I started this as a project for myself and wasn't sure if I'd even post it. It's gotten pretty lengthy so far, so I thought why not share! This is the first of several chapters.
Warning that domestic abuse will be included in this story!
He is alone. Not for the first time in his life. Loneliness is a feeling he doesn't welcome. He acts like a lone wolf and he is an expert at the part, but deep down, the loneliness cuts deep.
Daryl's brother is gone – again. Three weeks into sharing space at Camp Apocalypse and Merle had already outstayed his welcome. He'd been apart of a group that had left to scavenge supplies from Atlanta. He'd gotten out of hand. He'd placed the group in danger. They'd left him on a roof in Atlanta with only a rifle and a prayer.
Daryl was furious at first. He'd loudly protested the treatment of his brother, making sure the entire camp knew how hot his anger burned. Two of the men that had been apart of the group – T-Dog and Glenn – offered to go back with him to search for Merle, most likely out of guilt or maybe even out of fear that Daryl would shoot a bolt through their heads. Their search came up empty. Knowing better than to stay in the city after dark, Daryl reluctantly left with them.
He knew his brother had ultimately brought this upon himself. That's just how Merle was. Maybe his brother would survive. Maybe he'd make it back to camp. Daryl had to trust in Merle's skills and he knew, without a doubt, if anyone could survive their local inner hell of the fallen world, it was his brother. Just like a cockroach, he always survived.
But, without Merle, Daryl is alone.
He hadn't made any friends within the group. Most of the people were reluctantly polite toward him. He was the only hunter among the group. That was probably the only reason he was tolerated and hadn't been run out of camp yet. He thought of leaving, but where would he go? The world was dead and once again, he was without a home, which was something else Daryl was intimately familiar with.
Daryl provided meat for the camp and kept to himself. He wasn't there to connect with people. He wasn't there to make friends. That didn't mean he was fine with being lonely.
The kid is staring at him again. She tries to hide her nonchalant activity from behind a bush. Like an unsuspecting deer in the forest, he always spots her. She couldn't be no more than 9 or 10. Tiny thing too. Skinnier than a young sapling before it sprouts its leaves.
The girl belongs to a married couple – married in name, but it's easily observed, not in love. Daryl could describe the man with many colorful expletives, but he chooses to call him the straightforward name of wife-beating a—hole. That's exactly what he is. The man had no other function but to smash his wife's body with his fists. The poor woman is about the same thinness as her daughter, just taller.
It is downright stomach turning to watch when the woman apologizes pathetically and paws at her a—hole husband for just about anything that ruffles the man's feathers. Daryl can't watch. He tries his best to ignore it all. It is almost as if these two people are reenacting his childhood and that, in and of itself, is more like watching a horror show. So, he tries to ignore it.
Except…he can't.
He can't ignore the muffled screams or the choked sobs or the angry accusations accompanied by a sharp slap that reverberates through his chest like a gong shaking his insides apart. He can't ignore the new shiny bruises decorating the woman's face or arms. He can't ignore it, but he tries to convince himself that he can.
"Why don'tcha come outta there," he calls out, nodding his chin at the kid stuck up in the bushes.
She freezes. He can feel her tenseness radiating across the distance.
Daryl slices his knife through the deer carcass as casual as flipping the tv channel with a remote. He wants to show the kid he isn't aggravated with her or has any desire to bring wrath upon her. He glances up from his dirty work, looking a right mess with blood smeared on his hands and arms. He isn't sure why she hasn't gone running in terror at the horror show he looks like he stepped out of.
"I ain't mad," he coaxs again in an even tone. "C'mere."
The kid crawls out of the bushes, knobby knees and elbows fighting branches. She walks up to him, cautiously. Daryl returns to dismembering the deer.
"Why ya watchin' me?"
The kid shrugs.
Daryl hasn't been around kids hardly in his life, but he used to be a kid and a vague shrug had probably been the same reply he'd given multiple times to an adult.
"Whatcha' name, kid?" He's heard her name being called out, but he can't remember which name belongs to which kid in their camp.
"Sophia," she answers, eyeing his knife with more wide-eyed amazement than fear. "And, you're Daryl."
Daryl nods, absently. "Yeah, that's me." He squints up at her for a moment. "Why you here, Sophia?"
She hesitates, as if gathering her thoughts, before speaking. "You're safe."
Daryl finishes cutting through a leg quarter before looking up again and panting from the exertion. The answer stokes his curiosity. Safe isn't a word anyone ever described him as. "Whatcha' mean?"
"You're nice to my Mom. When she gives you something to eat or takes your laundry, you're nice to her."
"Lotta people seem nice to your Ma when she does somethin' for 'em."
Sophia grabs an extra breath before digging deeper into her explanation. "When my—" she pauses at her next word and makes a face akin to a grimace, "Dad is being mean to my Mom—"
Daryl bristles. He isn't sure if he wants to have this conversation with the kid. But, for some absurd reason - of all many people in their camp - she seems to be drawn to him.
"You get angry," she continues, "I see your face and you're angry, but not a mean angry. Your hands make fists. You look upset when he's…" she trails off, not wishing to retell all the horrors the man she knew as her father was capable of.
She covers every basic feeling Daryl holds toward this unfortunate life experience this little girl and her mother are trapped in.
"You a good watcher, Sophia. You observe. That'sa good skill to have." His comment conjures a small smile out of the girl. "Why you haven't gone to the cop about this?"
Her smile vanishes, quickly. "Cops don't help. They never do." The mistrust practically emits from her. It runs deep.
Daryl can relate. The cops were never there to help when he was growing up. When they finally showed up, it was to keep bystanders away from the burnt heap that was his house where his mother never made it out of.
"What do you want me to do about it?" She wants something from him. Daryl can feel it practically springing off her tongue.
"I want my Mama safe. She gets hurt so much. I'm scared for her. I've been scared all my life."
"Don't know if there's anything I can do 'bout it, Sophia." Daryl feels as if he's been sucker punched just by the look on her face.
If her quivering chin hadn't alerted Daryl that Sophia's waterworks were about to burst, then the pitiful sniffling was a clear sign. Her whole demeanor stiffens, and she turns quickly to leave.
Daryl wonders what the hell has inspired the females of this particular family to take a shine to him all the sudden. The Mama of the girl – Carol, he recalls – has gone out of her way to serve him meals when he doesn't come hunting one. She is good like that. She's like a busy little bee buzzing from person to person, taking care of needs in any way possible.
Daryl figures it is just her personality, but the thought also crosses his mind that maybe she is keeping herself busy on purpose to stay away from her a—hole husband. Sophia trots along beside her Ma like her second shadow, that is when the girl isn't hanging around the other kids in camp.
When Daryl spots the woman headed his direction carrying a plate of food, he tenses and wonders if Sophia told her about their conversation earlier that day. She offers him a smile – the kindest anyone has ever bestowed upon him – and Daryl squirms a little on the crate he is currently holding down.
"I noticed you hadn't come for your plate yet," Carol explains, stopping a few feet from him. "I didn't want the meal to run out before you had gotten your share."
"I'd survive if I didn't get any," Daryl assures, gruffly.
"But, you're the one that bagged the deer," Carol counters, "You should at least get a portion."
He isn't going to fight her on this. Daryl nods his thanks and accepts the plastic plate the camp uses to serve meals.
Carol lingers a moment. Daryl tries to look anywhere but at her.
"Thank you for proving meat for the camp," she finally speaks again.
Daryl shrugs. "People need to eat, and I don't see anyone gettin' off their a- to do it."
There'd been many instances where he had absolutely no desire to share his spoils from a hunt. Merle had told him not to give a damn about every one of them, but there were kids in the camp. No matter how the parents acted, he wasn't about to starve the kids. He knew what it was like to be a kid with an empty belly.
Daryl was well aware everyone in camp looked at him like he was a dumb hick who'd never left the backwoods of Georgia until all hell broke loose. He may not have had a full education, but he wasn't dumb. He enjoyed reading books. He knew how to hunt and track. How to fix and repair things. He knew how to survive in the world, especially a world where worldly privileges just didn't exist anymore.
"We appreciate it."
Daryl doubts anyone in camp truly does. "Yeah, sure," he blows off.
Carol's blue eyes gaze at him causing his cheeks to warm. He can almost see into her soul through those eyes. "I appreciate it."
And he believes her.
Daryl isn't sure what has come over him. This has been the most words him and Carol have shared at one time since they'd met. To his surprise, he doesn't want the words to end.
"Your little girl," he pauses, trying to find the words that formed his thoughts, "She was watching me clean the deer earlier. Come by and talked to me for a minute."
Carol's face flushes. "She wasn't bothering you, was she?"
Daryl shakes his head. "Naw. She's no problem. Just curious, I guess. You're—" he pauses once more to lick his lips, "You're doin' a good job with her…as a Mama. She's a smart kid. Seems to me like a good kid."
Daryl glances at Carol's face and is taken aback by the dampness forming at the rim of her eyes. He didn't realize a simple comment could trigger such a reaction.
Her voice is thick. "Thank you."
Daryl jerks his chin in the direction she came from. "You better get along now. Before your husband sees you talkin' to me."
Carol sniffles a little and nods, knowing all too well what his comment implies. "Enjoy your meal, Daryl."
He picks up the fork, showing her that he's ready to tuck into his food. "Yeah."