AN: A few things. I'm finding it difficult to write at the moment—I'm reeling and not-so-quietly devastated by the direction the show has taken with Carol. I feel sick with nerves about what will end up happening with her. I am even angrier than usual that Merle was killed off because I fully believe he'd have been in her corner. Once they got past her threatening to slit his throat in his sleep! That in itself is enough to tell Merle that this woman rocks his world.
I want—no, I NEED to thank Imorca for crying out the whole sorry saga with me. Hopefully we both feel a little better now. This chapter is for her! She pushed me through it. I want to thank you all for the most awesome reviews a person could ever receive. You all really think about what I'm writing and it just blows my mind. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
Lastly, I bit the bullet and joined Tumblr. I am extremely boring in comparison, but if you're interested in following me, you can find me as meganpetaf. Now, I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter **Yes, I am begging ;)**
~Megan
Part Thirteen
He's ripped so violently from sleep that he almost makes the mistake of crying out—of screaming his torment as the images of his nightmare still circulate at a crazy pace in vivid colours and shapes. Most of it is red—his brother being torn apart by biters, but only after Phil has made him suffer. Tortures Daryl for information about the rest of his group while Merle is forced to watch. Forced to watch his brother die. His conscience is shattered, knowing that beneath it all, he's the one at fault. That he's delivered Daryl up like some squirrel on a stick. He's not the kind of man that gives in easily to emotion, but the thought of never seeing Daryl again, or worse, seeing him within reach of the Governor and the evil that man creates, rips his goddamn heart out and tramples it flat. He's afraid—filled with disgust that he'd ever willingly betray his kin, even in his fucking dreams, that he'd be the one that brought about his baby brother's end; this nightmare has him believing it as if it were the gospel truth. Guilt that he hasn't yet done a thing to deserve snaps chaotically through his blood as it rushes like a torrent through his body. He's shaking badly as he finally sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, reaching automatically for his knife attachment to snap onto his stump, breathes a little easier at the reassurance of the weapon that feeds his illusion of strength, believes so much in it that it protects the hidden part of him that is terrified. Hopes the preoccupation can clear his brain of the image of his dead brother, staring at him with such fear and shock, destroyed by his betrayal as his eyes bleed from smoky blue to blown white and death brings him to a second existence. Merle feels damn near broken when he notices his own tears drip from his chin and splash against the bare, exposed floor boards.
It's still dark outside and Merle knows the town sleeps far too easily, that these people have surrendered to the sense of security that those on watch have purposely instilled, too soon forgetting the realities that still exist beyond their walls. Nothing has disappeared, only their awareness and their crude desperation to cling to life. Phil needs for the town to trust him, and they have repaid him and his protection with their blindness and worship.
He knows it will all fuck up eventually, but until then he has to stay as sharp as he can, stay focused on the bigger picture, even if it blurs around the edges at times. Even if fate throws in a spanner now and again to divert his attention and make him spin out of control. This enclosed community gives the residents comfort, protection, but Merle feels like he's caught in a cage and no amount of tantrums, or kicking the shit out of the bars is ever going to get him free. No one else wants out—no one but Carol and her little black side-kick—and he wonders if it's him that's crazy or all the other fuckers so ready to hail Phil as their almighty leader.
His heart is still pounding hard in his chest from his dream and Merle wonders if he's actually heading toward a heart attack. He's a fit man, relatively healthy for his age now he's kicked the habit—or had it kicked out of him. He slowly reclines back on the bed, his arm curled up under his head, and he tentatively closes his eyes. The blade attached to his hand rests heavy across his belly and not for the first time he wonders if he'll manage to cut himself in his sleep, or if being prepared might mean he guts someone else who tries to sneak up too close. Like Wolverine does to Rogue when the stupid bitch tries to wake him in the middle of the night.
He forces himself to rest, drifting restlessly between the veils as his brain rejects his need to find some deep sleep, preferring to explore his memories instead. The first takes him back to where it all started, of being at the quarry with Daryl—where Carol was a victim of that fat-assed useless piece of shit that was her husband—and now, where she's weak from illness but stronger than any woman he's ever known. Ever thought he'd want to know. She's got depth, resilience—some relentless will to survive in this world that he'd bet his own dick none of the bitches he's known in the past would have had back before the world turned to shit, let alone have now.
Surprise once again snaps him from semi-sleep. Merle groans as his eyes open and he stares through the dark at the ceiling. Carol having a core of steel and determination isn't something he'd have ever been able to predict. She was a victim when he first met her, so afraid of her husband and any old shadow around camp that he was sure as shit she'd never even noticed him, not when he came to her rescue and kicked the snot out of the man that put a ring on her finger, and most likely not even when he failed to return from the Atlanta run. He wasn't ever going to be the good guy, never placed himself in the position to be one until he found her again in the woods, half dead with only those two women to drag her ass from one end of the place to the other, and he hates that she might see him like that. Merle knows he's only ever been lucky enough to be in the wrong place at the right time once in his sorry life, giving him the opportunity to measure out a lifetime of hurt on that fucker Ed, wishing for all the world he could instead get a few good licks in on his own Pa, but mashing any abusive fucker was as good a thing as any. He'd never planned to save her that night at the quarry, the words offering to kill the sonovabitch she was married to tumbling off his tongue without any plan originally formulated in his brain, but she was so out of it with her pain and bruises that he'd never suspected she'd even remembered he was going to kill the son of a bitch and save someone else in camp the trouble when the truth of that couple came to light. That weak-assed lady had got more from him that night than he'd given anyone since his own brother as a kid, and it weren't from any false sense of himself that he could be her saviour. He was protecting the girl, nothing more, and leaving her behind with a mother laid up from her husband's fists wasn't any kind of protection at all. He'd told enough to Daryl to be reassured his brother would watch out for the kid, then he'd taken off with the others and got himself high and handcuffed to his fate and had his ass left behind.
It hadn't been his plan to lose his shit on that roof. Hadn't been his plan to snuff that shit up his nose, either, but being a man of the world who'd seen some serious, fucked up bullshit in his life still hadn't prepared him for what he'd seen in that quarry. Even now the images were stark, the words loud, the intention behind it all an ugly scream in his head that put an unnatural force in his only fist. Gave him an urge to punch the living shit out of someone or something until his raging hate calmed the fuck down and he could remember how to breathe. He wanted to smash that asshole's face in, make him pay for every bruise he'd placed on his wife, every second of fear he'd made their little girl suffer and it infuriated him beyond endurance that the fucked up asshole was already dead. A beating wouldn't have quelled the rage Merle had felt when he'd stumbled upon that sack of shit coaxing his daughter out of her clothes in a quiet, protected part of the woods surrounding their camp, but it sure as shit might have made him feel better. Watching the way that little girl had trembled, trying to cover herself while her sick, piece of shit father tried to run his hands over her young, naked body under the pretence of bathing her made him sick still and Merle wished he'd had his knife back then so he could have sent it ripping through the prick's skull. He should have done it, not just stepped forward, ordering the girl to get dressed and run back to her mama while he laid out in explicit detail and little room for confusion what he was going to do to the sorry sonovabitch if he ever laid hands on that little girl again. And like the screwed up idiot Merle was, he'd left with the picture of Ed's sweaty, fearful face on his mind and gone and got high, ensuring he was no use to anyone—not even himself. Now that little girl was dead, not saved like he'd planned, and he only has himself to blame.
He has no chance of getting back to sleep, and even though his eyes are stinging and gritty with tiredness, he drags his ass out of the bed and pulls on his boots. He does up a couple of buckles, thanking Christ there is such a thing and he doesn't have to wrestle with laces, and he stumbles across the floor to the door. Some instinct stills his hand over the doorknob, stops him from opening it, instead he zeroes in on the sensation of goosebumps shooting up onto his neck and he aims a glance across the room to peer out the window and across the street, starting in shock when he sees Phil outlined by a soft glow from the room behind him, his stare focused straight at Merle's window. Freaky fucker gives him the creeps and Merle shudders, disgusted in himself for letting himself get spooked. Unconsciously he shrinks back into the shadows of the room, knowing it's unlikely Phil has seen him in the pitch darkness of his place, but it freaks him the fuck out knowing the crazy-assed leader was spying on him even in the thick of night.
Eventually Phil moves away from the window and Merle heaves a relieved sigh, rounding it out with an angry eye roll. Jesus, he's getting paranoid, which, granted, isn't exactly a stupid thing to be within the walls of this town. Before Phil can return to his odd vigil, Merle pulls open his door and slips out into the quiet of the night, sneaking along through the shadows until he's sure he's far enough away from Phil's spying eye. When he's able to relax and realise where he is, his eye has already been caught by a vision in an upstairs window. She's standing there, wearing something so sheer his dick can't help but respond and he's so shocked he feels the impact like a fist to his gut.
Dammit. Why the fuck is everyone awake tonight?
A prickling sweat breaks out across his body and Merle steps back, his heel connects, indicating he's about to collide with the wall of the building opposite where Carol is staying if he tries to retreat any farther. His chest aches but he's staring up at that window, almost salivating as he can pinpoint hazy curves in the moonlit dark, acknowledging miserable shock as it appears the wispy covering that had hinted at her body beneath it slips away completely. His imagination easily pictures nothing but the still night air caressing her flesh, suddenly wishing it was his fingers that could explore, and maybe his tongue. A vivid picture sticks in his head—his teeth plucking her nipple, his tongue soothing the sting, his breath blowing across the rosy peak to start a chain reaction of shivers across her flesh. He can almost taste her on his tongue as his dick swells uncomfortably in his pants.
Feeling thoroughly disgusted with himself, Merle pushes off from the wall and stomps down the street, congratulating himself when he only glances back once, trying to mop the sweat from his brow and hold back the moan of need he suddenly finds wants urgent and compulsive release. He walks the length of the town, one wall to the next, relieved when the blood disperses equally throughout his body before he encounters those on watch for the night. He's pretty pissed at himself by the time he convinces Martinez to open the gate and let him out. His blood is still pounding too loud in his ears and he feels like he's just cut off his dick when it deserves the reward of seeing a naked woman standing oblivious to the silent observer across the street. Fuck, between nightmares about his ruined brother, memories of Ed Peletier trying to debase his young daughter and now an image of the sweetness Carol hides underneath her clothes, there's nothing Merle needs more than to beat the shit out of some walkers and plough his knife through their skulls. He's due some vengeance, some stress relief, and just maybe if he hits it right, he might exhaust himself enough to find a little more sleep before the night is through.
An hour later, covered in biter guts and blood, he stumbles back into his place, washes off completely devoid of any emotion and collapses back into his bed. His eyes fall shut, a blocking out any lingering demons waiting to capture him within their spell again, and as a welcome snort of encroaching sleep erupts from his chest, Merle knows he's grateful.