This chapter starts with a nightmare of Carol about a beating she received from Ed and continues with her and Daryl's reaction to it. If descriptions of domestic violence or the reactions to it trigger you, please stay away from this chapter - it is not essential to understanding the plot but only illustrates the deepening bond between Carol and Daryl.

She was standing at the chopping board, cutting up onions for dinner. The pan and two pots were already sitting on the stove, waiting for her to actually start cooking. As the meal would be done very quickly once she did get started, however, she wanted everything ready so all she'd have to do was reach for bowls with ingredients already measured out and prepared.

Sophia, who had recently started first grade, was doing her homework in the living room. When she tilted her head to the side Carol could see her daughter sitting at the dinner table, her tousled head bent down over her spelling book. „How are you coming along, sweetie?" she called out to her. „I will be finished here in about ten minutes, I could listen to you reading then before starting dinner, would that be okay?"

Sophia's head came up as she smiled at her mother. Carol's heart clenched painfully in her chest. Her life was by no means easy. There were days and nights when Ed made it hell. Her ribs and her thigh were hurting even now from when he had thrown her to the floor in their bedroom two days before. Despite the day's heat, her sleeves and long pants were hiding the bruises from this latest assault. Sometimes she despaired over her daughter having to witness the darkest sides of human nature in her father and despised herself for not being stronger, not being able to end this, not being able to leave and deliver her child from this unending nightmare.

But the expression on Sophia's face as she looked at her now made it all worth it. Sophia's eyes were shining with gratitude, and there was a smile on her face. „Yes mommy, thank you! Will you make cookies?" The little pout that accompanied this request made it impossible for her to resist it.

Holding the knife under the tap, she ran cold water to clean it, then deftly dried it off and put it away again. It was her best knife, and she never put it in the dishwasher. Wiping her hands on her apron, she stepped into the open arch between the living room and the kitchen. „If we're both fast enough, I might have the time to get them into the oven before dinner is ready", she suggested with a smile. „Chocolate?"

„Mommy, you're the best!" Sophia beamed at her.

They both heard a car's engine approaching, but didn't think anything of it. Ed would still be working for half an hour before setting out for home. It couldn't be him. They still had some time left to themselves. Some time for quiet, and laughter, and closeness.

The engine was switched off in front of their house. They heard the car door opening and closing, heard the footsteps approaching the front door. The key being inserted into and turned inside the lock filled them both with cold dread. The door opened.

Ed was home.

Sophia looked on in shock as her mother's face turned into a grimace of horror, as a self-assured woman turned into a frightened nothing with tears in her eyes. Her lips started trembling as she watched Carol whirl back into the kitchen. Ed being home before his dinner was ready was very bad news, and they both knew it.

„Woman!" Ed's angry voice rang out from the hallway. „Where you at? Is dinner ready? i'll go out with the boys, I need to eat early!"

Never in her wildest dreams would Carol have dared to suggest to her husband that he should call ahead and make sure she knew about his plans instead of showing up unannounced an hour early, expecting his meal to be waiting for him. There were things you didn't say to Ed. Not saying them wouldn't spare you. Saying them might get you killed.

„Ed, I'm so sorry", Carol began, but he never let her finish. Entering the kitchen in three long strides, throwing the door open with such force that it banged into the wall and left a dent in it, he stalked up to her and slapped her face with his open hand, first left, then right. Towering over her, he took in the things she had already lined up for cooking - the onions, the peeled tomatoes, the glasses of herbs.

Grabbing the thyme glass, he threw it at her, hitting her shoulder with it. The glass crashed to the ground, shattering on the tiles. Dimly, as if from another world, she heard Sophia scrabbling off the dinner table bench and through the living room door, into the hallway and toward the staircase. She had seen scenes like this far too often and did not want to witness another one.

Ed swiped the drained and cubed canned tomatoes off the counter and the sound of the bowl breaking made Carol flinch. The kitchen floor had become a nightmare of slippery tomatoe cubes and glass shards. Ed then grabbed her by the shoulder, yanked her about so she was facing her chopped onions and shoved her into the countertop. She stifled the cry of pain on her lips even as her eyes started streaming with tears - not crying yet, but simply tears of pain and fear. Cowering away from him, she raised her hands to protect her head.

Towering over her, he reached out, grabbed her apron and blouse, and pulled her upright again, the fabric bunched in his fist. His face was brick red and his lips were shiny with spit. He was completely out of of control. „I work hard every day", he started screaming into her terrified face, making her flinch again, „to put bread on your table, you fucking lazy bitch." He pushed her back against the countertop again, letting go of her blouse and apron, but followed her with two quick steps.

She tried to turn away and get to the arch between the kitchen and the living room as he was blocking her way to the kitchen door. But he had her by the shoulder again in no time and pushed her into the side of the arch - solid brick that she hit with her entire right side. „Is it too much to ask that my dinner be ready when I come home after work?"

She could feel blood running down her face from her nose and her split lips. Her whole body was aching from being thrown around and punched. She had lost one of her shoes in the scuffle and stepped into the glass shards on the floor. Looking down, she saw her own bloody footprints, emerging from the sea of tomatoes and tomato juice and highlighted by large splotches of blood from her nose.

Ed was coming for her again. He reached out with both hands and sent her reeling into two of the chairs at the dinner table. She managed to grab hold of one of them to keep herself from falling to the floor. As she knew from experience that he would not refrain from kicking her if she went all the way down, she wanted to stay on her feet as long as possible.

Looking up from her bruised hands clenched into the upholstery of the chair she had grabbed to steady herself, she saw Ed's fist coming at her, blocking out the light.

.-.

Carol screamed, raising her hands defensively, sitting up in bed. Her nightgown was soaked with sweat, her sheets were wrapped around her in a snarl, and her face was wet with tears. She felt her heart racing and the blood pounding in her head. She was trembling so badly that it took her a full five minutes to get disentangled from her sheets so she could flee her bed.

By the time she had made it to her kitchen sink to get herself a glass of water, her face had frozen into a mask. She could feel the salt of her tears itching on her cheeks as she drank, and her wet, clinging nightgown was getting uncomfortably cold. Drawing a ragged breath, she looked down at herself, expecting to see the brusing from her dream, the blood she'd wiped from her nose, the bunched clothing. All the evidence of the last beating he had given her before gettiing himself arrested over a drunken bar fight just one week later, which had given her the courage to take Sophia and run.

Relief wouldn't set in when she saw none of it. She set her glass down with trembling hands and slowly made her way to the bathroom on unsteady feet. After closing the door behind herself, she started taking off her nightgown. By now, she was crying soundlessly, the tears running down her face, adding new salt to the old. Dropping her nightgown to the floor, she stepped into the shower and turned on the water, setting the temperature as high as it would go. At first, she just stood there, letting it run down over her hair, her salt-caked face, her trembling body, and imagined the hot water washing away her fear and terror and sadness.

After five minutes, she drew in a loud, shuddering breath and started sobbing. As the water began to turn cold, she turned it off, then hugged herself, her fingertips digging into her hot, red skin until they were white, and sank to the ground, head bowed, as wrenching sobs shook her.

It was all back again, as if it had never been gone, as if she had never left: That feeling of helplessness, of uselessness, of worthlessness. That feeling of not being a good mother, only it was a hundred times worse now - not only had she not been able to spare her daughter the things she'd had to see, now she had abandoned her on top of that, for what now seemed to be selfish reasons.

She remained in her shower, her teeth chattering with cold, until she couldn't feel her legs any longer that were folded under her. Once she did come out, she unthinkingly picked up her nightgown and took it to her bedroom. Dropping it in the hamper, she reached out for fresh bed sheets and put them on, knowing that her blanket inside them would still feel clammy. Turning to the open shelf in the corner of the room that held her clothes, she mechanically picked out underwear, sweatpants and a pullover that was three sizes too big for her, and put them on.

Her face remained lifeless through all of this. She felt as if she were watching a hyperrealistic movie that made the audience identify 100 per cent with the character on screen. This wasn't her. This wasn't her life, her apartment, her hands. It wasn't her sitting down in the kitchen, fingers folded around a mug of synthcaf as if it were a lifeline, staring at the wall in front of her as the sun came up outside.

She felt dead inside.

.-.

Daryl shot up in his bed, yelling and raising his left arm as if to defend himself. His eyes were wide with fear and his heart was racing. Staring at the door, he could hear Merle swearing outside. Next, he heard running footsteps as his brother came rushing up from the living room.

Obviously, Merle was quite freaked by his scream because he threw the door open without knocking, banging it into the wall so hard that it bounced back. By that time, however, he was already well into the room, staring at his baby brother sitting in his bed, wild with terror.

„You better got a good reason for this, baby brother", he growled, trying to sound intimidating, but Daryl saw the fear in his eyes. All too often in the past, hearing Daryl scream at night had ended in neither of them sleeping again that night.

Daryl shook his head. „Jus' a dream, I'm good", he mumbled. „‚s okay, thanks for coming to look after me." He looked down at his hands, expecting to see bruises. Confused, he glanced back at Merle. It was a measure of Merle's fear that he didn't even make fun of him as he turned to grab the door. „Thank you, Merle", he repeated quietly.

Merle wordlessly shook his head as he walked out the door. Looking back over his shoulder one last time, he growled at him. „Got an early shift comin' up, don' need none a this shit. Better watch yerself now, baby brother!" Daryl nodded numbly.

Once Merle had closed the door and his footsteps had receded back to the living room, Daryl patted himself down with both hands, expecting to find his clothes wet with sweat, but he found that he was completely dry. Confused, he shook his head. This didn't make any sense.

He had had his share of nightmares, but they had always gone along with physical stuff - being soaked in sweat, being completely wrapped up in his bedding from fighting his demons, full-blown anxiety attacks after waking up.

This was more like he had watched a movie - he had experienced something awful that he couldn't for the life of him remember, but had none of the physical „symptoms" himself. Nor had he recognized anything of what had been going on. His memory of the dream was getting hazy already, but there were many things that didn't add up to him.

For one thing, he had been much taller than usual in it. He had been doing something in a kitchen and had had to reach down toward the counter to do it, instead of up. The floor, when he had threatened to slip in some wet stuff on it, had been incredibly far away as he had looked down at his feet. Everything about this dream was off.

Weirdest of all, he hadn't recognized the man beating him. The look on his face and the rage in his voice had been the same, but the face was different. And Merle hadn't come to distract him.

What the hell?

Even though it hadn't been „his own" dream in a strange sense, he didn't sleep again that night.