


He didn't get a single call or text from Merle for nearly three months.

Life was peaceful. He had a routine: work, home, sleep. Sometimes he went out to the bar with Dwight, or had a couple beers on the porch with Rick. He had a warm bed to sleep in, home-cooked meals and a hot shower nearly every night, central air and heating all throughout their little double-wide trailer. He was saving up to buy a truck he had his eye on. Sometimes Sophia asked him for help with her homework, or invited him to read 'Harry Potter' with her. Every evening, Carol smiled at him as soon as he walked in the door. For Christmas, Carol and Sophia had surprised him with a new vest. It was good quality black leather, and the back was adorned with a pair of hand-sewn angel wings. It was a million times better than the vest that Merle had destroyed. He took to wearing it every single day, no matter where he went.

Life was, dare he say it… good.

They even adopted a dog—a big German Shepherd with more energy than Daryl was prepared for. A rescue from the kill shelter that Carol just couldn't resist. He'd been against the idea at first, but after the first night, Dog grew on him. Carol suggested renaming him, but Daryl thought Dog suited him just fine. Lately, the overgrown pup had been sleeping at the end of Daryl's bed.

Everything was going surprisingly well. For the first time ever, Daryl was experiencing what he could only imagine was stability.

Then one morning, while he was getting ready for work, his phone rang. Merle's name popped up on the screen.

He couldn't control the old reflex. He answered without hesitation.

"'S that you, Merle?"

"Dad's dead. You wanna come by his place an' see if there's anything worth sellin'?"

Daryl's breath hitched in his chest. He froze, jaw dropping. "What?"

"Fuck—" Merle pulled the phone away and cursed aloud "—shitty fuckin' reception, goddamn cheap-ass phone." He put the phone back to his face and asked loudly, "Can ya hear me?!"

Daryl bristled with agitation and replied, "Yeah, I can hear you, dumbass. You said dad's dead? How? When?"

Merle scoffed. "I'ono. They said somebody slit his throat. 'Bout three days ago, give 'er take. Cops finally wrapped up the investigation, we gotta go in there an' clean all the shit out. So you gonna help or not?"

Daryl was dumbstruck. He couldn't process the indifference in Merle's tone against what was being said.

He was wondering, how? How did he not hear about it until now? Rick had only tried to call once in the last three days, and it was while Daryl was at work. He hadn't left a voicemail, though. And why the fuck didn't Merle bother to call with this news three days ago?

Then he heard a sound from the other end of the phone, like Merle was snorting something. Probably meth. Daryl shouldn't be surprised, but for some reason, it was too jarring to register all at once.

"What the fuck happened, Merle?" He asked.

"With what?" More snorting. Merle coughed, cleared his throat, and responded with blatant passive-aggressiveness, "Listen, I'mma be up fer another day or two, so whenever it's convenient, you can meet me out at the cabin. 'F ya ain't too busy with that bitch an' her brat."

Daryl clenched his jaw and bit his tongue, holding back a defensive retort. "Fine. I'll come out there after work—'round six."

"Sounds good."

"You gonna remember?"

"I ain't that fuckin' old, baby brother," Merle cackled.

Then he hung up.

Daryl went through his day in a haze. He called Rick on his lunch break only to be met with a slew of "condolences." It made him glad that he'd missed the call the other day. Rick didn't have any answers; he knew just as little as Merle about the whole situation. All he wanted to do was offer sympathy and a shoulder to lean on.

And no offense towards Sheriff Grimes, but the last thing Daryl needed right now was anybody's shoulder. He sure as hell didn't want no sympathy either. Parents die. That's a part of life. Daryl would deal with it just like he dealt with everything else.

He could never tell anyone how relieved he actually felt, though. Like a hundred-pound weight had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders.

That asshole was dead. Finally. Someone had killed him. He'd gotten what had been coming to him for years. Daryl was free. Really and truly free.

But he wasn't some socially ignorant hillbilly like Merle. He knew what he should be feeling, and he also knew that every normal person in the world would think it downright abhorrent to find relief in the death of a parent.

Then again, normal people didn't bear the scars of their parent's abuse for the rest of their lives.

It was all semantics, really. No one actually cared how he felt or how he would deal with this "loss." They were just being polite. He shouldn't even be surprised that Merle was acting so nonchalant about the whole thing. That was just Merle, anyhow. Nothing ever bothered him.

Maybe Daryl was more like his brother than he'd ever be willing to admit.

He got home from work, changed, and asked Carol for permission to borrow her hatchback again. He didn't tell her why, exactly. He just muttered something about going to pick up Merle. She heaved an exasperated sigh and reluctantly handed the keys over. Then she leaned in and hugged him, asking him to promise to be safe and make good decisions.

He had to make a conscious effort not to wince away from her welcoming arms. He was still getting used to how physically affectionate she was. She didn't seem to care, though. He grunted an agreement and weakly raised one arm around her waist. Then he forced himself to turn away and bolt out the door before she could see the pooling tears in his eyes.

The drive to the cabin passed by in a blur. He couldn't think straight, couldn't focus, couldn't even listen to the music playing on the radio. He chain-smoked out the open window and kept an eye out for Merle's bike.

Surprisingly, Merle had beat him there. Daryl approached the old cabin to find his brother's black motorcycle parked in the middle of the front yard. There was yellow Caution tape all over the property, stretched from tree to tree and wrapped around the house, tattered ends billowing in the wind. There were also a lot more tire tracks than there'd ever been before. And they were everywhere—all over the yard, in the dirt path, along the edges of the road. It was clear that there'd been much more activity around this place in the last week than there had been in several decades.

The grass was still overgrown, though. And the cabin was even more run-down than the last time Daryl had seen it. He parked alongside the road and got out, giving Merle's bike a brief glance as he strode towards the front porch: a beautiful black 1971 Triumph Bonneville 650 with a '69 motor. The epitome of vintage. Sullied only by the stupid Nazi insignia plastered to the side of the fuel tank.

Sometimes he wished that bike was his. He'd always loved riding it. (And if it was his, the very first thing he'd do would be to peel off those SS stickers and refinish the paint so that beauty could shine in all its glory.) But it was probably the only thing in the world Merle cared about more than himself. He'd spent the last ten years building it up, piece-by-piece, searching every corner of Georgia for the appropriate parts, spending every red cent he could dig up to ensure it came out perfect. It was a miracle he hadn't totaled it yet.

Once Daryl stepped up onto the porch and got close to the open front door, he could hear the sound of someone rustling about inside. He paused just outside the doorway.

"Merle?"

A voice came from within, "In here! That you, Darylina?"

Daryl stepped through the door and entered the cabin. A wave of nausea immediately washed over him. The place smelled like death. But that wasn't what made him nauseous—it was the memories. Like his stomach was acting on a reflex and knew that this place meant bad news. This shitty little cabin out in the middle of nowhere had once been Daryl's personal version of Hell. He'd never really planned to step foot inside it ever again. What reason would he have?

He hadn't thought about the prospect of his dad dying. Simply imagining such a thing had always felt like such a pipe dream.

Merle was across the room, rummaging through a dusty old box in the corner. But Daryl barely gave him a glance. He was too busy looking around and taking in the sight of everything that remained of Will Dixon. The numerous bullet holes in nearly every wall, the ratty old recliner covered in stains and cigarette burns, the rickety one-person dining table that was literally on its last leg, all the surfaces coated in a thick layer of dust and grime. And of course, the huge dark spot right in the middle of the living room floor.

Dried blood. A lot of it. The smudged remnants of a body outline drawn in chalk.

So this was it. After all those years, this was where Will had taken his last breath.

Daryl spoke before he could stop himself, staring down at the spot on the floor, unable to tear his eyes away. "What happened?"

Merle tossed something to the floor and continued digging through the box in front of him. "Told ya he got his throat slit. From ear to ear. Right where yer standin'." He cackled. "Nice ta see you too, little brother."

Daryl scoffed and finally tore his gaze away from the floor, turning his body and shoving his hands into his pockets. He was fighting another wave of nausea. "What'd you want me ta say? That I missed you?"

"Don't be a faggot," Merle snapped. "Thought you might be a li'l more appreciative that I even called you at all. Could'a jus' let ya find out about it on yer own—hell, I'm surprised your boy Grimes didn't tell ya first. Thought for sure he'd be callin' you up as soon as he left the crime scene."

"Nah," Daryl grunted. "Nobody said shit. I ain't been talkin' to anybody, just workin' an' sleepin'."

"Thank God I called ya then, huh? You can finally move outta that shitty trailer an' get away from that bitch an' her kid. You'll have a life again!"

"Already got a life. The hell you talkin' about? Why would I move out?"

Merle dropped what he was doing and stood up straight, giving Daryl an incredulous look. "Pa's dead! We can sell his shit an' move in here, rent-free. Won't have no damn bills neither, 'less you feel like hookin' up a generator or somethin'. This place is all ours now!" He proclaimed it like it was something to be excited about.

But all Daryl felt was dread. "You serious?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"'Cause that's a stupid fuckin' idea. I ain't movin' out here, are you outta yer damn mind? I got a job, a dog—I like livin' in that shitty little trailer. Carol depends on me fer half the rent an' bills, I ain't gonna leave her high an' dry like that."

Merle heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes. "Is it the outhouse? Ya done got that attached to indoor plumbing already? C'mon, baby brother, it ain't so bad. Shittin' in a box is a small compromise fer not havin' to pay no goddamn water bill. We can clean up the tub in the bathroom—I think Pa only used it fer 'shine, but—"

"Fuck no. Ain't even that. I hate this fuckin' cabin. I wouldn't live here if ya paid me to. And I'll be damned if I ever live with you again."

"Well that's fuckin' rude. The hell'd I ever do to you? I might not be the most organized person, but I can work on it."

"Yer organizational skills—or lack thereof—are only the tip of the iceberg," Daryl argued. "Why would I wanna move clear back out here, miles from civilization, jus' ta put up with yer shit every damn day? I ain't had ta kick a dirty tweaker outta my bed in months. And I like it that way."

Merle appeared genuinely hurt. He wrinkled his nose and narrowed his eyes, a heavy frown pulling all his features downward. "Now yer jus' tryin' ta hurt my feelings. You still got a stick up yer ass 'bout that fight we had? Wasn't no worse than any other fight—get over it already. You had yer time an' space, now it's time ta come back home."

"Home?" Daryl repeated, scoffing. "This cabin wasn't ever my home. Neither was any of those shitholes I shared with you."

Merle simply shook his head and waved his hand through the air, annoyed. He knelt down on the floor and went back to rummaging through the cardboard box of useless crap, muttering angrily under his breath. Daryl caught a few words, a few key phrases: "ungrateful asshole," "wanna play house with some dyke," "gonna treat me like I ain't blood."

And this was the cycle that had kept Daryl in his older brother's orbit for over two decades. The guilt trips and the manipulation. The psychological game he liked to play that made Daryl feel like he was eight years old again, begging Merle not to leave him behind.

But the tables had turned many years ago, hadn't they? For a while now, it had been Merle begging Daryl not to leave. Because Merle had no one else. Not a single soul. He depended on his baby brother. Yet Daryl had never acknowledged the fact until less than a year ago. He'd been too blind to see it—too jaded by years of drifting around and a dozen brushes with the law that were a little too close for comfort. In a way, he'd never really been anything more than that scrawny eight-year-old boy who was terrified to face the world alone. Until one day, he was more.

When had that happened? He didn't even know.

But he didn't need Merle anymore. And no, Merle didn't really need him either. What he needed was someone to control; someone to have power over, someone who had no choice but to bend and break to his will. Someone who would feel too indebted to let him go hungry, or homeless, or sober.

Someone who would pick up the phone at 3 am and come bail him out of jail for the umpteenth time.

Daryl wouldn't be that person anymore. He refused. For the first time in his life, he had something so much better. Something that didn't involve Merle at all, and didn't necessitate his presence whatsoever. Daryl had people who relied on him. People who cared for him—actually cared. People who wanted to see him happy and healthy. And he didn't want to let those people down.

He finally had a fucking purpose in life.

He stood in the same spot for a long moment, hands still shoved into his pockets, until Merle's angry muttering had died down. Then he took a stroll around the cabin, gazing curiously at all the damage and disarray, stepping cautiously around the bloodstain.

The most jarring part about being back inside this place was the fact that it looked so much like he remembered. As though it hadn't changed at all in twenty years, save for a few more layers of dust and a couple dozen more bullet holes. Like his dad had been living the same pitiful, pathetic, disgusting life without a single change in habit this whole time.

Which, Daryl knew, was exactly what he'd done. And that's how he'd ended up like this. Probably pissed off some dealer, Daryl reckoned. Screwed over the wrong guy for once. Sold somebody a fatally bad batch of moonshine. Maybe racked up an unpayable debt to some dude with "connections." There were a slew of possibilities, and every single one was perfectly justified in Daryl's mind.

Hell, if he could've killed Will himself, he might have. And it wouldn't have had a damn thing to do with money, drugs, or bootleg moonshine.

He continued wandering through the cabin while Merle gave up on the current cardboard box in front of him and moved on to rummaging through another. Daryl pulled his hands from his pockets and stepped gingerly over the creaky old floorboards. When he reached out to touch anything, it was with careful fingers, and he was unwilling to wrap his whole hand around any objects or drawer handles. The whole place still felt like a crime scene, like he was somehow disturbing a grave by poking around inside the house he'd once had to live in.

Nonetheless, he did his fair share of rummaging around, though not to the same extent as Merle. Daryl was only looking for one thing, and he had little to no hope that he'd actually find it. His father had purged their home of any evidence that Leanne Dixon had ever existed within the first year after she died. Any belongings that survived the fire had been thrown out "because of smoke damage," and all the belongings she'd kept in storage had disappeared when Will stopped paying the fee on the storage unit in town. Daryl could remember the photo albums she'd kept—probably lost in the fire, in all honesty. But he knew there were some photos that had survived. He also knew that a lot of his father's possessions had miraculously survived the fire, or had coincidentally been stored inside his truck at the time.

He'd always thought that was odd. But he didn't like thinking about the possibility it could lead him to infer.

Daryl knew there was a picture of his mom that was still laying around here somewhere, because he'd glimpsed it a few times in his dad's truck. And whenever he'd tried to swipe it, thinking Will wouldn't notice or care, he'd gotten the whooping of a lifetime and a cracked rib to remind him to keep his goddamn hands to himself. His dad had taunted him and berated him for being a "sad little mama's boy," and locked him in his room with no food for two days because he "needed to get the fuck over it and forget about her already." After that, he didn't see the photo again. But he had a feeling it wasn't gone—just hidden.

So he went searching through his late father's cluttered home. He started in the kitchen, opening and closing drawers, checking cabinets, pushing aside empty beer cans and shards of broken glass. Then he moved to the dining area and the cluttered table. After that, he took a brief stroll around the area that Merle was occupying. His brother paid him no mind, too busy digging through box after box of useless trinkets and old trash that had never been thrown out. He checked the cushions of the chair, the grimy surface of the coffee table, even the underside of the ashtrays and piles of empty mason jars and beer cans. There was nothing but trash littering every inch of this cabin.

He moved on to the bedroom, where a ratty mattress sat in the corner beside an ancient nightstand. The rest of the room was occupied by a large gun cabinet and piles of garbage. The closet door was open to reveal a pile of dirty clothes, a few articles of moth-eaten clothing cloaked over wire hangers that hung from the rack inside. Daryl checked the nightstand first, then the mattress, before kicking aside some trash and surveying the debris. Finally, he moved to the closet, where he pushed moldy clothing aside with wary hands. But there was nothing to be found. Not a single photo, of his mother or anyone else.

There was a crossbow mounted on the inside of the closet door, and for a moment, Daryl stood back and stared at it. He hesitated. He kinda wanted to take it. But what the hell would he do with it? He never had time to go hunting anymore. It would just gather dust in his tiny closet back at the trailer. Merle would probably make better use of it, anyhow. Or he'd just sell it. Whatever.

If he were being honest, Daryl didn't really want to hold onto anything that might remind him of his dad. Not even his weapons.

Although, on the off chance that what he was looking for might be there, he approached the gun cabinet and opened it up. It was never locked, he knew, because Will couldn't keep track of a key to save his fucking life. He could barely keep track of the key to his truck. But, just as he'd expected, Daryl found nothing but weapons and ammunition. A few random hunting supplies. But definitely not anything that could be considered sentimental.

He took stock of everything inside, noticing that Will had added to his collection quite a bit since the last time Daryl had seen his small armory. Yet it felt like something was missing.

Then he remembered: his dad's favorite hunting knife. With the carved silver handle, and the blade that he always kept razor-sharp. Where was it? Nowhere amongst its usual special place within the gun cabinet. And he would've spotted it in the closet, but it wasn't there either. Nor had he seen it anywhere outside the bedroom. Had Merle already found it and pocketed it?

Probably. He couldn't even say he cared. It was just a knife.

With a defeated sigh, he left the room.

He stopped and stood outside the bedroom door, watching Merle from several feet away as he finished rummaging through yet another box and shoved it aside.

Merle sighed loudly with dissatisfaction. "Bunch'a worthless shit in here," he said, standing up and brushing off the knees of his jeans. "Couldn't even find any crystal layin' around. An' none'a this crap he owned is worth a dime. I ain't gonna be able to find a single pawn shop that'll take any of this shit."

Daryl would never tell Merle what he was looking for. Merle would just make fun of him. Or berate him. He'd think it was stupid that Daryl even thought Will would keep such a thing—a picture? Really? If it couldn't be smoked, drank, slept on, or shot at (or used to shoot at other things), it wasn't worth keeping around.

"Dunno why you expected anythin' else. Might as well bring a trash truck out here an' clean the whole place out," he muttered. "Speakin'a which, what'd they do with the body?"

Merle chuckled. "Well I sure as fuck wasn't gonna pay fer a burial. They offered to cremate 'im—no charge. I told 'em to keep the ashes, turn 'im into fertilizer or somethin'. Make him useful fer once."

Daryl frowned and stared down at his boots. He wasn't sure why, but this knowledge made him uneasy. He'd partially hoped for one last look at his old man. He didn't like to admit it, but he had a sick urge to see for himself that Will Dixon was really and truly dead. That he was no longer breathing, that his heart was no longer beating, that his brain had definitively stopped firing neurons. That he was finally silenced, once and for all.

But then again, Daryl wasn't sure what he'd do if he were in a room with the dead body of his father. Might not be able to control himself. It was probably for the best that the only thing to remain were ashes.

'How hot do those corpse ovens have to get to turn a whole body into ashes?' He wondered, a morbid sense of curiosity filling his mind. 'Are the flames in Hell even hotter? Did he feel every second of that pain, wherever he is now?'

He quickly admonished himself, though. Hell isn't real. Will Dixon was dead and gone. Nothing more. That was it—lights out. He was no more than a pile of dust now.

He didn't exist anywhere anymore. Except for the depths of Daryl's mind. In all his memories. In the scars on his back and the damage to his brain. In the nightmares that plagued him nearly every night.

Sadly, Will Dixon would never be dead in the way that really mattered.

Daryl dragged his eyes away from his own boots and happened to pass his gaze across Merle's lower half. His boots. Daryl didn't recognize them. New? That was odd. Merle had only had the last pair for a couple years, and he usually got at least five years out of each pair he bought (or stole). And he sure as hell never owned more than one pair. Because, according to him, any man who owns more than one pair of shoes is a 'butt pirate.'

Merle spoke, breaking Daryl out of his thoughtful silence. "I'm guessin' you didn't find nothin' either?"

Daryl shook his head and met his brother's eyes with a furrowed brow. "Nah. Just a bunch'a trash." Then he jerked his chin towards Merle's boots and asked, "Ya got new boots? Where's yer old ones? Thought you loved them things."

Merle glanced down at his boots and shrugged, chuckling. "I did! Had ta replace 'em, though. Too much blood."

Daryl grunted. "Blood?"

Merle flashed a wolfish grin. "Yeah—guess I should'a taken my shoes off 'fore I earned my red wings. You got any idea how messy that shit gets when a bitch has a heavy flow?" He barked out a laugh.

Daryl rolled his eyes. "Gross."

Merle laughed again as Daryl glanced over his shoulder and noticed something missing.

"You find that dumbass statue he had?" He asked. "Or'd he finally get rid of it?"

Merle shrugged. "What statue?"

Daryl frowned. "You know what statue. The only one he loved enough to not use as target practice."

"Oh, the Pam Anderson one? With the titties? Shit, I'ono. Ain't seen it."

"Weird."

"How's that weird?"

"I dunno. Just is. I couldn't find his favorite hunting knife either. Where you think it went?"

"Hell if I know. What's with the twenty questions? I wasn't even thinkin' 'bout that thing. Hey, maybe whoever killed 'im used it ta do the job—wouldn't that be some shit? HA!"

"Some sick shit, yeah. It'd be a murder weapon."

"Whatever, wise guy. So you gonna help me clean this shit out or not? We can prob'ly get it done in half a dozen trips if we use his truck. If that ol' piece'a shit'll start up, that is. Maybe we can fit some shit into that hatchback, too. Junkyard ain't more'an a half hour away, I reckon."

Daryl stiffened at the presumptuous tone in Merle's voice. "Why should I help you? Ain't got the time fer that. Think I done more'an enough bendin' over backwards to make sure you had a clean place to lay yer head at night."

Merle immediately jumped on the defense. "What the fuck's yer problem, boy? 'F you wanted ta keep actin' like yer too good fer your own brother, you shouldn't've even come out here. I didn't call you 'cause I wanted to listen to more whining."

"Well I didn't fuckin' come out here to help yer sorry ass," Daryl snapped back.

"Then why the fuck are you here?" Merle spat.

"'Cause I thought you might have some goddamn answers," Daryl burst out. "I thought there might be some kinda explanation waitin' for me in this shithole. I didn't drive all the way out here jus' to get into another fuckin' fight with you, asshole."

"Explanation for what? What kinda answers you think yer gonna get, Daryl? The fuck d'you wanna know?"

"Why!" Daryl's voice rose out of his control and he could feel his face turning red from anger. "Why the fuck he survived this long, doing all the shit he did, just to have his throat cut outta fuckin' nowhere! I wanna know why, and I wanna know who—and I wanna meet 'em and shake their fucking hand!"

Merle guffawed. "Well shit, so do I!" His grin quickly faded though, and he stared back at Daryl with a stern expression. "But there ain't no answers ta be found, baby brother. Best just accept it an' move on. 'S just like the fire—shit happens. Ya hear me? That's life. Knowin' the truth only makes it hurt a little worse… Trust me."

"How would you know?" Daryl quipped, eyes narrowed as he looked his brother up and down with resentment. "All you've ever done is talk outta yer ass, like you got all the experience in the world. But yer nothin' more than an ignorant redneck. Just like me. Just like him."

"Takes one to know one," Merle retorted without missing a beat. "'Least yer a little self-aware, though. Guess I did somethin' right when I was raisin' yer wimpy ass."

Daryl bit his tongue and shook his head. He wasn't falling for this bait again. He wasn't going to let himself be lowered to Merle's level. He had to remember what Carol had told him: taking the high road was never easy. But it had already led him to a better place, and he couldn't stray away from the path now. He might never be the man she thought he was, but hell if he couldn't try.

Merle had a lot of ammunition that he was eager to unleash on Daryl in order to manipulate him into obeying, but Daryl was prepared to guard against it. He didn't have to stand here and take this anymore. He didn't need his brother.

What had he really come for, in all honesty? He knew he wasn't going to get any answers from Merle. So what had he expected? Closure? Was he really so naive to desire such a thing? To set the bar so high?

Stupid. He was so goddamn stupid. Merle was right—he was too soft. A pathetic mama's boy with no mama to speak of. Naive and pitiful and idiotic enough to think his brother would ever participate in a healthy journey through grief.

Their dad's death wasn't the end of a horrific chapter. It was just the beginning of a whole new one.

"Yer a stupid motherfucker, you know that?" Daryl said. "Yer prob'ly gonna be goin' to prison in a few months, but all yer worried about is movin' into this shithole. Like you can jus' jump right back into old habits without ever facin' the consequences."

Merle scoffed, hands on hips and his chest puffed out. "I ain't goin' fuckin' nowhere."

"Oh yeah? 'S that what yer defense is gonna be this time? Don't think that's gonna hold up in court. How many possession charges ya got now? Five? Six? Was this Lucky Number Seven, or—"

"I already got it all taken care of, baby brother. You jus' let me worry 'bout it." He flashed a crooked smile that did nothing to ease Daryl's discomfort. "You know ol' Merle always finds a way to slither outta trouble. I'm like a slippery li'l snake." He cackled.

'Yeah,' Daryl thought. 'Like a copperhead. Or a python. Ready to strike out at the first person who gets too close.'

"You actually get a lawyer this time?"

Merle cackled again. "Public defender. Won't really need 'em, though—I got an in with the judge." He raised his eyebrows suggestively. "Reckon I won't be doin' more'an maybe thirty days in County and a few hours of community service."

Daryl shook his head in disgust. "Talkin' outta yer ass again. Hope you don't expect me to be puttin' money on yer books this time."

"Quit actin' like I'm already behind bars," Merle said, his smile finally disappearing to be replaced with a frown. "I've never spent more'an a few months locked up. That ain't gonna change now. I don't need you, ya know. You think I do, but I never fuckin' did. I was helpin' you out."

Daryl was too preoccupied with thoughts of his father getting his throat cut mere feet away from where he was currently standing to pay much attention to Merle's repetitive excuses. He waved the words away and muttered, "Yeah, yeah. I already heard that one. You sound like a broken record." He turned and took a couple steps towards the door, stopping to kick aside a cardboard box full of junk.

Merle scoffed from behind him. "Got a new vest, huh?"

Daryl glanced over his shoulder and muttered, "Gift from the girls. Wanted ta replace the one you ruined."

Merle rolled his eyes. "Figures. Looks like somethin' a woman would pick out."

"What's that s'posed ta mean?"

"Means it looks gay as shit. You look like a flamin' fuckin' faggot in that thing—the hell those females doin' ta you? I barely recognize you anymore, baby brother. And it's really startin' to piss me off."

Daryl turned and faced his brother again, hands shoved into his pockets and frustration boiling to the surface of his voice. "I don't give a fuck, Merle. Yer opinion doesn't mean shit to me." He slashed one arm through the air, in the general direction of the messy cabin. "Good luck cleanin' this shit out. Don't fuckin' call me next time you get arrested."

Then he turned and started heading for the door, making it all the way to the threshold before he heard Merle's swift footsteps approaching from behind. He was two steps onto the front porch when he felt Merle's hand grab his arm and forcefully pull him back. Daryl didn't resist. He spun around, shaking off his brother's hand, and glared at the older man.

"Where the fuck you think yer goin'? You gotta help me, Daryl," Merle said.

"Help you with what?" Daryl snapped. "You jus' got done sayin' how much you don't need me. Ya never did. So I guess the feelin's finally mutual. We can both move on already—you ain't thirty no more, and I ain't twenty, we can't keep doin' all the stupid shit you love to do. That ain't me no more, man."

"That ain't you, huh?" Merle challenged. "Then how come you came runnin' as soon as you heard he was dead? How come I was the first one to tell you about it? You think anybody else gives a fuck about you like I do, little brother?"

"I came out here 'cause I thought—"

"Thought you'd get some answers—right? You want answers? Answers fer what?! You wanna know why he whipped yer goddamn back to shreds? Ya wanna know why he got away with it, over an' over an' over, and nobody gave a fuck?"

Daryl didn't respond.

Merle smirked, reading Daryl's expression like a book and taking some kind of sick joy in how easily he could locate his brother's weak spot. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back, smug and apathetic. "Nah. You came 'cause you wanted to find a little piece of Mama ta keep for yourself. You was hopin' he set somethin' back, so you could go home an' look at her picture an' cry yerself to sleep."

"Fuck you," Daryl growled.

Merle laughed coldly.

Sometimes, Daryl wondered if his brother ever felt anything at all. Maybe all those years with Will ruined him for good. Maybe their old man had beat all the traces of empathy and humanity out of him before they'd even developed. Maybe his time in the Service had eroded the last pebbles of humanity that remained, leaving behind nothing but jagged apathy and grains of sadism. Or maybe… he'd never felt anything to begin with. Maybe that's why he ran away in the first place.

But then Daryl remembered the look on Merle's face that day not so long ago, when he'd seen the scars for the first time; the terror and abhorrence in his eyes, the fury that lay beneath, waiting to bubble up and burst from the surface.

No. Merle definitely felt something… Even if it was just anger.

A thought suddenly invaded his mind… a terrible thought, but a very real possibility all the same.

Daryl burst out, "And where the fuck were you when he was gettin' his throat slit?"

Merle's face fell and the certainty in his posture faltered. "The fuck you mean?"

"Exactly what I said: where were you?"

"What—you think I killed him?"

Daryl blinked. He swallowed hard, refusing to break eye contact.

Merle sucked on his teeth and tightened his arms over his chest, staring down his nose at Daryl. "Now ain't that somethin'... And what would'ja say if I did, baby brother?"

For a second—just a second—Daryl wondered what he would say. What he'd do. But it was the strangest thing, because he couldn't imagine himself being too upset. It wasn't like it would be the worst thing Merle had ever done. Maybe not the best either, but pretty damn close.

It was the one thing Daryl could imagine himself truly forgiving.

Then Merle's grin returned, more mischievous than ever.

That look told Daryl all he needed to know: Merle was full of shit. Always had been. Always would be.

Daryl shook his head and glanced away. "Not funny."

Merle laughed anyway. "Didn't say it was. Shi-i-it, I wish I woulda been the one ta do it. Woulda liked to hear that fucker squeal like a little pig an' beg fer his life."

The nausea was returning. Daryl cleared his throat, swallowing back the stomach acid that was fighting its way up his throat, and said, "Wouldn't matter anyhow."

"Why not?"

"'Cause it just wouldn't… Look't this shit, man. Yer tryin' to move into his old place, take over his old life. Yer settin' yerself up to end up just like him."

Merle shifted uncomfortably. "Can't nobody kill Merle Dixon 'cept Merle Dixon," he declared with feigned smugness. "There's a big difference 'tween me an' Will… the biggest one bein' that I'm not a bitch."

Daryl sighed. "Broken record."

Then he turned and began to walk away. He made it down the steps and into the grass before Merle came trailing after him, temper returning.

"Quit fuckin' walkin' away from me, dammit!" Merle cursed. "The hell you want me ta say? You wanna have a fuckin' funeral or somethin'? Would that get the tampon outta yer ass? You need closure or some shit? 'S that what this is about?"

"I don't need nothin' from you," Daryl shot back, taking swift strides across the yard towards the hatchback parked on the side of the road.

"Until you do!" Merle followed, calling after him. "And then what? You gonna call up yer reliable ol' pal Merle an' expect him ta take you in? You gonna expect me to forget about how you turned yer back on me—your own blood—in a time of need?! After all I've done fer you, after all those years I spent raising you?!"

"Here we go again," Daryl muttered, barely paying Merle any mind as he reached the car and opened the driver's side door.

He could no longer be guilted into going against his better interests. He wouldn't. Not ever again, and especially not for his ungrateful big brother.

Blood be damned.

Merle's tone bordered on flabbergasted. But he quickly covered it up with anger. "Yer pathetic. Ya know that? You think that dyke's gonna keep you 'round forever? You think anybody in this godforsaken town's ever gonna look at you any different? 'Cause they're not. The roommate, the ugly fuck ya work with, the fuckin' sheriff? They won't stick around, Daryl. They're just takin' pity on you. In the end, they'll see ya for what you are. They already expect it! They know all about you. They know all about us. You're a Dixon—you're poison. Ya always will be, and everybody knows it. You got some kinda pretty fairytale, happily-ever-after bullshit in yer head, and it's all thanks to those slap-dicks you been hangin' around with! You think you can get a-a fresh start or somethin'? 'S that what you think?! 'Cause lemme tell ya, boy, ain't no such thing as a fresh start when you ain't been fresh in twenty years."

Daryl bristled but didn't respond. He tightened his jaw and hesitated at the door of the hatchback, holding it open and struggling not to glance back.

'He's wrong,' he told himself. 'He's wrong. He's wrong. Carol wouldn't give up on me. Neither would Rick. Or Dwight. Not if I didn't give them a damn good reason to give up. And going back to this life… that'd be more than enough reason.'

He didn't say any of that, though. Merle would never understand. He'd just be wasting his breath.

So he simply shook his head, like he pitied Merle, and said, "Whatever. Don't expect me to answer the phone when you got a knife to yer throat."

Then he climbed into the car and started it up.

This time, Merle didn't chase after him. Daryl drove away, kicking up rocks and dust behind the back tires as he sped off down the dirt road.

He gave one final glance in the rearview mirror and saw his brother standing in the middle of the road, stubborn as ever, with his middle finger in the air.

"Fuck you, too," Daryl said aloud.

He never could've guessed it would be the last time he saw Merle alive.

to be continued…


A/N: I know this chapter was pretty repetitive after last chapter, and I'm genuinely sorry. I did my best, but the main point was to tie in the little details of Will's murder. Hopefully next chapter makes up for it. Thank you for reading! :)