and that's what tortures me

Beth could feel the summer breeze on her skin. It was the middle of May and the weather in Georgia was beautiful. The sky was blue and cloudless and sunlight poured into the old barn through all the slats and spaces. The familiar sounds of the farm drifted in from all around her.

The big, barn door was open just a crack, and Otis was standing directly in front of it, watching for anyone unwelcome who might try to enter the barn. He was a big, burly man, solid but soft at the same time. Beth had known him and his wife for nearly her entire life, he was the same as family. His eyes watched the scene before him, emotionless and dark.

Beth stood just a few feet away from him, watching the same scene from a safe distance. The energy in the barn was high – everyone was anxious, angry, vengeful. It pulsed through the air like electricity. Beth felt sick. But she couldn't look away – wasn't allowed to look away. She had to see this. Needed to see it. Had to know what it would feel like.

Her daddy's eyes were wild and full of tears, but ablaze with anger. His beard was messy and ungroomed, his clothes stained with dirt and God knows what. All Beth could see when she looked at him was the absence of her momma. Now more than ever: he had a man, no older than twenty-five, lying face-down on the barn floor, hay and dirt sticking to his tear-streaked face as he cried for mercy. Her daddy was screaming at him, slapping him, holding a very large knife to the man's neck.

Her daddy was ruthless. He was merciless. He didn't flinch for a second. He was the unbound, untamed, dangerous version of himself that Beth had never seen until her momma and Shawn died. Now he was unstoppable.

Not even Glenn could stop him. Beth stared as her brother-in-law held the young man down on the ground, knee in his back, gripping the man's arms so tight that they were turning red. He was putting all his body weight into the man's back, assuring that he couldn't get up, couldn't move away. Not even when Hershel grabbed his left arm and held the knife against it.

Glenn's face seemed blank, mostly focused on holding the man to the ground. Beth searched his eyes for some sort of clue, but he didn't look happy. He didn't look angry. He didn't look sad. He didn't look like anything. He just looked like he was doing his job, or doing something that he knew had to be done.

Otis's wife, Patricia, was standing on the other side of the barn, in front of the other door, watching from afar. But even from this distance, Beth could see her looking away and gazing at the ground instead.

Maggie stood just feet behind Glenn. She was silent. She stared, just like Beth was. This comforted Beth in a way, but not enough to matter. She knew they had reached another level that they could never escape from.

Standing mere feet away from the blade being held against the young man's hand was Beth's cousin, Arnold. He was no older than the man on the ground. His face looked pale as he watched what was happening, seemingly just as frozen as Beth and Maggie.

Beth knew that the young man's name was Randall. But she only knew this because her daddy had screamed it about twenty times by now.

Randall looked scared. No – terrified. Beth watched him, saw how he struggled beneath Glenn, how he looked around him for help from time to time, his eyes pleading with Arnold. He begged Hershel to understand, apologized profusely until his blood, tears, and spit were making a pool on the ground beneath him. But Hershel kept screaming, his voice booming through the barn and shaking Beth to her very core.

"Randall, you took from me something that you will never understand – something you will never HAVE, boy!" His voice was righteous, angry, confident, and terrified all at the same time. His grip tightened on Randall's arm, and his hand swung the large, sharp knife around wildly and with intent. "This isn't about business anymore! This isn't about your precious dope or your precious dollars! My family is BROKEN because of you! My poor Annette, my boy, Shawn – my girls lost their mother! Their only brother! Do you have any IDEA - ?!""

Beth could swear she could see the literal fire inside her father's eyes. He was a madman let loose. He was a widower taking vengeance for his wife's stolen life. He took a deep breath and lowered his voice, despite the fact that Randall continued to beg and plead and squirm before him.

"Please, please, I-I'm sorry, he told me to – "

Randall's weak, fearful voice made no difference to Hershel. The old man leaned down closer to his hostage, voice low and deep yet echoing at the same time. He spoke with finality and justification. His words held a million possibilities – all of them ending badly for Randall.

"Randall, I don't care who told you to do what," Hershel said, eyes staring down at the young man with condemnation. "You've crossed the wrong man. You think you've seen my wrath? You ain't seen nothing."

In a way that Beth didn't want to admit, this felt justified. She'd watched her daddy for the last month, grieving and raging and obsessing over finding the person who was responsible for killing his wife and son. And now he'd found him. The police may never bring the killers to justice, but he could.

Or at least, one of them. There was still another man out there, the one who'd actually done the stabbing. Beth knew what he looked like. She'd never forget it, no matter how much time passed. But he was keeping himself hidden well. He was a coward – someone who snuck into a home at night to murder under the guise of darkness and then ran away from the consequences.

Beth also remembered Randall. Maybe that was why she didn't find herself feeling too bad for him as she watched him get his face pressed into the dirty ground once more. She had watched him shove her mother to the ground. Watched him direct his friend to turn the knife on her once he was finished with Shawn. She'd seen the malicious glint in his eye as he helped murder half her family.

Maybe that was why she didn't even flinch when her daddy finally sliced his skin wide open with the sharp, shiny blade. Nor did she turn away or close her eyes as the blade cut deeper and deeper, and Randall's screams got louder and louder.

But her daddy's voice stayed the same level, the same calmness, even as he sliced through muscles and tendons and spoke over the screaming, "You think this is bad, Randall? You have yet to see the wrath of God… And I pray I'm there the day that you do."

The screams became bloodcurdling, bouncing off the barn walls. But the noise didn't bother her. The only sound that made her wince was when the blade reached bone. She didn't blink as she watched her father dig in deeper, putting his weight into cutting through the hard bone. It felt like an eternity had passed before he got through the whole thing.

The screams stopped before the flesh had disconnected – Randall passed out, his body going limp beneath Glenn's clutch. Randall's left hand made a fleshy 'thump' when it hit the ground. Her daddy's hand was still gripping the stump of an arm. Blood seeped from the wound, pooling on the barn floor and spreading outwards. The blood-soaked knife was shaking in Hershel's other hand.

"Daddy…"

Maggie's voice was nothing more than a whisper, but it was louder than the screams had been in Beth's ears. She looked over at her sister to see the blank expression on Maggie's face as she stared at their father. Glenn had let go of Randall, letting his body fall to rest on the floor, an unconscious heap. He didn't look up, didn't move, just stood there over the bleeding body. No one seemed to be looking at Beth or Maggie or Glenn. They all stared at Hershel. At the pool of blood that was slowly growing on the barn floor. At the stump of an arm that was either the end of something big or the beginning of something much, much bigger – and worse.

Hershel raised his head and looked at his daughters: first Maggie, then Beth. He looked down at Randall, sighing. He looked back up, staring ahead at Maggie. His face glistened with sweat and tears.

His voice was quiet and soft again, a bit hoarse, but he sounded both terrified and confident when he said, "What I wouldn't do to keep you two safe."

The police never did figure out what happened to Randall. Neither did Beth. She knew her father didn't kill him, but someone probably did. Personally, she never saw him again after that day in the barn. Nor did she want to.

Beth's eyes flew open and she gasped for air, the reality of being awake taking a couple of seconds to settle in. Her chest was tight and her throat was sore. She'd been jolted awake by something in a dream, but as soon as she remembered where she was, she had forgotten the dream entirely. She didn't understand why she was so breathless – had she been holding her breath in her sleep? Maybe it had been a dream about drowning. She felt like she'd been held underwater for a solid minute, and her face was wet enough to match. The tears and sweat from just a couple of hours ago had finally dried, but there were fresh tears on her face that had been pouring out while she slept. She must've been crying while she dreamt, although she couldn't explain why. She wiped her face dry with the comforter and threw it off of her body, letting the cool air hit her bare skin. Her hands slid beneath her pillow to assure that the gun and pocket watch were still in their normal spots.

As she blinked away the sleep, she realized her eyes were burning and beginning to water even more. She blinked rapidly, rubbing at her eyes. It took a moment for her to remember that she'd gone to bed with the contacts still in – she'd already forgotten about them. Now they hurt like hell. She'd have to get to the bathroom and get them out, but she needed to put on clothes first.

The bedroom was just as dark and silent as it had been when she'd finally drifted off. She didn't know how many hours she had laid here, but she'd only been asleep for a short time. She glanced over at the alarm clock to see a blurry 3:44 displayed. She reached over and turned on the lamp that sat on the nightstand, then crawled out of bed and went to her bag, which still sat on the dresser. She dug around inside and pulled out the eye drops and all the clothes she'd bought, picking out a pair of gray lounging pants and a baggy, white T-shirt. She pulled open the top drawer of the dresser and tossed in the rest of the clothes, blinking away tears the whole time.

She threw on the pants and shirt and ventured out into the hallway with eye drops in hand, finding the rest of the apartment nearly as dark as her bedroom. She was grateful that the bathroom was mere feet away from her door as she tiptoed across the carpet, glancing at the closed bedroom door at the end of the hall. She got inside the bathroom and shut the door quietly, switching on the light.

Standing in front of the sink and trying to squint through tears to see in the mirror, Beth struggled to remove the contacts from her eyes. When she finally did, she found immediate relief. Her eyes still burned a little, but it was beginning to go away. She tossed the contacts into the small trash can on the floor, then squirted a few eye drops into her bloodshot eyes. She blinked away the excess and let it run down her cheeks before turning on the tap. She leaned over the sink and splashed cool water onto her face, the sensation sending relief through her body. For a moment, she stood in place, face dripping with water over the sink as she stared down at her upturned wrists.

There was a faint, white line on her left wrist. It had healed well, but it was still there, and sometimes she thought she could feel it aching. But it was probably just her imagination. It was always there. A reminder from over a year ago - before she'd even lost her mother. She wanted to laugh at herself for even contemplating suicide back then, when things weren't nearly as bad as they would get. It was getting fainter and lighter with each passing month, but it still mocked her. She tried to use it as motivation to never let herself get that weak again. She told herself she survived, she made it, and now, she escaped. It all had to be worth something in the end.

She patted her face dry with the guest towel and opened the door, moving to step outside and turn off the light behind her. But she was stopped in her tracks by Daryl, who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. Beth yelped, calming when she realized who it was.

"Oh – sorry," she whispered, seeing the groggy look on Daryl's face and immediately feeling bad.

He shook his head, waving her away and stepping past her to get into the bathroom. She took a hint and left, closing the door behind her but leaving the light on. She wanted to run back to her room and hide, but she was really thirsty and had planned on visiting the kitchen before attempting to go back to bed. She glanced in the direction of Daryl and Malachi's bedroom again, seeing that it was still dark and the door was still closed. It was so quiet in the apartment that she could hear Daryl peeing a lot inside the bathroom. She tried to ignore it as she wandered into the kitchen.

There was a dim nightlight on above the stove that gave just enough light in the kitchen that Beth could find her way around to get a glass of water. She took a long, refreshing gulp, then began her way back to the bedroom. But Daryl appeared again, exiting the bathroom and walking in her direction. She wondered why he wasn't going back to bed, but then she figured he must be thirsty, too, so she planned on remaining silent. Surprisingly, he stopped and spoke to her.

"Can't sleep?" He asked, voice hoarse from sleep.

She gripped the glass tightly in her hands. "Yeah."

He nodded, then gestured to the glass of water, "Want somethin' that'll help ya sleep?"

She was about to agree but then she realized he meant alcohol and she shook her head, "No, thanks. I don't drink."

"Me neither," he explained. "Not since I had the kid. But a glass every now an' then helps me sleep when I really can't."

Beth was about to refuse again, but then she stopped herself. How many more hours would she spend lying in bed, staring at the ceiling when she could actually be sleeping? And she also remembered that Beth didn't drink… but did Rosie? She hadn't even considered it. But it was just a glass, and maybe it really would help her sleep - for longer than two hours.

"I just wanna sleep without dreams," she blurted, looking at him for an answer. She wasn't trying to confide in someone about the nightmares that jolted her awake every few hours, she just wanted to know if a glass or two of booze would give her some peaceful sleep for once.

He nodded as if it were the most logical and obvious explanation. "Well, yeah. That's the point, ain't it?"

Beth furrowed her brow as Daryl passed her and stepped into the kitchen to open a cabinet above the fridge. She wondered if he had bad dreams, too. He pulled down a glass bottle with a dark label that held what looked like whiskey, then two tumblers. He poured no more than two fingertips' worth into each glass before returning the bottle to its spot in the cabinet. He turned and handed Beth one of the glasses, exchanging it for her glass of water, which she set on the counter.

She looked at the liquid tentatively, its strong aroma drifting up from the glass and filling her nostrils. It was definitely whiskey. Daryl was already taking a sip. The only light in the kitchen was from above the stove, but it was enough for her to see his every movement as he stood barefoot before her, wearing pajama pants and an old T-shirt. He swallowed his sip and watched her expectantly. She hesitated for another second, lifting the glass to her lips and finding the smell even stronger up close. She held her breath and took a slow sip, pushing it down her throat and trying not to exhale again until after it had passed. When she did, she found that it was smoother than she'd expected. She could almost feel it spreading outwards from inside her center, sending warm prickles all over her body.

"Ya hate it," Daryl said, a small smirk on his lips as he watched her.

She hadn't realized how visibly she'd been wincing the whole time as she took the sip, but it slowly faded. She gave him a weak smile. "It's actually not as bad as I expected. But it's definitely an acquired taste."

The older man furrowed his brow a bit, his voice low and still peppered with sleepiness, "Ain't ya ever drank before?"

She shrugged, trying to seem casual, "Well, I've had sips here and there. But never really had like, a shot or a whole drink or anythin'. My daddy was a – uh, he had a drinking problem before I came around, so he kinda swore off the stuff and told us lots of horror stories to keep us away from it."

Daryl nodded in understanding, "Ain't gotta explain to me, it's yer own choice. I, uh… Sorry for what the kid asked earlier. He can be pretty nosey. Ya know, kids and their curiosity. You can just ignore him when he asks stuff like that, ain't no big deal."

Beth felt her face heat up just the slightest bit and she looked back at her glass, taking another sip as he spoke just so she wouldn't have to make eye contact with him. "No worries. He passed away, there's not much more to say. I just didn't wanna be the one to explain the concept of death to him."

Daryl let out a grunt that was more like a half-chuckle. "Nah, he knows about death. I had to explain to him about his mom. Took him a little while, but he gets it now."

She couldn't help but look back into his eyes at that statement, trying not to let the surprise show on her face. "Your ex? The one you said… you put all her stuff in my room…?"

He nodded, his eyes darting to the closed door of Beth's bedroom for a split-second, "Yeah. It's just her stuff. Didn't wanna throw it into storage, it's still in good condition."

Beth's face must've been exposing her inner thoughts because he quickly added, "She didn't die in there or nothin'. Don't worry, it ain't a deathbed."

She was relieved but tried to act like she didn't know what he was talking about, "No, no, I know. I just… yeah, I knew that."

He shook his head and took another sip of whiskey. She did the same, standing in awkward silence for a moment. While looking downwards, she realized the white T-shirt she'd chosen to put on for a simple trip to the bathroom was actually made of very sheer fabric, and she wasn't wearing a bra. She tried to cross her arms over her chest casually without drawing his attention, taking another sip from her glass in an attempt to cover the movement.

"How long's it been?" He asked, seemingly out of nowhere.

She looked at him questioningly. "Since what?"

"Since yer dad died," he clarified.

"Oh," she said, grabbing at a quick lie. "Um, about four years."

He nodded, "Mine's been gone a while, too. 'Cept I don't miss him. He was a piece of shit. Yer daddy was probably a good man, though."

She nodded, looking away from his intent gaze. He was suddenly making her uncomfortable, and she wasn't sure how much more she should say without putting herself in jeopardy. But she had to have some sort of backstory for herself, or else he'd wonder why she had an inheritance but never mentioned the family who left it to her. Now it was just a case of deciding what would be the best lies to tell him without getting too terribly close to the truth.

"He was," she said softly, still gazing blankly at a spot on the counter behind Daryl.

"Yer mom?" He asked, voice softer as he watched her reactions.

She blinked and looked at him once more, putting on an indifferent expression but feeling her insides twisting as she spoke, "She passed last year. I uh, my brothers took care of me till I was eighteen."

He nodded, but it was sympathetically, "'Least ya had good brothers. Lost my mom when I was younger. House fire. My brother wasn't the best role model growin' up."

She was relieved to hear this, realizing that he was trying to relate to her. Maybe he could see that she had more going on than he had originally assumed and was getting curious about the girl he allowed to live in his apartment. But did that mean he was getting suspicious? Should she go back to her room and start mapping out an entire backstory to memorize and recite to him so he wouldn't start catching on to her ruse? She took another sip of the whiskey, silently pleading with the dark liquid to take away all her worries and give her some rest.

"Did yer eyes change color?"

The question was completely out of nowhere and caught Beth by surprise. She furrowed her brow and looked at Daryl for a second, then noticed he was studying her eyes closely, squinting his own to try to get a better look.

"What?" She blinked repeatedly, then looked down at her glass and tried to play it off. "No, it's probably the-the lighting in here. It's pretty dark."

He shook his head. "Nah, I swear they were brown and now they're blue. Is that normal?"

She shrugged, taking another sip as her stomach tightened and she racked her brain for some sort of believable lie or cover-up. "Well I hope so. Maybe you should get your vision checked."

He scoffed and drained the last of his whiskey from the glass, setting it on the counter next to the sink and moving to leave the kitchen. "Yeah, maybe. I'm headin' back to bed. Hope that helps ya sleep."

She nodded at him but didn't make eye contact again, letting him slip past her to walk down the hallway and back to his bedroom. She gripped the small glass in her hand, listening for the sound of his door closing before she finished the last sip. She set her own empty glass next to his on the counter and went back to her bedroom, shutting the door tightly and returning to the lighting of the bedside lamp. She let out a sigh, as if she'd been holding her breath during her entire encounter with Daryl. She was a mess, inside and out. Every time he asked a question that she didn't expect or that was just a little too personal, she had to race to find an answer, and then she had to worry about sounding and appearing convincing. How long could she keep this up? How many lies could she remember while she stayed here?

Then again, it was a small price to pay for her own freedom. And probably her own survival, too.

She looked around the room for a moment, paranoia racing through her once again. The whiskey had left her feeling slightly light-headed, and she wondered if this was what it meant to be "buzzed." Her eyes stopped at the light that hung from the ceiling – a bulb protected by a white square of glass. She immediately looked around for something to help her reach that high. She spotted the chair that sat at the desk and went to get it, pulling it to the center of the room and steadying it just below the light.

She stepped carefully up onto the chair, balancing herself and trying to steady the chair to assure that its wheels wouldn't move on the carpet as she stood up. She straightened herself and stretched out to make herself as long as possible, reaching her hands up to the light and running her fingertips all along the edges. She prodded the corners, feeling and searching for any sort of hidden camera or recording device. But all she found was dust and the lightbulb.

She climbed down from the chair and breathed a sigh of relief, then pushed the chair to the wall, in the corner nearest the door and the bed. She stood up on it again, running her fingers along the top of the wall, where it met the ceiling. She searched for pinholes or wires, moving the chair along each wall of the room as she searched every edge, every corner. It took her at least thirty minutes, but when she had finally searched every surface of the wall and every nook and cranny of the room – including every inch of the nightstand, dresser, and bed – she stopped and sat down on the bed. Her heart was still beating erratically, and she knew that she was acting like a methed out freak right now. She'd watched Jimmy do this exact same thing a time or two before they broke up. She had thought he was so insane and out of his mind, but now here she was, doing the same.

Except she had good reason to believe people were after her, because they actually were. Jimmy was on drugs and overly paranoid for no reason – in fact, if it weren't for him, Beth wondered if her family would even be in this situation to begin with. But she didn't have the time or the energy to go back to thinking about that again.

She stared at her bag, sitting unmoving atop the dresser as it had been all night. She still had no idea how much money, exactly, Maggie had given her. Nor had she dared to look through the heirlooms that had ended up in her possession. She was trying to calm down, should she really be thinking about going through her bag full of the past?

She shook her head and looked away. Reaching over to turn off the light, she sighed and lay back on the bed, leaving the comforter where she'd left it on the other side. She turned away and faced the bedroom, back turned to her phone that was lying somewhere beneath the comforter. Her hand slipped underneath the pillow and gripped the pocket watch, feeling it ticking in her palm. It was only 4:39.

Beth stared at the green numbers on the alarm clock, watching the minutes slowly change. Her head swam from the whiskey and the paranoia. She didn't really notice when the numbers started to get blurry or when her eyelids started getting too heavy to hold up. This time, the dreams didn't wake her.

to be continued…