Trees. Woods. Trees. Woods. Raccoon
Skinny legs a'runnin'
Dirty hands a'graspin' in the dark.
Barefeet scratched and torn to shit. Back bleedin' and stinging somethin' fierce from where the old man had whopped him upside the back with the phone cord.
Momma'd been a'screamin'.
Merle was a' howlin'
Pops was just silent, silent as the grave 'for it all went'ta shit.
Daryl done sneezed, effin' sneezed (no doubt from the dusty carpet his mother never vaccumed) . Then he'd done it. Pops had told him, "don't you make'a noise, boy!' And he'd done made one.
Then his Daddy was whoppin' that phone cord on 'im and Merle was'a howlin' and Momma was a'screamin' and Daddy was silent as the grave.
"Go on, git!" Shouted Momma.
"You stupid little shit." Said Merle.
So off he did trot. Into the deep dank woods.
Dirt and trees and dirt and trees.
An'a raccoon an'a deer bedded down.
He think he might sleep
Climb on up in a tree.
Stupid shit. Goin' deeper and deeper. Back just a stingin'
A loud HOOOO! so loud it done near took off his neck when he spun around, he didn't like the woods none.
"I went dowwn to the river to preeeey." Sang the boy, buck ass naked, standin' in the river, scrubbin' at his undershorts.
"Thinking bout those good old daaaays."
He weren't sure what the song was 'bout. But it sure was pretty when his momma sang it in Church on sunday.
"Goin' off the raillllss ona crazy traaain!" A fish!
With a bound and a bumble he took after it, leavin' a nasty paira shorts driftin' in the water.
"Hickery dickery dock.'' The boy sang, limbs akimbo and toes wigglin' in the muddy waters as he popped blueberries into his mouth. "Gotta punch that clock."
He didn't know what he was sayin'.
Weren't nothin' but nonsense he figured.
But it'd been days. Maybe even a whole year!
(He wondered if he was nine yet)
He'd 'come a real wild man. Livin' in the woods, jus' a'itchin and a'scratchin (poison oak or somethin')
"Little black bugs that suck yo' bluuuuuuud!" He thought he had a sunburn too.
But that didn't mean anythin' just meant he was a Redneck, cause Redneck's had red necks.
"Daryl is Feral! That means I'ma crazy unbroken dog. That's what Merle say. Woof!" He let out a bark of a laugh.
"I ain't no dog. Imma Daryl. See." He spun around, talking to himself. "Daryl. And there's only one'a me." He pounded his chest twice with tiny dirty fists.
"Jack an' Jill went up the hill, Jack burned out on booze an' pills."
''Mooommmaa." The boy cried, sniffling into his elbow as he sat hunkered into the hollow of a tree, under the little hut of leaves and moss and sticks he made.
"What'choo lookin' at?" He scowled, wiping the back his hand across his cheeks, peering down at an ant that had crawled by.
"I ain't no sissy. Ima Dixon. A Daryl Dixon. Don't need noone. No Momma, No Pops. Not Merle. Uuhhhuuhh." He shook his head. Nope. He didn't cry. Dixons didn't cry. No matter how hungry you are. How tired you were. How lonley and how sc-sca-scared you are
Nope! Dixon's don' cry.
Dixon's don't feel pain.
They don't feel happy.
They don't feel scared.
Dixon's just is. And when they cain't. Well. They make sure they cain't.
That's why Pops does his tweak.
An Merle smoke's his pipe.
An Momma has her Cigarettes.
Cause they don't wan' feel nothin'
Feelin's too hard an'way. Just take up too much time in the day. Ain't that right boy? Stupid peicea shit. Don't know up from down and got himself lost as hell. Didn't he?
"Momma? Pops?'' The little boy asked, stickin' his head through the screen door.
"Me-merle?" But no one answered. And no one was home.
Shrugging, the boy walked through the dingy living room, into the dirty kitchen and made himself a sandwich.
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