Part Three
Take My Whole Life, Too

Daryl called in sick again the next day. Luckily, he hadn't used any of his sick time in well over a year, so it wasn't much of an issue. He wasn't sure how much longer this could go on, though.

This time, he kept his phone on after calling. To his dismay, there was still no response from Connie. Not that he'd really expected there to be. But there were new texts from Beth.

You can't keep pushing me away like this.

Let me in, Daryl. You know you want to.

It's okay. You don't have to feel ashamed. We don't owe anyone an explanation. They'd never understand anyway.

I won't give up on you.

I'm the only person who will never give up on you.

I'm the only person who will never abandon you.

He couldn't bear to look at her slew of messages anymore. He deleted their entire conversation and finally blocked her number. Then he went to his social media pages and set them all to private, just in case.

He'd been stupid not to do so before. There was so much information about him on those damn profiles that he'd never second-guessed or had to worry about before. He had pictures of his brother, of Carol and Sophia, of Dog, of his workplace. He had posts that had tagged the personal profiles of every person he cared about. It had all just been sitting there, waiting for Beth to find and use to her advantage.

Right afterwards, he forced himself to delete the post about Connie. When he went to her profile, he found she'd blocked him there, too. His heart clenched painfully.

He started drinking again before noon. He polished off his bottle of whiskey and went to work on the remaining beers in his fridge. Dog was whining incessantly, but Daryl was terrified to step foot outside of his apartment.

Finally, he gave in and took Dog out. It wasn't right to punish the poor pup because Daryl was a coward. Besides, he needed to take the trash out and rid his home of the remnants of Beth once and for all.

He immediately regretted it, though. Beth wasn't waiting for him in the hall, but when he shut his door behind him, he found a single word left on the front of his door in bright red spray paint:

ASSHOLE

Thankfully, he was just about drunk enough to not care. He merely shook his head and scoffed before leading Dog to the elevator and down to the ground floor.

When he got outside and made it to the large communal dumpster that the whole complex used, he stopped in his tracks. Another message was left on the front of the dumpster in the same bright red spray paint:

I LOVE YOU

There was even a heart painted beneath it. The exact same style as the one she'd left with her phone number over a year ago. Beth with a heart.

His stomach churned and he forced back the bile. As soon as Dog was finished with his business, Daryl rushed back to the elevator and back to his apartment.

As he passed by Beth's door, he heard the sounds of music coming from inside. The strumming of a guitar and her voice singing loudly. The same song as last time.

"…take home Julie, we'll be drinkin' at two, take home Julie, we got catchin' up to do…"

Like she wanted him to hear.

He locked his door and went through his whole place once again, double-checking for any signs of her. Anything she may have planted or left behind.

He found nothing, of course. But that didn't settle his nerves.

He began racking his brain for what to do. Who to call, who to confide in, who—if anyone—would actually believe him. He wanted to reach out to Carol, but what if Connie had told her everything? What if she chose to believe her fellow woman and turned him away? His oldest and most trusted friend's rejection would be the final nail in the coffin. He wasn't sure he could handle it right now.

He recalled the things he'd overheard after Beth's little attempt all those months ago. Names being screamed from behind thin walls. What were they again?

Jimmy. Zach. Rick.

Now that he knew her last name, maybe he could learn something about her past. Maybe there were other men out there who'd experienced what he was going through. Maybe if he could find them, they could help.

He searched a hundred different variations. Beth Greene Georgia Rick. Beth Greene Georgia Zach. Beth Greene Georgia Zack. Beth Greene Georgia Jimmy. Beth Greene Atlanta…

But nothing came up. The only traces of her that he was able to find were her social media profiles. When he grew desperate enough, he created fake accounts and followed her, hoping to discover something in her old posts or maybe her mutual friends. It didn't work, though. He waited a couple of hours before she accepted his friend/follow requests, but he scoured through every damn post she'd ever made and found nothing about any men. There were no signs of them in her friends lists, either. No Jimmy. No Zach. No Rick. She didn't even have any posts from more than two years ago. Maybe she'd made entirely new accounts since whatever happened with those other men? He could only guess.

Then he received a direct message from her on one of his fake accounts.

Is that you, Daryl? You don't have to hide behind a burner profile. :)

A jolt of fear raced through him and he immediately blocked her before deleting the accounts.

Ten minutes later, a new text message arrived from an unknown number.

I could make you so happy. If only you'd give me a chance. I'll tell you everything you want to know about me. I already know so much about you. But I would love to know even more. Did your brother really do what they convicted him for? Are all the scars on your back from your daddy? Was he an awful, violent drunk like everyone claimed? Was the fire that killed your mom really an accident, or did she do it on purpose? You're keeping so much pain inside. Why? Do you think no one will understand? Or have they never understood? Are you sick of being judged and turned away? I am, too. I understand. I'm the only one who understands.

He ignored the message and blocked the number, unsure of how she'd managed to get a whole different number to message him.

It didn't work. Barely five minutes later, yet another unknown number texted him.

What about Carol? You let her in, right? You trust her? What's so special about her? Is it because she's damaged like you? She doesn't want you, though. She never will. She loves her new boyfriend. She'll never love you the way I do. You might think she understands, but she doesn't.

Are you mad about the paint? I'm sorry. I can be impulsive sometimes. I was mad at you. But I'm not mad anymore. Please forgive me.

I have a bad temper sometimes. But so do you. I saw it.

You're so hot when you're angry.

I saw the real you. And I didn't turn away. I loved it. I love you. Every ugly part that no one else can love. I hope you can see that. I think you could love every ugly part of me, too.

I love you, Daryl Dixon. We could be together. We could be happy.

We could be happy for the rest of our lives.

With trembling hands, he deleted the messages and blocked the number.

Thankfully, he didn't receive any more texts from unknown numbers after that, but the fear alone had driven him right back to the beer in his fridge.

The next day, he managed to drag himself out of bed and get to work. No one doubted that he'd been sick based on his sallow, unshaven appearance and how quiet he was the whole day.

In actuality, he was still sick to his stomach with thoughts of Beth. Still haunted with the knowledge that she'd seen him in his most private and intimate moments. Still terrified by what she'd done so far and what else he feared she may be capable of. He'd barely eaten in the last three days, barely slept. And the only thing he was looking forward to was picking up a new 30-pack of beer, another bottle of whiskey, and going home to drink himself through the weekend.

He'd never admit it aloud, but he was contemplating the idea of showing up at Connie's workplace. Toying with a plan in his head. Surely, if he showed up in person prepared with an apology and an explanation, she couldn't turn him away. Right? She'd have to hear him out. She'd have to understand.

He thought he'd been starting to fall in love with her. Maybe he already had.

How could she turn him away when he cared for her so much? When he'd gained her trust? Didn't she realize that he could treat her like a queen? That he could make her as happy as she made him? If only she'd give him the fucking chance.

He'd learned sign language for her. He'd opened up to her. He'd made her come. She'd shivered beneath his touch and pulled him in closer. She'd welcomed him between her legs and shared his bed. Didn't that mean something?

How could she just abandon him like this? Just like his mama. Just like his brother. Throwing him to the wolves without looking back.

After he clocked out and left work, he hopped on his bike and rode on autopilot until he found himself outside of the building where she worked. Those thoughts were still racing through his head.

But then he spotted her through the window. She had no idea he was there. He caught a glimpse of her face through water-stained glass, smiling and signing to someone he couldn't see.

He didn't know how long he was sitting there. But it was long enough that Connie eventually turned her head and glanced out the window. He knew the moment she spotted him because her face fell and paled. Her eyes went wide and she immediately darted out of sight.

Then it hit him.

Fuck.

What the fuck was he doing? He was acting like Beth. Unstable. Unwell. Crazy.

He'd scared her.

Maybe he could blame it on the lack of food, the lack of sleep, the abundance of alcohol. He didn't know what the hell he was doing, but he still had enough sense to realize it wasn't right.

He revved up his bike and sped off down the street, cursing himself silently the whole way.

And his mom's voice was echoing at the back of his mind, louder and louder with every mile, "Nobody can ever love you like I do, Daryl baby. Nobody."

He drank himself to sleep that night. Beth was playing her guitar so loudly down the hall that it leaked through the walls. He had to turn his TV up to an almost blaring level just to drown her out.

The next day, he started drinking barely an hour after he woke up. He managed to force a sandwich down his throat, but only with a beer in hand to chase it down.

A couple hours later, he got a call from an unknown number and ignored it, his stomach twisting and his chest tightening with fear. Though the fear alleviated briefly when a voicemail showed up shortly after. It was Merle. Asking when he would come visit again. Lamenting about how neglected he was feeling. Daryl deleted the voicemail and took another shot of whiskey. A lame attempt at stifling the guilt, the resentment, and the anger that he'd been continuously burying within himself for years.

An hour after that, a new message popped up on his phone. It was a video from another unknown number. For the briefest second, in his half-drunken haze, he thought Merle had gotten hold of a phone in prison and sent him a video. It wouldn't be the first time.

But when he hit Play, he realized that was not the case at all.

It was Beth. She didn't show her face, but she was wearing a lacy red thong—identical to the one she'd planted in his couch cushions—and nothing else. She was lying on her back in a bed of pristine white sheets, cupping one breast and moaning softly. The camera panned up slowly, from milky white thighs to jutting hip bones, across the expanse of her flat tummy and up to her tiny, pert tits, nipples peaking hard and pink, a hint of sun-kissed collarbone.

And a peek of her exposed throat—tinted purple with fingerprint bruises. She traced her fingers across the marks. Like she was taunting him.

Teasing him.

It lasted all of ten seconds, but it felt like an eternity to Daryl. His heart skipped. Thumped harder. His blood rushed and raced until he could hear it in his ears. Feel it in his gut. In his groin.

It must've been the alcohol. That was the only reason he could explain the way his dick jumped and twitched in his pants. The way his hands shook. The way he grew half-hard.

The way the anger resurfaced until the edges of his vision were blurring red and black.

Manipulative fucking bitch.

A text arrived from the same number as soon as the video ended:

This could be all yours.

His hands were trembling so hard that he could barely keep his grasp on the phone. Another text came through:

I want to be all yours. Forever.

His mouth was dry, a knot in his throat. His dick twitched again.

He locked his phone and tossed it away, letting it land on the couch. It vibrated again and lit up with a new text message, but he was already pouring himself a shot of whiskey.

Five minutes later, he was lying in bed, jerking off in a desperate attempt to relieve himself of at least some of the tense emotions swirling around within him. Desperate to feel pleasure and euphoria, if even for a fleeting moment.

He squeezed his eyes shut and pictured Connie. Imagined how she'd pressed herself against him and welcomed him inside. Tried to remember how soft her skin was and how sweet she'd smelled.

But by the time he was approaching his climax, the heat building and building below his gut and sending delicious tingles through his whole body, he was grasping desperately at fading memories. He was losing momentum. He couldn't even remember how Connie had smelled.

Then Beth's face popped into his head.

Her malicious smile. The warmth of her skin, the thumping of her pulse beneath his palm. The tender flesh of her throat at his fingertips. The scent of her cherry-red lipstick and the wild look in her big, deceptively innocent blue-green eyes. The damp heat between her legs pressed up against him. Her soft moans and her milky white complexion. Her small, pert breasts and perfectly pink nipples and—

He came harder and longer than he'd expected. The dopamine rushed through his veins like a tsunami wave collapsing upon him and swallowing him whole, dragging him into the deep blue depths to drown him alive.

As soon as it passed and he came down, panting and loosely grasping his softening dick, the shame washed over him.

Yet, in that brief and blissful moment, he couldn't deny how alive he felt.

While Daryl slept, his oldest nightmare returned to haunt him.

He was eight years old. Cowering and crying inside his bedroom closet, his back still sore and bleeding from his latest beating.

But that asshole—his daddy—had left again. Daryl prayed he'd be gone for the next few days.

Yet, at the same time, he resented the fucker for leaving. Not because he wanted him around, but because he'd left Daryl alone here. With his mama.

His heart ached for his big brother. Merle would've protected him. Merle would've known what to do. But Merle had put on some ugly Army uniform and left six months ago, and he hadn't so much as called since.

Merle always knew how to handle Mama's bad days. He'd always had a way with her, able to calm her and soothe her and even wrestle the knife out of her hands when she got real upset.

Daryl was too small. Too weak. And like Merle said, he was a "mama's boy." When she started wailing and wielding that big kitchen knife, all he knew to do was cry. Beg. Plead with her to stop, to just hug him, to just read him a story and lay down with him in bed until she was happy again. Or as happy as she could ever be.

No, he was alone. Again. Mama was screaming and crying and banging on his closet door.

"Don't you care? Don't you fucking care that your mama is gonna kill herself?! You'll be all alone! Nobody will find you! Nobody will even know you're here with your dead mommy's body!"

He bit down on his lower lip until he tasted blood. He could barely even feel the welts and lashes on his back. The pain inside was far greater.

And then, just like that, it was over. Her voice was soft and soothing. She was still weeping, but she was begging him this time. Pleading with him to come out.

"Daryl baby, Mommy's sorry. So sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. Please… come out, baby. C'mon out an' give yer mama a hug. I need you, baby boy. Yer all I've got left. Yer the only reason I stay alive. Please, Daryl baby…"

He couldn't resist. He could never resist her.

She was his mom. What else was he to do but forgive her and keep fiercely loving her?

He was in her arms—those frail arms marked with jagged scars, with skin softer than any blanket he'd ever known. She was hugging him tight, breathing him in, sobbing into his shoulder and apologizing over and over, begging him for forgiveness. He could smell the Virginia Slims and the blackberry wine.

That was his mommy. That was her familiar smell, so comforting. So reassuring.

"I love you, Daryl baby," she whispered into his hair, clutching him tight against her chest until he could hear the thumping of her heartbeat in his ear. "You're all I've got. I love you so much. Nobody can ever love you like I do. Y'hear me? Nobody. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry… it'll be better one day. We'll be happy. We'll have each other and we'll be so happy."

But no matter how many times the nightmare returned, it always ended the same way.

The smell of smoke. The sound of sirens. His friends staring at the same horrendous sight he saw, all turning to him with wide eyes.

The bright, burning flames licking at the sky, consuming everything he'd ever known and leaving only ashes. Everything he'd had left.

And then that voice, deep and stern, telling him, "I'm sorry, son, we tried to save her, but… your mama didn't make it. Do you know where your daddy is?"

She'd left him behind. She'd abandoned him.

Just like everyone else.

Daryl was drinking again, desperately trying to stifle the pain and anger and loneliness. He barely left his couch except to grab another beer and drink more whiskey. The sun felt harsh and blinding when he stepped foot outside to take Dog out, and the fear coursed through him each time he had to pass by Beth's apartment door.

When he finally picked his phone up and checked it, he found her text from the day before that he hadn't yet read.

You were so hard when you had your hand around my throat. Could you tell how wet I was? I love what we have between us. It makes me feel so alive. I love you.

He shuddered and took another swig of whiskey.

There was also a missed call from Carol. She'd tried to call sometime before he woke up, but she hadn't left a voicemail or sent any texts.

He contemplated calling her back. But what the hell would he say? What could he say?

What if she didn't believe him?

He drank himself to sleep by mid-afternoon, only to be haunted by another nightmare. This time, it was his brother, handcuffs on his wrists as he kicked and fought against the four cops restraining him, screaming the whole time, "That bitch was coked-out when I brought her home! I didn't do shit! I'm innocent, goddammit! She was askin' for it! She fuckin' LIKED it! I WANT A LAWYER, YOU FUCKIN' PIGS!"

When he awoke, he was drenched in sweat. He dragged himself to the shower, barely able to wash himself off. He wound up sitting on the floor of the tub while the water poured over him. As soon as he got out and toweled off, he returned to the last beer in his fridge and the final shot of whiskey.

It was after sundown when he left his apartment again. He probably shouldn't have been driving, but he didn't give a shit.

However, once he was on his bike and speeding down the street, he didn't stop at the liquor store. He kept driving. And driving. The wind whipped through his greasy hair and cooled his face, but he no longer felt free with the rumble of the engine between his legs and the blur of the city passing him on either side. He hadn't even bothered to wear his helmet, some subconscious part of him silently hoping for a truck to plow straight into him and finally end his misery.

He slowed when he realized he'd driven himself straight to Carol's house. He pulled over and stopped when he saw her car in the driveway and the lights on inside. He stumbled a bit as he dismounted, but he approached the front door with slow and purposeful steps.

She must've recognized the sound of his motorcycle, because she was opening the door before he'd even reached the top step of the porch.

"Daryl!" Her voice was cheery, but as soon as he stepped into the shine of the porchlight, her tone changed and her face fell. "Jesus, you look like shit."

He couldn't argue with that. He'd barely showered, hadn't shaved in days, his hair was a greasy and half-tangled mess, and the jeans and T-shirt he'd thrown on hadn't been washed in a week.

"Feel like shit," he grumbled, the tip of his boot catching on the edge of her welcome mat. He had to reach out and steady himself on the railing, clearing his throat as though that would divert attention from his obvious incoordination.

"Well, c'mon, come inside," she urged, stepping aside and opening the door wider, gesturing him forward.

He entered and was immediately overcome with a sense of warmth. Of home. The smell of a recently-cooked meal still lingered in the air, the TV was playing some Lifetime movie at a low volume, her phone was sitting on the end table beside her favorite chair, the screen still lit up with her Candy Crush game, and only a few lamps plus the light above the stove in the kitchen were left on. There was even a plate of homemade cookies sitting in the center of the table.

As she shut the door behind him, he stood awkwardly to the side and asked, "Hope 'm not interruptin' nothin'."

She chuckled. "Oh yeah, you know me, always so busy with Candy Crush and Lifetime movies. Of course you're not interrupting, Pookie."

Hearing her teasing nickname for him caused a chill to run through his body. A chill of foreboding and dread and guilt.

She stepped over to the kitchen table and pulled out a chair for him before taking a seat in the one directly across from it, her tone turning more serious. "C'mon, sit down. Tell me what's goin' on."

He heaved a sigh and plopped down in the chair, resting his arms on the table. He could barely meet her eyes, keeping his head low. "Just… a lot. Saw ya called today an' I missed it. Figured it'd be easier t'just stop by."

That was a lie, of course. He hadn't planned on coming here. He'd just… ended up here. And now that he was sitting at her table, forced to face her in his current state, he was regretting it. He didn't know where to begin. Wasn't sure he even wanted to at all. Felt easier to stay home and drink himself to sleep until he had nothing to worry about but his nightmares.

"Yeah," she said, "I tried to call a few days ago, but it went straight to voicemail."

He grunted but said nothing, staring down at his hands instead.

There was a beat of silence. She seemed to be waiting for him to speak first. But when he didn't, she cleared her throat.

"So… are you gonna tell me what happened with Connie?"

His head shot up at that. His heart began to pound. "What'd she tell you?"

Carol raised an eyebrow. "Nothing good. But I didn't assume I was getting the full story."

He looked down again. Ashamed.

When he didn't respond, she said, "She seemed awfully shaken up…"

He still didn't respond. He clenched his jaw, swallowing down his fear and pain. Where could he even start? What would Carol be willing to believe?

Could he truly trust her to have his back on this? Or was that asking too much?

"Daryl. Look at me."

He heaved a sigh and met her eyes.

Her expression turned to something that resembled pity, edged with uncertainty bordering on suspicion. "What happened?"

He shook his head, averting his gaze. It was too difficult to look her in the eye. He swore he could already see the disappointment brewing there. "What'd she tell you?"

Carol pursed her lips and sat up straighter in her chair, settling a stern and expectant look on him. "That doesn't matter. I wanna hear it from you."

He sighed again. "It does matter. She's got it—got it all wrong. Got it in her head—"

"I know what she's got in her head. Who is Beth?"

The sound of her name being spoken aloud by his most trusted friend made his breath hitch in his chest, and whatever other words he'd meant to say caught in his throat and faded away.

Her voice lowered and grew more stern as she said, "Tell me the truth, Daryl. All of it."

The persistence in her tone combined with the natural motherly softness she always exuded broke something inside him. He suddenly realized why he'd been so nervous, near terrified, to talk to her… because, despite their close age and sibling-like relationship, he'd held her dearly in his life like a mother figure. Viewed her as such.

Carol was the closest thing he'd ever had to a real mom. He'd never even considered looking at her in a romantic way because the softness, the understanding, and the comfort she offered… it was what he'd been yearning for since he was eight years old and cowering inside his dark closet.

She wasn't just his best friend. She was the mom he'd never really had.

And accordingly, he feared being reprimanded in the same manner a mother would scold her misbehaving child. Because it wouldn't just be a reprimand. It would be abandonment. It would be shunning. It would be—worst of all—disappointment.

Tears pooled in his eyes. The dam finally broke. A sob wracked his body, making him shudder, though he tried to stifle it. He fought back the tears, trying to swallow them down. He tried to speak clearly, but his tongue felt swollen and his throat was sore and he was sure he was making no sense, no matter how hard he tried, but it all poured out in a slew of emotions and half-slurred words. Everything he'd been holding back, all the shit that had been haunting him and pushing him towards the brink of madness; he finally let it flow freely in one long spiel.

"Sh-she moved in last year, I didn't say shit to 'er, Carol, I barely even looked at her, but she got this idea and… fuck. Fuck—! She wouldn't stop. She was textin' me, blowin' me up. I-I turned her down, blew her off, told 'er it wasn't right. But she wouldn't fucking stop. She turned Rosita against me, convinced Bob I was some kinda predator, then she…" He paused, sniffling pathetically and swallowing back more tears. "She slit her wrists. Made the whole thing look even worse. I tried t'talk to 'er sister, but even she didn't believe me. The girl's crazy. She ain't right in the head. An' nobody'll do a goddamn thing about it. She broke into my mailbox—I know it was her, she left fuckin' lipstick marks on all my mail, found my last name, started stalkin' me on social media. I told 'er off. I told 'er off again an' again, I swear ta God I did. Th-then things were alrigh'. I thought she was doin' better. She apologized, said she was gettin' help, brought some kinda peace offering. A toy fer Dog. I believed her. I fucking believed her. And I met Connie an-and things were goin' so fuckin' good. We made it official, we… we slept together."

He stifled a sob, squeezing his eyes shut at the mere memory.

"An' Beth found out. She had a camera in that goddamn dog toy. A camera! In my apartment! Watchin' me in my fucking bedroom! Sh-she showed up at my door last week, damn near unconscious an' all fucked up. Said she went to a bar an' got drugged. Couldn't find her keys, begged me not ta call nine-one-one or her sister 'cause she'd lose her job an' get committed. I let 'er sleep on my couch 'cause I was scared she'd die. I woke up an' she was gone. She went to Connie's work, made up some bullshit fuckin' lie about how I drugged her, how I took advantage of 'er, how she lost her panties—Connie came over an' fuckin' found the panties in my couch. That crazy bitch planted 'em there, she knew exactly what she was doin'. She set me up…!"

This time, he couldn't stifle the sob. It escaped, along with the tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Jesus fuck, Carol, she said she got a goddamn rape kit done. She pulled the condom outta my trash from the night me an' Connie had sex, used whatever was in it to incriminate me. She told me if I try ta go to the police, she'll tell 'em what I did. She said nobody'll fuckin' believe me 'cause of Merle. I can't fucking get rid of her! I can't—I couldn't even get Connie to believe me! Th-then she spray painted 'asshole' on my door, and 'I love you' on the dumpster where she knew I'd see it. She won't stop textin' me crazy shit. I can't get away from her! She said if I try ta move, she'll just send the cops after me!"

He finally dissolved into tear-soaked sobs, shoulders shaking and chest heaving. He put his head in his hands and tried to compose himself, waiting for Carol to stand up and walk around to comfort him. Waiting for her inevitable hand on his shoulder, her arm around his neck, her soft voice in his ear.

But it never came.

When he raised his head and wiped away the tears with the back of his hand, he found Carol staring at him from across the table, eyes wide and jaw slack.

"That's it," he murmured, sniffling and struggling to compose himself. "That's all of it. That's everythin'. The whole truth."

Nothing but the truth, so help me God, he thought. Just like the day he'd gone up on the stand to attest for his brother.

A crease formed in Carol's brow. She studied him for a long moment. Cleared her throat. Then she asked softly, "Why… why didn't you say something sooner? Daryl, why… didn't you talk to me? Why didn't you reach out for help before it got to this point?"

He shook his head, ashamed, and scoffed. "I thought I could deal with it on my own. Thought I could shake 'er off. And then…" He had to stifle a fresh sob, inhaling a deep breath to steady himself. "Then she got so in my head that I was scared y-you wouldn't believe me. Bob hates me now. Rosita, too—she moved out an' told me t'lose her number."

"Rosita?" Carol repeated with a hint of incredulity. "Rosita moved out and told you not to contact her again?"

Daryl nodded.

"And what about the camera? The panties?" She asked. "Where are they?"

He shook his head. "Threw 'em out," he murmured listlessly. "Almost burned 'em. Just ta be rid of all her shit."

There was a long moment of silence. Too long. So long that it made his entire body tense up with anticipation and dread.

Finally, she asked, "Daryl, what… what did you do with that girl?"

He felt like he'd been punched in the gut. His heart seemed to skip a beat. He stared back at her in disbelief. "Wh-what? What the fuck did you say?"

"You heard me." She pursed her lips, shoulders squared and back straight. "It's okay. I understand. But you need to be completely honest with me. She's young, Daryl. And like you said, unwell. She's vulnerable."

His stomach bottomed out. "You gotta be fuckin' kidding me."

"I'm not judging you, alright? I'm not disparaging. I just… I need to know the full truth. Even the parts you're ashamed of."

"I just told you the full truth! You don't believe me?!"

Carol bristled and shot back, "I didn't say I don't believe you, but—girls like that don't just become infatuated with older men like you over nothing. If you did something to put this idea in her head, you need to tell me. If you made a mistake, we can fix this."

Older men like him? What the fuck was that supposed to mean? A mistake?

He couldn't stop himself from growing defensive, snapping back, "There's no fixing this—what's wrong with her fuckin' head! She's a lunatic! I didn't do shit! I never even touched her! The only mistake I made was lettin' this shit go on as long as it did before I said somethin'!"

Carol's jaw tightened, her whole posture stiff and rigid. "You're drunk. You reek of alcohol. How long have you been drinking like this? What else have you been doing?"

A sound of disbelief escaped his throat, close to a whimper. "What? You mean the pills? I don't do that shit no more—I ain't done that shit in years. Since before Merle got convicted. You know that!"

She sighed, shaking her head. "I'm not sure what I know anymore, Daryl. You've barely talked to me since I introduced you to Connie. And now this happens and I-I have to hear it from Connie first? You shut your phone off, ignored my calls, didn't text or anything. Then you decide to randomly show up at my door, stumbling drunk and crying over some teenager? Claiming she's trying to ruin your life? For what? What do you think she could possibly be gaining from this, truly?"

"I didn't know how to tell you! Why the fuck would I lie about this?" He shot back, his tears drying up and turning to incredulous anger. "How could I make this shit up?!"

Carol's mouth was set in a tight line, her expression gone cold and stony. "Well… you said she was texting you. So show me."

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck!

"I—" he choked, swallowing hard and shaking his head. "I deleted 'em all. Blocked her number."

The look in Carol's eyes made him want to vomit. She blinked slowly and sighed. "Jesus Christ, Daryl…"

"Fine," he said. "Here, look. Look fer yerself." He reached into his pants pocket and yanked out his phone, unlocking it and opening the last set of messages Beth had sent that he'd yet to delete. "She started textin' me from some new number. I dunno how, but… she won't stop. She always finds a way." Without a second thought, he handed the phone over.

Carol took it gingerly and held it before her, studying the screen. She used her thumb to scroll up and within a few seconds, her eyes were widening.

Then he heard the familiar sounds of Beth's moaning.

Shit. Fuck. Shit shit shit. He'd already forgotten.

The fucking video.

Carol shut her eyes and dropped the phone down atop the table, pulling her hands away like she'd touched something contaminated with filth. "Daryl, what the fuck—!"

"I—no, that was the last shit she sent me, I didn't fucking ask for it, she sent it and—"

Then she was shoving the chair back and standing to her feet, shaking her head and visibly fighting back tears. "Daryl Dixon, I swear to God, whatever you've been doing—"

He leapt up from the table, his chair skidding back and toppling over behind him. "I haven't been doin' shit! Did you not see the fucking texts? How insane she sounds?!"

Carol stood in place, steeling herself and leveling him with a glare. Her voice didn't rise, and that's what scared him most. "I know how she sounds. I read them. She sounds like an impressionable young woman who's been…"

The end of her sentence trailed off and hung in the air, pregnant with unspoken implications.

"Who's been what?" He demanded. "What? Spit it out!"

"Led on. Taken advantage of. Abused," Carol said flatly. "Is that what you wanna hear? Is that what's finally gonna snap you out of this fucking pity party of delusion you're throwing for yourself?"

Once again, he felt like he'd been punched in the gut. All the air left his body in a long whoosh of disbelief. His jaw dropped and he stared at the woman he'd considered his best friend—his closest confidante, his fucking mother figure—for the last several years.

And he felt… completely alone.

Abandoned.

She went on, "I don't know what the hell happened, what's gotten into you—maybe it was Merle getting in your head, maybe it's just in your genes and there's no stopping it, maybe you're too damaged at the core to heal because you refuse to go to therapy like I've been begging you to for years—but this isn't you. This isn't who I thought you were. I don't know… I can't do this. I can't help you. You were breaking the cycle, Daryl." Her voice cracked and she stifled a sob, tears glistening unshed in her eyes. "I trusted you. I wanted better for you. I wanted to help you, Daryl. I-I believed in you."

"Then why can't you believe in me now? When it really fucking matters?!"

"Because I've been down this road!" She cried out, her voice rising with the kind of intense emotions he hadn't heard from her in years—since shortly after she got away from Ed, got her own home, got Sophia and herself somewhere safe and stable where she wouldn't have to suffer black eyes and broken bones every month. "I've seen this play out over and over and fucking over! You stay secretive and you keep things to yourself and then, when it finally comes out, you have a sob story—a million different excuses, a whole lotta crocodile tears, but no leg to actually stand on! You blame anyone and everyone else, but you never take accountability for your own actions! You come crawling back with some bullshit story that doesn't add up and you expect me to turn my back on everything and everyone else that I believe in, even though I've been the one—the only one—to give you the benefit of the doubt over and over for the better part of a decade! Now you're gonna throw it back in my face like this? Stomp all over everything I thought I knew about you? How dare you, Daryl Dixon! I defended you time and time again! But this? THIS?! What the hell do you expect me to say?!"

Daryl stood before her, struck silent and shaking. He croaked out, "I expect you t'say you believe me."

There was a fire in her eyes, bright and blazing. It was consuming everything he had left, leaving nothing but ashes.

Shaking, through gritted teeth, she said, "How. Fucking. Dare. You."

As if on cue, there was a click of a door opening down the hall, and a few seconds later, Sophia appeared. She was holding her phone in her hand, one of her earbuds in her ear and the other held in her hand as though she'd been interrupted. She stopped at the edge of the kitchen, looking from her mom to Daryl with a quizzical expression. She blinked.

"Uncle Daryl?" She asked. She looked to Carol. "Mom, why didn't you tell me he was coming over?"

Carol pursed her lips and straightened her back, composing herself. "Sophia, go back to your room, please."

"But Uncle Daryl's here—"

"Sophia," Daryl sighed out, relief flooding through his body. He began walking towards her, arms outstretched for a hug. He hadn't seen her in too long. It was like a breath of fresh air. Finally, someone who knew him—saw him for who he really was, trusted him. He longed for the comfort and innocence of her small arms.

But before he could come within two feet of her, Carol was side-stepping and intercepting them. She put a hand out behind her and pushed Sophia back. "Sophia, me an' Daryl are having a grown-up conversation. Please go back to your room and listen to your music."

Daryl stopped, dumbstruck. Sophia furrowed her brow and frowned. And Carol stood between them, as if she had to… protect her daughter from him.

He could've swore he felt his heart shattering into a million tiny pieces within his chest. Fresh tears formed in his eyes.

He locked eyes with Carol and rasped out, "Seriously…?"

She glared back, jaw set tight and voice low. "Seriously."

Sophia spoke up, "Uncle Daryl, I—"

"Sophia, I said, go to your room," Carol repeated, louder and much more stern. "Now."

Sophia made a face of disconcert but turned and retreated to her room as she was told. The door shut behind her.

A tear escaped Daryl's eye and rolled down his cheek. "Carol, I'm not Ed. I'm not Merle. I'm not even close. You know me—you still know me. I would never hurt anybody on purpose."

Carol kept her glare locked on him, unbreaking. He could see that she was fighting back her own tears, a lump forming in her throat that she kept swallowing down.

"On purpose," she repeated. Then she scoffed with disgust, looking away from him like she couldn't bear the sight of his face. "It's never on purpose. That's what Ed used to say. That's what Merle still says."

Daryl stared at her with wide, pleading eyes. "You can't—"

"I can," she said plainly. "And I will. I won't go through that again, Daryl. And I sure as hell won't put my daughter through it again… You do realize Sophia is only a few years younger than Beth, don't you?"

Desperately, he rasped out, "Beth is lying! She's a fucking stalker. She's crazy. Please, you have ta believe me. I wouldn't make this shit up. I would never, ever lie ta you." A sob choked him up and he pleaded, "Please, Carol. Yer all I've got left… I ain't got nobody else. Please."

Carol's chest visibly shuddered. She blinked long and slow, swallowing hard against the lump in her throat once more. "You have Merle. You've always had Merle."

Another tear escaped Daryl's eyes. He squeezed them shut and turned his face away, biting back a sob. He shook his head, desperately trying to right himself amongst the world that was suddenly spinning around him.

"He's my brother," he whispered out, choked with pain. "You… y-y'said you understood. You know me. You've always known me. You know me better than anybody I've ever fuckin' been friends with."

But Carol didn't budge. Her expression softened for the briefest second, almost remorseful. But it didn't last. She blinked rapidly, though a tear still escaped and slid down her cheek.

"I think you should go. Now." She swallowed hard again. "Please, Daryl. Just… just go."

He couldn't bear to look at her face. To see the pain. The anger. The disappointment.

He grabbed up his phone off the table and shoved it back in his pocket. And then he left through the front door without looking back.

Before he'd even reached the second step of the porch stairs, he heard the deadbolt locking behind him.

The next day, he dragged himself out of bed and went to work. He tried to call Carol on his lunch break, but after two rings, he was sent to voicemail. He tried to call again. And again. And again. But every time, all he got was her voicemail.

Maybe it was for the better, he thought. If even she didn't believe him, who would? He'd trusted her. Loved her. Allowed her into his life, going so far as to share his deepest, darkest secrets with her. And just like that… she'd turned her back on him.

Abandoned him. Just like everyone else.

He went home and drank himself to sleep.

When he awoke, he had a new text message waiting for him. From an unknown number. He already knew it was Beth before he even opened it.

I miss you.

He went to work with the anger and fear and desperation marinating inside him. But he refused to give her the attention she was clearly desperate for.

He drank himself to sleep once again.

One evening, he spent nearly three hours scrubbing the red spray paint off his front door. Though he couldn't seem to get rid of it entirely. He bought a bucket of paint and brushed it over the remnants. But the color didn't quite match, and he could still see the outlines of ASSHOLE underneath the fresh coat.

Beth texted him again a couple of days later.

Carol turned her back on you, didn't she? I knew she would. She never really trusted you. She never loved you. If she did, she would've understood. She had an idea of you in her head, and when that idea didn't match up with reality, she cut you off.

They always do that. Expect us to be perfect and hide our scars and all the ugly parts of us that need to come out. It hurts.

I know it hurts. I'm sorry.

He had to throw back half a bottle of whiskey just to keep himself from responding. To get those words out of his head.

A day later, she sent another string of texts that made his stomach churn and twist.

I'll never turn my back on you. I'll never cut you off. I'll never leave you. No matter what.

I miss you. So bad. I love you, Daryl. When you're ready to accept what we have and open up to me, I'll be here. Right here. Just three doors down.

Can I call you baby? I wanna call you baby. It feels right.

I can make you forget all of them, baby. You'll never need anyone else but me. I'll make sure of it.

I'll never leave you. You'll never want to leave me.

Nobody can love you like I do, baby. Nobody.

He continued going to work. Going home, taking care of Dog, drinking until he couldn't remember what he was so worried about. Until he could pass out in his bed and sleep dreamlessly. His coworkers noticed his sallow appearance, the bags under his eyes, the neglected state of his appearance. They invited him out, asked him if he was okay, offered to take him to the bar and buy him a round of beers. He turned them down every time and pretended to be okay. He lied and said he wasn't sleeping well, that he was dealing with some "personal shit." But it didn't stop the wary side-eyes. The presumptuous looks and the general avoidance.

He knew better than to try and open up to anyone else. It would only make him look worse. He was alone—completely alone. He felt eight years old again, neglected and abandoned.

As much as he hated to admit it, Beth was right.

No one would believe him. No one would ever believe him.

He came home from work one day to find an envelope on his floor, slid beneath the crack of his door while he'd been gone. He picked it up with precarious fingers and found a familiar, cherry-red lipstick print on the front. When he opened it and shook it out into his palm, two Polaroid photos fell out.

The first was a picture of her neck—fading purple bruises decorated the sides of her throat, one half flat and broad, the other spaced out in the shapes of fingers. His fingers.

The second was a nude photo. Beth was completely naked, lying on her back in her bed of pristine white sheets with one small hand cupped over her pubic area, her pink-nippled breasts on display, milky skin glowing in the flash of the camera. Her blonde hair was splayed out beneath her head, and her eyes were heavy-lidded. Seductive. Legs spread like she was inviting him in. Enticing him. Her lips were parted as though she'd been mid-moan.

She'd taken the picture so carefully that it wasn't even clear she'd taken it herself. It could've been taken by someone else, for all he knew. A downward angle taken from above, her arm out of sight. The warm light of a lamp from somewhere off in the corner basked her in a soft, almost ethereal glow.

He stared down at the photo for too long. Longer than he'd planned, than he'd wanted. A familiar, unwanted heat formed and grew somewhere beneath the pit of his stomach. Made his dick twitch and jump and ache.

His stomach turned. He tossed the photos and the envelope into the trash, face-down. Then he went straight to the shower and relieved himself.

He tried not to think about her. He tried so fucking hard. He tried to picture Connie instead, but that only hurt. He tried to picture one of the hundreds of women he'd seen in the porn videos he sometimes watched, but that only made him have to work harder for his release. He even tried to picture the cute receptionist at work, but that made him feel incomplete and creepy.

When he finally felt his release building and about to expel, the only image that popped into his head was Beth. Naked. Her porcelain complexion, her golden blonde hair, her red lips, her doe-like eyes staring up at him… her pulse pounding beneath his palm, her hot breath ghosting across his face, the damp heat between her legs pressing up against him through layers of denim…

He cried afterwards. Sobbing hard and heavy, he let the hot water wash away his tears and snot and come.

And when he finally emerged from the shower and went to bed, he found two new texts waiting for him from the same unknown number as before.

Sometimes, when I stand outside your door, I can hear you in the shower. I can hear you grunting and moaning… What were you touching yourself to? I think about you whenever I touch myself.

Did you like my pictures, baby? It sounded like you did. ;)

He finally deleted their conversation and blocked the new number she'd been using. Though he knew it was pointless.

She'd find another way to get to him.

She always did.