Disclaimer: I don't own TWD.

There is always more suffering
But only one death
Only death
And what does that even mean
When you've been killed so many times before
- Amaris Diaz "Shrapnel"

Blurs of words and images surrounded Daryl as his head twisted around, searching for something, anything, that made sense. The only image that came in clearly was the image inside of that locket and it painted every surface that he tried to focus on. His hands splayed out and he reached around him to try to get his bearings. His world was spinning and he flipped his body to the side and felt hard metal pressing to his side. "Merle..." Daryl finally choked out his brother's name, calling for him to try to figure out where he was. Just saying the name took his breath away completely and left him gasping for breath again.

It was cold. That was the sensation that came back first. And dark. Cold and dark and he was looking at stars. Outside? Daryl shifted to heave himself up, his hands roaming along the surface around him to try to get back a semblance of familiarity. His truck. He was in the back of his truck? Daryl frowned deeply as the world slowly began to shift into focus and he realized he was parked outside of their trailer, his clothes were sticking to him, his entire body was sore, and he wasn't entirely certain how long it had been that he had been curled up in his truck bed, but he knew that he was going to hear about it when he made his way back inside. He was a murderer. A useless waste of space. Daryl had been put on this earth to be the devil's favorite plaything. Daryl had never done a good thing in his life, but maybe he could now. Maybe he could bring this woman some peace. Maybe Carol Peletier could help him find his tiny piece of redemption before he died.

Carol. Shit.

"Merle!" Daryl's voice was hoarse as he finally got up the strength to climb out from the back of the truck, practically running to the front door of the trailer, ripping it open and frantically looking around. Merle's chair. The couch. Merle's bedroom. The bathroom. Daryl even checked his bedroom, but he didn't see Merle anywhere. His breathing was ragged and his entire body was shaking as he ran back outside. "Merle!" Desperate and terrified as his gaze darted to the small building that Merle had built as a makeshift garage for the Triumph and he ran to it, pushing open the door and then kicking it roughly as he was greeted with nothing but the tarp that usually covered the bike to protect it from any weather that might leak into the bike's sanctuary. Merle's baby. "Shit!"

Daryl needed to do better. Daryl had to be better than the weak person who collapsed into panic attacks and fell victims to memories at the sight of a trigger. He couldn't have triggers, not around Merle. He needed something else to focus on if he hoped to help her without killing her in the process.

If he hadn't already killed her.

Carol couldn't breathe, her hands running through her hair, grasping it tightly between the gaps in her fingers and giving a firm and strong tug on both hands, tears springing to her eyes quickly as the cold air stung her lungs with each desperate gulp that she took in, her entire body was shaking and trembling as she slumped against the side of the house, the world completely silent around her. Far too silent. Her left heel dug deep into the ground and pushed out forward, pressing her back tightly back into the outer wall of the house, feeling the outline of the sliding pressing a hard line into her back, leaving a pattern behind.

Merle Dixon was a liar. He was protecting his brother. He was lying and that was all there was to it. Merle was lying. He had to be lying because he had to be. Because there was no other option that made sense. Nothing other than the fact that Daryl's only sin was that he sold in the first place. He sold without taking precautions. Precautions that he was too young and nieve and desperate to get his family back to realize even needed to be considered or taken.

"It's my fault. You know that."

"Shut up." Carol's voice trembled as she watched the puff of air drifting in front of her face as the words left her body. She couldn't do this now. She wouldn't do this. Now or ever. Michonne was a woman in love and a mother in grief and her best friend and she could not accept the idea that there was fault to leave on her shoulders at all. Carol had failed her. It was Carol's job to convince her that Mike wasn't going to get better and grow up the way that Michonne always said she was waiting for. It was Carol's job to tell Michonne that it only ever gets worse - not better. It was Carol's job to protect them and she would not allow her mind to entertain the idea of any other possibility than that.

Her hand fell to her neck, remembering the warmth of Merle's pocketknife pressed against her throat. His thumb centered on the hollow of her throat. How frail and breakable she felt in his arms. She imagined his hand clenching down on her throat - crushing her windpipe. She imagined the blade slicing across her throat, cutting deep and quick. She imagined all of the things that the man could have done to her. Should have done. It could be so quick and easy and it wouldn't be suicide. It wouldn't be a sin. So easy. She could stop suffering. It could end.

Carol's feel lifted her up and took her into the house as if on autopilot. The television was still on and Ed was snoring from the living room as Carol moved about the kitchen, finding all of the ingredients she needed to start making the last meal she would ever cook, her mind dancing with ideas of ways that she could wake him. Things she could do to incite his rage and push him over the edge. No, it wouldn't be hard. Carol had spent the past five years of her life learning her husband's triggers to try to stay alive. If she flipped enough of them now she could set him off enough to finally die.

She set the oven temperature too high, she tracked the snow and mud into the house, she left her jacket on the floor. She walked around to each picture she had put on the wall and took them down to lay out on the table where he would undoubtedly notice them. She opened every beer left in the house and turned them upside-down in the sink.

The smell of meatloaf filled the air as she stepped into the doorway of the living room again, crossing over to reach down and shake Ed's shoulder. "Ed. Baby... wake up."