Chapter 4

Time passed quickly after the birth of his brother. Merle spent so much of his time taking his brother to the woods to keep them both safe that the years sailed past. Daryl wasn't much trouble, Merle made sure of that. If his brother started to get out of line, Merle pinched his leg or swatted his behind with a loud "No!" echoing after. Daryl would stop what he was doing quickly, and his eyes would fill with tears. Sometimes the tears would fall, crocodile tears that made Merle laugh.

"Straighten up now boy. None of that crying shit. You gotta learn to take a lickin, you gotta show you are tough. You ain't got no time for no crocodile tears. You think anyone gives a shit about you. No one cares if you cry boy so you might as well save them tears." Merle did not speak harshly then, only matter of factly.

Daryl would do what his brother said, he would wipe away the tears, a clean spot on a dirty face where the tears once set. It was around that time when Daryl was near five that he noticed a change in his mother. Her stomach grew large, she was angry all the time. He couldn't walk by her without feeling the sting of a cigarette burning his arm, or the backhand that often met his cheek bone. One night, his mother screamed, his brother in the backroom with her. Daryl was scared and shivering, his body shook even when he willed it to stop. One final scream rang forth and then there was silence. The silence felt worse than the screams. Merle came out then, his arms covered in blood. Without answering, Daryl calling his name, Merle ran out of the cabin. Daryl ran to the door and watched as his brother disappeared, running toward the main road. The road that led to the store with the nice woman who gave him his first taste of potato chips. Daryl stayed at the door of the cabin, sitting outside on the porch. He was too afraid to be inside the cabin with his mother. Too afraid to leave the cabin without his brother. It seemed hours to Daryl before his brother returned, his father behind the wheel of his old pickup. His father stumbled into the cabin and toward the bedroom where his mother lay. Daryl stayed still as Merle moved past him. Both men returned, with his mother between them. She was pushed into the truck and his father drove away. It was then that Daryl noticed his brother still there. He hadn't gotten into the truck. Hadn't left Daryl alone. Daryl stood then, waiting for his brother to tell him what to do. He did nothing he wasn't told to do. That lesson was ingrained deep within him. He had the scars to prove it. His father's belt only found him a few times, his brother's as well. Daryl learned quickly that survival meant following, not leading. Merle turned toward him.

"Go." Merle stated, pointing toward the door. Daryl went. Opening the cabin door, entering the main room and waiting for more instruction. "Go to bed." Daryl went to his room, that he shared with his brother. Found his spot on the blankets on the floor, the small pillow bringing comfort. He clung to it, hoping his brother would lay in his bed above him. Daryl didn't know why, but he felt a shift in the air. A shudder entered his body then, one he had not felt before. A shudder that left his body trembling. He suddenly felt like crying, a tear even slipping from the corner of his eye and leaving a wet spot on his pillow. Too afraid to move he lay still and quiet, willing himself to not allow another tear. He pulled his brother's blanket from his bed and squeezed it hard in his fist. He focused on his breathing like he did when he endured a whipping. One breath in, hold, blow out. He repeated this pattern until his heart stopped pounding in his ears, until his grip on the tattered blanket loosened, until sleep took him away, away from his pain, away from his fear, away from what was soon to come.

Merle entered the bedroom. The room where his mother had given birth to another child. Merle was tired now. His exhaustion causing him to sway in the doorway. The form on the bed stood out in the moon light that spilled in through the window. It looked so small, no bigger than the game he and Daryl hunt in the evenings so they can have some dinner. It didn't move, didn't cry. He walked forward, dreading the sight he knew was impossible to forget. The child lay, it's body already changing color, its malformed head tilted oddly. Merle worried over this baby while it grew in his mother's stomach. Between the drugs she took, the alcohol she consumed, the punches to the stomach she endured. He feared that this would happen. Had a gut feeling this would happen. Told his mother she should go to the doctor this time, get checked out, give birth in the hospital at least. His mother laughed and spit a "Fuck you" toward him with her middle finger outstretched in his direction. At fifteen, Merle looked like a grown man. He towered above his father at this point. Yet, his parent's, both parents' still made fun of him. Made him feel so small. He stepped forward again, glancing backward to make sure his brother didn't follow. He didn't need to look. Daryl wasn't ever one to blatantly disobey. But you never could tell, the blood that flowed through their veins was sinister and mean. Merle felt a sadness then. Tears threatened to spill over his cheeks as he felt an intense sense of dread. He couldn't save them. He couldn't save himself, from the beatings he still endured. Couldn't save his brother from suffering at the hands of them all. Merle never meant to hurt his brother, he tried to stop himself from doing so, but the liquor he drank, the pills he took caused him to lose focus, lose sight of who he was hurting, who he was pummeling with his fists. His brother didn't make much noise during these sessions, instead all that was heard was grunting noises and heavy breaths. One breath in, hold, then blow out. Merle blinked rapidly, forcing away the tears and picked up the infant off the bed. A sister. Would have been anyway. This sister however, never gasped a first breath. Never would. She was dead long before she was born. She had started to rot inside her mother's stomach, her mother now sick with who knows what because this baby had been poisoning her from the inside out. The form was so small, he cradled it easily in one hand and headed for the door. He grabbed the shovel that Daryl had left lying in the yard, a beatable offense. Laid the form on the ground near the tree and started digging. He knew he needed to go deep. Didn't want some animal coming along and digging her up. The ground moved easily. He didn't know if that was because of the recent rain softening the earth, or if it were because he was striking the ground with all the anger, hate, hurt and pain he felt. He lay the form gently in the ground, wrapped in the same t-shirt he used almost five years ago when he wiped his brother clean with his mother. He covered it quickly and patted the earth down hard. Sweating now, hands shaking, he craved a drink and made his way to his hiding spot in the shed. He downed the bottle of whiskey he had stolen from the saddle bags of a motorcycle at the small-town bar. He sat with his back to the shed, let the liquor do its work. His nerves settled, his hands stopped shaking, the sweat gave way to a sense of peace. He got up, stumbled toward the house and fell into bed. Reaching for his blanket he realized it wasn't there. Looking down he saw it, covering his brother on the floor, his small fist squeezed around it. Merle grabbed it and pulled hard, his brother's hand coming off the ground with it. He reached down and swatted his brother, not caring where the swat hit. Then covered himself from head to toe falling quickly into slumber. Daryl lay still, his ears ringing from the swat he took to the side of the head. One breath in, hold it, slowly blow out.