AN: Hi there! Here's another chapter.

I should note that, due to the nature of this story and my plans for how I wanted things to go, there are going to be a few chapters that are sort of "out of order" throughout the entirety of the story because of different perspectives. I wanted this story to be a Dixon story, and that includes *ALL* the Dixons for the ways they all tie in with each other.

I'm going to tell you, ahead of time, that this is unique/singular kind of chapter. You'll understand more of what I mean when you read it. It's written this particular way for this very specific situation.

I do hope you enjoy the chapter. There's more on all of this at the end. Let me know what you think!

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His head swam with the inability to process everything that he was thinking and feeling at the same time.

He almost didn't feel the pain anymore. It was beyond him—on another plane entirely.

In the beginning, the pain had made him think that he wouldn't survive. He couldn't live through it. He'd never keep consciousness—and he couldn't lose consciousness, not with the Walkers grabbing for him at every turn.

He'd lived through enough pain, though, that he couldn't be killed by it anymore—that must have been what it was. He had barely stopped hurting since the day he was born. There were very few things that could stop the hurt—the drugs, the drink…Andrea. Even those things couldn't keep it away forever. They couldn't heal him. It was impossible to heal what had been damaged beyond repair.

But the pain couldn't kill him.

Heat. Thirst. His tongue felt swollen. His throat was raw. He was baking alive. Like being trapped in an oven. He would bake until there was nothing left of him. Ash. He'd be a pile of ash on the roof. Burned away to nothing.

At least, as ash, he'd be free. He'd be free from everything. He'd drift away on the breeze. If there were any breeze. There wasn't any breeze. A breeze might cool the heat and slow the baking.

They were coming for him.

The rattling chains told him death was coming for him. Horrible. Brutal. Death. He couldn't outrun them. He was anchored in place. Baking in the sun until he became ash.

The thirst would kill him before death got to him to tear away his flesh.

It had finally happened. They'd told him it would. He'd finally fucked up his life so completely that there was no return. He'd sworn, a thousand times, that he would get his life together—he would make amends—and he'd never be the fucked-up asshole he was again. He'd promised that he would change. But change was harder than he'd ever imagined—so, so fucking hard. He failed at it every time.

What he'd taken hadn't filled his palm. It was weak. It was no damn good. Trash. He'd meant to throw it out. He'd meant to keep a promise—so many promises he'd broken. The little bag had been in his pocket. He hadn't remembered putting it there. He didn't know where it came from. He'd put it there a thousand years ago—or something like that. He never meant to take it.

He never fucking meant to take it—not once in the last…so many years. He maybe meant to take it. Maybe just enough for the peace. For a moment of peace. He just wanted to hear the quiet in his head.

He hadn't heard any quiet. He didn't hear the quiet now. He heard everything except that. The rattling of chains. The screaming voices of everyone he loved as they learned he'd broken the promises he'd really meant to keep this time. They trusted him to keep a promise and he burned them—like the lighter burning the few fucking crystals that he'd never remembered were stuck down in his pocket.

He hurt everyone around him. Burned them. Again, and again. Like the sun was burning him—away to ashes.

He cried out to the same God he'd been crying out to for years—decades—maybe even centuries. He wasn't sure that time existed anymore. When you were burning away to ash and death was rattling its chains, time didn't matter.

God's only response came in the form of a saw that he could reach when he nearly tore his arm right out of his shoulder socket—like the Mouse's shoulder had been torn out by the asshole he'd buried ass up. That was always the way for Merle. The responses he got almost always seem to come in some terrible form—never the delicate wash of cool, cleansing water and peace that some people claimed they got when they cried out for help. Maybe that's why the hell he didn't ask for help so often as others. If they knew what the hell it was to have to do everything for themselves…

That wasn't true.

She helped him. She helped him. She was warm, and soft, and comfortable—not like the heat that was burning him to ash. She said she needed him, so it was OK that he needed her, too.

He had to find her. He had to find her before he burned away to ash and death tore his flesh apart.

The saw was freedom. It wouldn't cut the pipe. It was too dull when he tried. Wouldn't cut the chain of the handcuffs—who was that asshole to become Merle's judge, jury, and executioner? Merle would kill him. Bury his ass face down so when he came back—if he came back—he'd dig to fucking China. That's what the hell he would do.

The blade bit through flesh. It carved through bone—grained, unlike the steel, for the teeth to make purchase.

The thirsty hot roof drank up his blood. It was as hot and thirsty as he was.

The peace came with the dizziness. Swimming peace. A high. The lowest he'd ever been to feel this high.

What the hell would he need hands for anyway, when the dead tore his flesh off and consumed him? Sent him to hell where he was probably headed anyway. Fuck them all. Fuck that man in particular. He had no right to judge Merle. He had no right to execute him.

When he found her again, it would be better. He would be better. He'd never been whole before. He'd come to her with most his fucking pieces missing—all the important ones. The ones on the inside. She hadn't cared. She'd put her pieces in their places. Tried to make him whole. She wouldn't miss his hand. He would learn to use the other so she didn't miss it.

Use the other. For lighting the gas stove. For burning the metal. For searing the flesh. It was hot. Hotter than his brain. Hotter than his throat—raw and dry. He was so fucking thirsty. It burned him away to ash.

The fire axe was heavier than anything he'd ever carried before. It weighed as much as a person. His feet were heavy. His head was heavy. He was thankful that his brain was light. It was the lightest thing about him. He could feel it swimming around in his head when he turned—moved in any direction.

He wasn't baking on the roof, but he was still baking. Inside he was baking. Bubbling. Boiling. He could feel the baking. The burning. The ground beneath his feet burned. The air around him was hot and heavy.

He'd never seen this place before. He'd never been here before. He was sure of it. He didn't know where he was, and he couldn't quite remember how he'd gotten there.

Daryl was somewhere. He was in trouble. He was just a kid and sometimes he got into trouble. He did stupid things because he was a kid. He needed Merle to dust his ass off. He needed Merle to patch the boo boos that were never so bad if they were covered, where he couldn't see them. His arm was wrapped with the cloth so he couldn't see it. The missing hand—he'd never been fucking whole any way. He'd always been broken. He could see it now—blood soaked through the cloth. The burn—where he'd burned himself away before they could; before anything could. Daryl was lost. Merle couldn't find him. He'd gotten lost before. Gone for days. He was always OK. He could survive. At least he knew that now. At least Merle knew that. He was always angry at Merle because he'd cried for him, but Merle hadn't found him—couldn't find him because they'd locked him away. They'd sentenced him to be shut away to protect—who? The world? Protect the world from Merle, and Daryl had been lost with nobody to find him.

It was Merle that was lost. He'd never been here before. It was hell. He'd finally made it. The whole world had told him that's where he'd be one day and he was there now. He walked through hell—wandered through it. It wasn't a very nice place, but hell wasn't supposed to be, was it? The axe was heavy. It was the heaviest axe that Merle had ever felt. Maybe that was his punishment for every damn thing he'd done wrong in life. He used the axe, though, to cut his way through the fiends that were sent his way. Some damn where, at the end of this labyrinth he'd find the devil himself.

The devil couldn't have him. He'd fight him, too. Kill him. Bury him face down like the asshole that broke that poor little woman—shattered her so she couldn't ever be whole. Bury him like the asshole that had sent Merle here to hell. Where did the devil dig when he was face down in a hole in hell?

"Andrea!" Merle cried out. Her name burned in his throat like hot ash. The sound of her name made him sad. It made his heart heavy—the heaviest thing about him. "Andrea!" She was lost. She'd been right there. She was afraid. Scared of hell, maybe. He'd brought her here. She was an angel—she'd never been meant for hell, but he'd dragged her down with him. Told her not to be afraid, but she was lost now. Maybe she'd been afraid of the fiends that were going to tear his flesh off—her flesh. He could handle the axe, though, no matter how fucking heavy it was. He could cut them away. It didn't matter if he stumbled over them because he'd cut them down and he could get back up.

He was good at stumbling and getting back up. He'd spent most of his life doing it.

But she was always with him. And now he'd lost her. She was afraid, and he'd been holding her hand. He was fucking sure of it. He'd been holding her hand. When he closed his eyes—it felt so good to close his eyes—he could see her. She could still smile at him, even though he'd hurt her. He was sorry. She said she hated the drugs—all of them—because they would take him away. He'd lost her, somewhere. Strange, because he could still feel her hand in his. He could feel her fingers. She squeezed his hand back.

He'd been holding her hand to keep her safe, but the hand was gone and she was gone with it.

"Andrea!" He called out. His voice barked. She wouldn't recognize her own name. He was so damn thirsty and the ground baked him from his feet up while the sky baked him from his head down.

He had to find her. He promised never to let go of her. He'd cut off his hand, though, and he'd cut her loose. But he had another hand—and he'd let go of the axe. If that's what he had to do, he'd let go of the axe to hold her hand.

Maybe she was in there—that building. That one right there. It was dark and cool—he was sure. The fiends might not come in there. She might be waiting for him there. She'd be afraid, but he would say he was sorry. He was sorry. He would never touch the drugs again—not if she would put her hand in his and make him feel whole again. It was dark, and cool.

He was surprised when the ground hit his face like it did, and suddenly he wasn't up anymore. It was too hard to get up alone. It had always been too hard to get up alone. He didn't want to need a fucking soul to help him, but he always had, and he hated that. He hated that it was too damn hard to get up, and so he just stayed down until they came to help him.

At least it was cool. It was cooler than before. He closed his eyes. His mind was swimming, but at least it was quiet.

Until it wasn't quiet. They were there. They were talking. He could hear them, but he couldn't understand them. He couldn't reach them. They were there, but not where he was.

"Andrea," he said, to get her attention. To call her to him. To remind her that he needed help and any minute now she'd be dragging him into her car with their help—someone he didn't know. He could hear them talking. Merle smiled to himself. Any minute now she'd be scolding him. Driving him home. Telling him she hated the drugs because they would take him away, but she loved him. "I love you."

"I hardly know you."

Who was it? They were helping him. He was moving. Rocking. Swaying. Being carried. They were carrying him to the car. He'd fallen down again. She was close. He could smell her.

"Andrea…" He opened his eyes. Remembered he was in hell. That was the last place he'd been. He started, doing his best to rise—wondering where he was when they moved him inside of something. An ambulance? A van?

"Be still," a man said, pushing down on Merle's chest. "We'll get you some help."

Nobody had ever been able to help him—not enough. If they had, he never would have gotten all the way to hell. He would go back—all the way to the morning when she made love to him before the sun came up. He would throw the packet away when he found it in his pocket—he knew, now, that he didn't need it, not like he needed her. He never would have met his judge, and he never would have burned away to nothing.

He would have been there to find Daryl, and he never would have lost Andrea down in hell.

"Andrea," Merle said.

"What about Andrea?" The man asked.

"Lost," Merle said. "I lost her—in hell. Gotta let me go. Find her."

The man patted his chest. He put something over Merle's face. A mask? A rag? Merle couldn't breathe like he had before. He started to panic. He jerked against it.

"It's OK," the man said. "We got her. She's here."

Merle smiled to himself. Accepted that he couldn't breathe and floated into it. He didn't have to fight anymore. As soon as he closed his eyes, he saw her there—smiling at him. And he didn't care, really, whether it meant living or dying, because he was going with her.

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AN: I know that some of you had some ideas about how you wanted this story to go. I'm sorry, but I have to write what I intended it to be. Otherwise, I'll just want to write *another* story that will be the version I wanted in the first place. I apologize if that wrecks things for you.

I will let you know that in my story "Patchwork," there's no handcuffing of Merle to the roof, so you might enjoy that. It's an entirely different take on things.

Again, I apologize to those of you who are disappointed, but I have to go where I intended to go with things.