I don't know if I mentioned but the two stories are called -
The Start of Infinity (1998-1999) and The Journey to Beyond (present time) = To Infinity and Beyond
'Cause I knew you
Steppin' on the last train
Marked me like a bloodstain, I
I knew you
Tried to change the ending
Peter losing Wendy, I
I knew you
Leavin' like a father
Running like water, I
And when you are young, they assume you know nothing
But I knew you'd linger like a tattoo kiss
I knew you'd haunt all of my what-ifs
The smell of smoke would hang around this long
'Cause I knew everything when I was young
I knew I'd curse you for the longest time
Cardigan By Taylor swift
Chapter 40- Peter losing Wendy
You descend the stairs slowly, each step taken with deliberate care. You understand that today is not just about making a statement, but about playing your part in making your father believe in the illusion of your breakup with Daryl. Your hair, meticulously brushed, cascades down your shoulders, elegantly framing your face. However, beneath your tired eyes, the burden of sleepless nights and unresolved emotions manifests as dark circles, a visible testament to the weariness you carry.
Dressed in a white sundress, its purity contrasts sharply against the disarray of your room. The scattered pages of your father's law school tome lay haphazardly, serving as a tangible reminder of the tension between you. The room itself mirrors the turmoil within you, a battlefield of crumpled papers and toppled books.
"Daddy, did you see that? I almost beat you!" you exclaimed excitedly, a wide smile gracing your face, revealing the gap from your missing tooth. You vividly recall being a six-year-old, perched in front of your father, positioned across the sofa with your tiny legs swinging back and forth in anticipation.
"You certainly gave me a challenge, mi figlia," your father replied, rearranging the chess pieces once again. You recall feeling a sense of pride, huffing your chest out ever so slightly.
"Will I get a prize if I win?" you asked eagerly, even though your father had never allowed you to win or went easy on you before. Instead, he would provide you with lengthy explanations of what you did wrong and how you could improve, even if it was sometimes difficult for you to fully grasp.
"Not every victory comes with a tangible reward, my dear. Sometimes the satisfaction of outsmarting your opponent is the greatest prize of all," he responded, glancing up at you.
"Oh," you pouted, sticking out your bottom lip. What was the point of playing a game if there was no prize to be won you had thought?
It has been a week since your so-called breakup with Daryl, and you miss him terribly. His idea of 'a break' is to completely avoid showing up to school. You wonder if he dropped out altogether or if it was just easier for him not to see you at all. You understand that this is his own way of dealing with the situation, but you wish you could at least catch a glimpse of him in the hallways to make sure he is okay and taking care of himself.
Ever since you watched him walk away from beneath the bleachers, you have been consumed by absolute terror, a panic that tightens its grip around your heart. But this fear has become your fuel, overpowering any fear you may have for your father. It serves as a relentless motivator, driving you to prepare yourself for the challenges that lie ahead. The fear of losing Daryl casts a shadow so immense that it eclipses any other concerns, like a solitary candle struggling to emit its light against the blinding sun.
Every day, you quietly swipe a book from your father's bookshelf, not giving a second thought to whether he noticed or not. You carry your father's large, leather-bound law books even to school—many of which he collected throughout the years—and you read them during class, at lunch, and any spare moment you have.
You understand that you must make a move, but before you do, you must understand the game you are playing. Otherwise, you are playing chess while he is playing checkers, a mismatched contest that puts you at a disadvantage. You must carefully consider the situation and the legal grounds on which Daryl could fight. Although you cannot compete with your district attorney father in terms of legal knowledge, you can plan around the small amount of information you have gathered.
However, today is different. Today, you strive for something more. You want to be seen, heard, and taken seriously, so you must present yourself as your father does in every aspect of his life. Anticipation fills the air as you approach your father's office. The familiar scent of polished wood and old leather greets you as you stand before his closed door. Taking a deep breath, you draw strength from within, preparing yourself for what lies ahead.
Your father let out a sigh when he caught sight of the disappointment on your face. "But when you're much older, we can have a true competition, where something truly valuable is at stake. One generation's legacy against the new," he told you, his words filling you with wonder.
"What would I win then? Ice cream every night?" you leaned forward, resting your elbow on the table, eager to hear more.
"Something even better than that, mi figlia," he chuckled, completing the rearrangement of the chessboard to restart the game.
"Really?" you pondered, placing a finger on your chin as you tried to fathom what could possibly be better than ice cream. "A trip to Disneyland?!" you hollered out, a sudden realization dawning on you.
Your father's laughter boomed through his office, filling the air with warmth as he looked into your wide eyes. "Even better!" he exclaimed; his gaze fixed on your eager face.
"What could be better than Disneyland, Daddy?" you asked, scrunching up your face in anticipation, eager to uncover the secret.
Raising your hand, you tap your knuckles against the door, the sound echoing through the silence. You know he's inside, and without waiting for a response, you open the door. The click of the latch being unlocked reverberates in your ears, a rhythm of determination and defiance.
As the door swings open, revealing your father's sanctuary, you step into the room. The air feels heavy here, burdened by the weight of expectations and unspoken frustrations, along with the lingering smoke of cigars.
Your father is seated behind a large mahogany desk, engrossed in a sea of legal documents. His face bears lines of weariness as he looks up, meeting your gaze. A flicker of surprise dances across his eyes, momentarily breaking through his stoic façade.
You don't acknowledge him but instead turn towards the bookshelf. Walking with purpose, you approach your grandfather's framed World War II uniform. Your hand reaches for the old wooden chess set, the family heirloom your grandfather had brought with him after the war.
When you turn, your expressionless face meets his gaze. "It's time, father. One legacy versus the new," you say slowly, the chess set feeling heavy in your arms.
A pause hangs in the air as he looks at you, leaning back in his chair.
"Set the table," he says, gesturing towards the surface of his desk. As he moves his belongings aside, you take a seat in front of him, arranging the chess pieces meticulously. Meanwhile, he retrieves a fresh cigar, cuts its tip, and proceeds to light it.
No words are exchanged as you begin the game, the smoke from his cigar weaves through the air, twisting and curling like a serpent, creating a lingering atmosphere that surrounds both of you. You have spent days contemplating your approach, strategizing your moves in advance. This is not merely a game of chess; it is a battle of wits and strategy.
You understand the need to think several steps ahead, surpassing the typical five-step-ahead strategy. Today, you decide to adopt a different approach, launching a relentless attack on his king. Rather than playing cautiously, you refuse to give him time to ponder his moves and anticipate your steps. Swiftly, you move your pieces, even sacrificing some when necessary, actively making your pieces appear scattered and impulsive.
Your intention is to make him believe that you are emotionally distressed, which is partly true, but you need him to think that your game reflects that as well. After all, the game is not about you—it's about Daryl.
"This is about the boy," your father says, almost as if he can read your thoughts. Slowly, you lift your gaze, breaking your focus on the chessboard.
"Yes," you respond, acknowledging the truth. There is no need to lie, especially when he has a knack for detecting falsehoods. Moreover, you want him to understand the gravity of the situation. "I know you've had me followed. I know about Mr. Robertson and Commissioner Cox. I know what you're planning to do—the warrant and the raid. You're targeting his entire family, innocent people."
"Innocent? It's quite amusing how you describe them as innocent," he retorts, though his laughter lacks genuine amusement.
You bite your tongue, fighting back tears, suppressing the anger and hurt surging within you. You know you cannot lash out; you must maintain control, and he must take you seriously. "I love you. I have always strived to please you, to be everything you wanted me to be. I have given my all, going above and beyond on everything you've asked of me. I told you I loved him, and you tried to hurt him... even though you knew it would hurt me."
"Have I not been a good father to you? Have I not provided you with everything you could ever want? Have I not prepared you to conquer the world?" he counters, leaning back in his chair. "And yet, you feel betrayed by my actions."
Well Alice, Betrayal is a two-way street," he continues, his voice filled with a mix of disappointment and frustration. "Have you not considered how your actions have betrayed me? Disrespected me? You went against everything I taught you, against our values. You gave yourself to some degenerate. You brought him into my home under the cover of night... I didn't shoot him that day, for you, not because your mother asked me, but for you."
You take a moment to absorb his words, leaning back in your seat. "So, are you now punishing me by hurting innocent people? Okay, I understand. Your message has been received loud and clear. You win," you say, your finger fiddling with your Knight as you continue. "That's why I ended things with him. I hope you're satisfied now," you tell him, wondering if his spies have already informed him of that.
Without waiting for his response, you make your chess move, strategically placing your knight to ensure your king's safety. "But here's the deal: now that it's over, you will leave him and his family alone. You will not hurt him. I won't let you."
"You won't let me?" he questions with a twisted smirk, as he takes in a smoke, belittling your perceived power over him. In response, you offer him a small lift of your lips and slowly shift your gaze downwards. Curiously, he follows your gaze and looks at the chessboard. To his surprise, he realizes that all his pieces are trapped, except for his king.
"A King Hunt," he mutters, recognizing the aggressive tactic you've employed—a concept in chess that involves initiating an unyielding attack against the opponent's king, sacrificing pieces to create chaos and disrupt the opponent's defenses.
"No, zugzwang," you correct him, revealing your strategic move. "It's a strategy that aims to block off all of your opponent's moves, trapping the king," you tell him, something he has taught you himself. It was your plan all along to maneuver beneath the surface of your aggressive moves, allowing him to doubt you, to perceive you as irrational and emotional.
"You see, there is nowhere to go but through me," you assert, waving toward your own king, poised to checkmate him. "You are like this king, father. If you so much as touch a hair on Daryl's head, if you harm him in any way, we're finished. I will turn 18 in a month, and I will be done with this family. You will lose me forever. I will never look back at you, not once, not ever. So go ahead, make your move. But remember, it will be through me, and know that in the end, you will lose."
He puffs out smoke, contemplating the board, before pressing his cigar against the ashtray. His face maintains its stern expression, but his eyes burn with an intense fire. "I've told you before, we don't lose—I never lose," he declares, echoing the words he once spoke when revealing the story of your grandfather. As if to demonstrate his point, he makes his final move—a move that would result in his own defeat, sacrificing his own king.
"If I must lose you, then so be it. But you won't lose me," he asserts with conviction. "If you choose to run, then run. You are my daughter, and my blood flows through your veins. You will always be my legacy, and I will always be your hovering shadow. Eventually, you will find your way back home, back to me."
A tense moment passes as you both hold each other's gaze. He adjusts his chair, turning slightly to reach the file cabinet behind him. After a brief search, he retrieves a yellow manila folder, and your heart tightens in your throat, knowing exactly what that folder holds. He pulls out the warrant and places it on top, demonstrating the meaning of real power. Meanwhile, he idly searches for his pen, adding to the suspense, and you wonder if this is how all his opponents feel—trapped and helpless.
With precise penmanship, he signs the warrant, his name elegantly written at the bottom, sealing Daryl's fate. "I wasn't going to do it, but I see now that your mother was right," he states, rotating the paper so you have a clear view. "I will give you a choice—I won't harm a hair on the boy's head. However, in exchange, you need to get up and pack your clothes. I'll give you a day to say goodbye to your teachers and friends. You're going on an extended vacation until you start college."
You understand what he's saying, an ultimatum—comply or face the consequences. "What about school? My graduation? I'm almost done. I'm the valedictorian," you question, surprised by the unexpected turn of events.
"Graduation is just a ceremony," he retorts dismissively, leaning back in a relaxed manner, his fingers intertwining in deep thought. "Not everyone who walks across that stage makes a difference," he adds, his gaze unyielding.
There is a brief moment of silent confrontation, but you know you are no match for his cold stare. Thoughts race through your mind as you consider his offer. Leaving now could ensure Daryl's safety, and you have been planning and strategizing for the past few days, trying to find a way to outsmart your father. All your ideas take you outside of Georgia, outside his city, beyond his jurisdiction, where his watchful eyes and the power of the court hold less sway.
"Do I have your word, as a father to his daughter, that you won't hurt him or his family?" you finally ask, your mind racing faster than you can process.
You know this could work. Today is Thursday, and that will give you tomorrow to somehow bring Daryl on board with your plan in advance. All he has to do is join you in New York in a few months, plenty of time for him to pack and tie up his end here while your father's guard is down.
"You have my word, mi figlia. Not a hair," your father promises.
With that assurance, you rise from your seat and carefully place the chess pieces back into their box. Without uttering another word or acknowledging your father further, you return the chess set to its place on the bookshelf before exiting the room. Your steps remain controlled as you walk out of his office, his gaze following you.
When you hear the door click shut behind you, a sigh of relief escapes your lips. A slow smirk forms on your face. "Well, I don't lose either," you whisper to yourself.
As you drive down the gravel road, the sight of the familiar rows of decrepit trailers comes into view. Today is your only chance to reach Daryl, and you contemplate how to do it without attracting your father's attention. Clutched tightly in your hand is the letter you wrote last night. You had hoped Daryl would show up at school so you could discreetly slip it into his locker, but once again, luck wasn't on your side.
Now, you find yourself skipping your lunch period and driving to his home to deliver the letter in person or, if necessary, affix it to his door. Excitement pulses through your heart at the thought of seeing Daryl, yet you can't help but fear that your father might have eyes on this place too. You know you're being paranoid, but that's precisely the point with your father. You can never be sure. But you know how easy it would be for him to bribe one of Daryl's neighbors with a criminal background to report to him.
Taking a deep breath, you pull your hoodie over your head and hastily yank open the car door. You sprint toward the trailer with the black Harley motorcycle parked outside. Knocking repeatedly on the door, your eyes dart around suspiciously, but all you're met with is silence. You retrieve the letter from your back pocket, contemplating whether to slide it underneath the door crack and hope Daryl receives it in time. But just then, the door swings open, revealing the older Dixon, Merle.
"Well, well, well, if it ain't the DA's daughter," he says, leaning against the door frame with a sly smirk, dressed in a once-white, now beige, wifebeater, as he looks down at you. "What brings ya 'round here, sweet cheeks? Lookin' for trouble or just lookin' to get under my skin?" he adds, his tone laced with a hint of mischief.
"I'm looking for Daryl. Is he home?" you ask, standing on the front step, gazing up at his towering figure, and shuffling your feet nervously.
"Nah, he's out runnin' errands," he replies, his eyes fixed on your uneasy demeanor.
"Can I come in?" you request, hoping to avoid any possible prying eyes. Despite giving Daryl rides during the winter to spare him from riding his bike in the cold, you've never stepped inside his place before, even though you find yourself at his door nearly every day.
Merle hesitates for a moment, then steps back to allow you to enter. "When will he be back?" you ask as you walk past him. The interior is small, featuring a worn-out couch and a sofa bed that shows signs of daily use from the drag marks on the wooden floor. A small kitchenette sits to the side, and a boxy TV rests on a makeshift shelf against the opposite wall. Towards the back, there's a curtain dividing what seems to be a sleeping area or bedroom.
"No idea, maybe an hour or two. Who knows?" Merle replies, walking past and shutting the door behind him. "Boy has been mopin' around, like a damn storm cloud hangin' over his head." he adds, heading towards the fridge attached to the small kitchenette. Uncertain about what to do now that you are inside, you stand there, unsure of where to place yourself.
Merle returns with two beers, using the head of one to pop open the other before handing it to you. "I'm underage," you state, feeling obligated to mention it, yet still accepting the bottle from him. You observe as he settles on the worn-out couch, using his teeth to open his own beer.
"You'll be aight, it's just a beer," he says nonchalantly, waving his hand dismissively. The air grows awkward as you take a seat on the sofa, cradling the cold beer in your hand.
"Daryl done blabbed 'bout what went down with your daddy... Puttin' a damn gun to his head like that and the whole damn raid." Merle begins, and you can't help but cringe. Your thoughts have been so consumed by Daryl that you haven't even considered how Merle would react to the situation. "Well, ain't that just a fine mess y'all got us into."
"I didn't tell him anything about your activities here, if that's what you're thinking, I swear it wasn't me," you eagerly state, recalling how suspicious he had been of you to begin with when you first met him.
"I know it ain't you," he replies with a dismissive wave of his hand. "It was one of my own men. They put his head on the choppin' block, and he sang like a canary, spillin' his guts without a second thought. Fuckin' pussy." he curses, shaking his head and taking a large chug of his beer.
"Good lookin' out though for givin' Daryl the heads up like that. It's squeaky clean in here now," he says, nodding as if acknowledging your actions. Glancing around, you realize that, true to his word, the small space is clean and nothing seems out of place, unlike a typical bachelor pad with two young men living in it.
"Of course, I don't want anything to happen to Daryl or anyone because of me," you respond, your voice tinged with guilt. Halfheartedly, you lift the beer to your lips, grimacing at the bitter taste.
"Then what are you doin' here, exactly, girly?" he questions, his gaze meeting yours. "Y'all both playin' with fire..." he warns, his eyes clear and aware. It's a stark contrast to the fogginess you've seen in him before when he was high on whatever he was selling.
"My father... he's..." you struggle to find the right words to explain, but it feels impossible to convey the complexity of the situation. "I know what you're thinking, but I would never let anything happen to Daryl," you swear, your voice tight with emotion.
"Come on now, Daryl said you're a smart one," Merle remarks, giving you an all-knowing look. "You damn well know you ain't the one payin' for this consequence."
You lower your gaze, biting your lip, taking another sip of the beer. The bitterness of the drink pales in comparison to the turmoil within you.
"We had ourselves a talk, Daryl and I, sat down, shot the shit," Merle continues. "And he understands, clear as day, that ain't nobody worth puttin' himself in that kinda danger for. Nobody." His words and the way he says them make your heart plummet, as if the weight of the world has suddenly descended upon you.
"He... He said that?" you inquire, your words heavy on your tongue, a mix of hurt and desperation filling your voice.
"Yep, Darlina might be a fool, but he's finally startin' to wake up and smell the fish. Took him a good while, but I reckon better late than never, right?" Merle states confidently. After everything that has transpired, you understand why Daryl would feel that way. It's his life and the lives of his family that are at stake.
"I know, trust me, I know. But I have a plan, a plan to ensure none of us get hurt and still get what we want," you reply, turning your body towards Merle. He responds with a dismissive "pfft" and releases a puff of air accompanied by a roll of his eyes. However, you refuse to be swayed by his dismissive gesture. "I understand it may be hard for you to accept, but I love your brother, and I hope to someday spend the rest of my life with him."
"Oh, really now?" Merle says with a laugh, as if finding amusement in your statement. "Y'all gonna get married, huh? White picket fence and all. Well, ain't that a real fairy tale you're spinnin' there," he adds, his tone tinged with skepticism.
You take a deep breath, mustering your determination to make him understand. "Merle, I truly mean it. I know we haven't always seen eye to eye, but your brother loves me too, and we are good together, good for each other. We can have something real, something meaningful," you implore, leaning closer to him on the sofa. "Don't you want that for him?"
You gaze at him with wide, earnest eyes, a hint of glossiness betraying your emotions. "And you and I," you gesture between the two of you, "I want us to get along, to build a good relationship for Daryl's sake. I want you to like me," you confess, reaching out with a hopeful and earnest voice, hoping to bridge the gap between you.
Merle studies you for a moment, his eyes holding an unreadable flicker. "Look, girl, I don't hate you, and I know you care for him. But understand this: it's my damn job to look out for him, to want what's best for him," he remarks, his tone softening.
You nod vigorously, a spark of hope ignited within you. "And that's exactly what I want too. I promise I can be that person for him. I'll take care of him, always putting his needs before my own," you promise, your voice filled with determination and sincerity.
"It ain't me you gotta convince, it's your daddy," he tells you with a casual shrug of his shoulders. The mention of your father reminds you that you're supposed to be in school. Without hesitation, you jump up, placing your half-empty bottle of beer on the small table by the sofa.
"I can't wait any longer, I have to go back to school," you inform Merle, reaching into your back pocket and pulling out the folded paper. "But could you please give this to him when he gets home?" you ask, extending the letter out to him.
"Well, ain't you just a peach," he chuckles, taking the folded note and examining the red lipstick mark of a kiss left on the top.
"Please, promise me," you plead, feeling your cheeks flush as you catch the teasing smirk he gives you.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I already told ya, I only want what's best for him," he says, waving his hand indifferently as he tucks the letter into his pocket. "I'll give him your damn note."
You nod, a bright smile spreading across your face as you reach out and place a warm hand over his. "Thank you, Merle," you state as he glances at your hand in surprise. With one more nod, you pull back and make your way to the door, feeling a sense of accomplishment.
You don't know how you did it, but by some miracle, everything is going according to plan. Tiptoeing across the wooden floor, the soft creaking under your weight is amplified by the silence. You slide open the window and gaze down from the second floor of your bedroom, the darkness exaggerating the distance.
Your room is a mess, but none of it matters. Suitcases filled with clothes are scattered everywhere, separating what you're taking from what's staying, with the promise that when your father comes to visit, he will bring you whatever you may have left behind. But none of it matters now. You have been patiently waiting for your mother to finish packing, observing her as she runs around, cussing and huffing, while you silently watch the clock.
But now, it's time. The house is silent, and you know they're both in bed. The weight of your backpack filled with your father's law books rests on your shoulders as you clumsily maneuver your body out of the open window, the cool night breeze whispering against your skin. Moonlight peeks through the partly cloudy sky, providing your only source of light, casting ghostly shadows that dance on the walls. You try to be stealthy, but your hands shake as you grip the ladder you had previously positioned earlier the night, wondering how Daryl did it, climbing up and down so effortlessly.
With each careful step, the ladder groans under your touch. Its metallic rungs dig into your palms, sending shivers down your spine. Your heart races, pounding in your ears, as if echoing your exhilaration. Every rung brings you closer to freedom, to Daryl, and to endless possibilities—to your infinity and beyond.
Your knees tremble as you finally touch the ground, feeling your feet sink slightly into the soft earth. The scent of freshly cut grass mingles with a faint hint of adventure in the air. Shadows cast by the moon guide your path as you swiftly move towards your car, concealed in the darkness of the street.
The engine of your car purrs to life, its familiar hum a comforting melody in the night. The soft glow of the dashboard illuminates your face, your eyes glancing at the clock above with excitement.
11:02pm
You have 28 minutes to get there, just enough time to drive to the cliff. The road stretches ahead, an asphalt ribbon disappearing into the abyss of darkness, leading you towards the cliff where everything began for you and Daryl. With each passing mile, the world outside your car window seems to hold its breath. The landscape unfolds like a surreal dreamscape, bathed in the moon's pale glow. Tall trees stand sentinel, their branches swaying gently in the night breeze.
Finally, you arrive at the cliff, the forest behind it whispering in the shadows. The night sky stretches above you like a vast canvas, adorned with countless stars that twinkle knowingly. It was beautiful during the day, but it transforms into something magical at night, with the city lights beneath sparkling as brightly as the stars.
You step out of your car, and the chill of the night sends a shiver down your spine. The soft breeze tousles your hair, and you glance back towards the forest, its darkness resembling a beckoning abyss. In that moment, you think of a young and frightened Daryl, the days he spent lost in those very woods, in the pitch darkness.
Your heart swells with determination as you get back into the car. You know that tonight, everything will change, and your future will begin.
Merle doesn't know why he does the things he does. He's a damn mystery to himself.
Merle doesn't know why he said the things he said to the girl, perhaps it was wishful thinking on his part.
He glances up at Daryl, his eyes following his little brother as he prepares a peanut butter sandwich in the small kitchenette. Merle knows damn well no matter how hard he tried to drive it into Daryl's thick skull, his opinion didn't mean a damn thing when it came to that girl.
It was like talkin' to a wall, tryin' to make Daryl see reason. Merle was used to gettin' under his brother's skin, pushin' his buttons, but when it came to matters of the heart, it was a whole different ballgame. No amount of words or warnings could make Daryl budge. It frustrated the hell outta Merle, seeing the train wreck happenin' right before his eyes, but Daryl's got blinders on.
Shit, even now, it ain't hard to see that Daryl's all riled up. Merle can tell, clear as day, just by the way he's shootin' those side-eyes and sportin' a stink face. Ever since he told him to cut ties with that girl, it's like he kicked a damn hornet's nest. Daryl huffs as he marches right past him, a damn sandwich in one hand and a Walkman in the other. Without even sparing a glance, he plops his body onto the already prepared pullout sofa.
Merle shakes his head—what a fuckin fool. Walkin' around with his head up his ass, thinkin' he's got it all figured out.
Thoughts of the girl bring Merle's attention to his front pocket, where the letter rests. With that in mind, he gets up without giving a second glance at his little brother, who has a headset over his ears, the music leaking softly enough to be heard in the background.
The moon hangs low in the sky, casting a pale glow over the deserted trailer park. Merle steps out of his cramped trailer, the creaking door echoing through the stillness of the night. The darkness envelops him like a heavy cloak as he makes his way to the clearing, where the remnants of last night's bonfire lie scattered. Bending down, he gathers the leftover wood, their charred edges still emanating warmth.
With skillful hands, Merle arranges the wood in a tidy pile, a testament to his years of practice. And with a sigh, he settles into his outdoor chair, the makeshift cushion thin and sagging. Within reach, he retrieves a small gas can. A quick splash of gas and a flick of a match later, the warmth of the fire combats the chilly air as he reclines, his hand moving to his pocket.
He retrieves the now wrinkled folded paper, the red lipstick on it making him chuckle once again as he carefully unfolds it. Her handwriting is just like her—none of that messy scribblin' nonsense. Moonlight dances across the ink as Merle begins to read, his lips moving silently.
He can't help but puff out a burst of air as he lets out a hearty chuckle, wondering what the hell is goin' on, like some twisted version of Romeo and Juliet playin' out right before his fuckin eyes. When did his brother become so sappy? He bet Daryl would eat up her words too, like it's a gourmet meal—all this lovey-dovey jabber.
He supposes she's a looker, got them eyes that could charm a snake. But there's somethin' about that girl that's got Daryl hooked, somethin' that's got him seein' stars and hearin' music. He reckons in some twisted way it was a good thing, 'cause he was starting to wonder if that boy could even get it up... Shit, it was lookin' grim, until she came along.
The first time he met her, she had the audacity to brazenly threaten him, stickin' her nose up in the air, while trespassing on his own goddamn land while she was at it. Talk about some brass balls on her.
But the gal had made one hell of an impression. The kind that got him thinkin', "Well, ain't you somethin'"
Although he had only seen her a few times, he made damn sure to get on her nerves every chance he got, simply because he found it downright entertaining to see how she'd try to ignore him. The way she'd squirm and twitch them eyebrows, all in an effort to pretend she didn't give a damn.
However, there ain't no future with her for his brother. She didn't have the makings of a Dixon, no siree. She wasn't the type to just roll over and accept every damn thing that came along with bearin' that name either. He hadn't even considered her old man, his brain too foggy with drugs, not until the night Daryl told him about how her father had put a gun to his head. At that moment, Merle knew it had to end—it needed to happen quick.
He had heard all kinds of horrible stories about the DA of Georgia—tales passin' around like a damn plague. They called him the conqueror, and Merle thought what a fuckin narcissistic ass name until he was behind bars and saw what the man was capable of. A ruthless fucker that man…
And now, he was comin' for 'em all. Merle knew that, being on probation, he was the easiest target.
He looks at the letter once more before bringing the tip of the letter closer to the flickering flames. A spark ignites the paper, and a small flame dances along the edges. Merle watches as the fire consumes the words, its glow casting an eerie light on his weathered face.
As the flames devour the paper, his hand moves to his pocket, retrieving a joint that's already rolled and patiently waiting. Merle brings the burning remnants of the letter closer to his lips, the smoky scent mingling with the fading ink. A flicker of orange illuminates his face as he leans in, the flame transferring its heat to the tip of his smoke.
As he takes that first drag, a sense of calm washes over him. The smoke dances lazily in the night air, intertwining and blending seamlessly with the swirling darkness. Once the joint is lit, he releases the remains of the letter, watching as it disintegrates in the heart of the fire. The ashes swirl and dance, carried away by the whispers of the wind. Merle remains there, still and contemplative, the glow of the fire reflecting in his eyes. The crackling and popping of the flames fill the night air as the smoke slowly rises into the sky.
The darkness surrounds you, except for the dimly lit interior of your car, where the headboard light illuminates the pages of your books. The soft hum of your music, an Aerosmith CD playing in the background, fills the silence. Your eyes shift restlessly, glancing at the ticking dashboard clock every few minutes. Each passing second feels like an eternity.
12:17am
Daryl is over 45 minutes late. Despite the delay, you remain patient, considering the possibility that he may not have received the letter on time. But you believe he must be on his way now.
You are aware that what lies ahead won't be easy, yet your hand continues to write, committing your plan to paper, something concrete to offer Daryl. The words outline your strategy. "Always stay five steps ahead," your father used to tell you. It has become second nature for you to approach everything with this mindset.
You understand that even though the illusion of separation exists, your father won't let Daryl out of his sight. You know he will check on him, running his name through the system, keeping tabs on him.
Step 1: Change Daryl's identity.
That's the only solution you can think of, contemplating the logic behind witness protection programs. The first step is always to change one's name. If Daryl were to adopt a new name, it would likely keep him off your father's radar. Perhaps you can obtain a fake ID in New York temporarily until you can consult legal professionals who specialize in identity protection. That way, he can assume a well-established identity that would be difficult to trace.
You wonder what name he would like. It's hard to imagine him as anyone other than Daryl, but maybe a different spelling or a change in his last name will suffice.
12:49am
Step 2: Get legally married in a favorable location.
You turn the pages of your father's legal book, scanning through the states and their respective annulment periods. Suddenly, a realization hits you, and you let out a laugh, smacking the page with your pen. "Of course!" you exclaim. "The sleaziest city in all of America—Las Vegas!"
You understand that if you were to get married in any other state, your father could potentially force you into an annulment, possibly using the same threat. Most states have no time limit for annulments, making it easy for him to file the necessary documents, claiming a coerced marriage or something equally outrageous. However, Las Vegas has a shorter annulment period—only six months. After that, the only option would be a divorce.
1:30am
Your gaze flickers nervously between the road ahead and the rearview mirror, desperately searching for any sign of Daryl's arrival. However, there is no distant headlight or flicker of shadow—just dead silence and an eerie darkness that seems to consume everything, including your hopes and dreams.
No, you know he will come. Perhaps his bike broke down; that old bike has so many issues. With that thought, you return your attention to your notes.
Step 3: Secure financial support.
You understand that simply getting married won't be enough. Even though you'll have a joint account by then, additional legal measures are necessary to solidify your marriage. You could sign a prenuptial agreement to give Daryl everything in the event of a divorce. This would mean he would receive your grandmother's entire inheritance—a move would undoubtedly irk your father, as it would mean relinquishing every penny of his own father's money to Daryl.
Moreover, in case of any unforeseen circumstances, the agreement would provide Daryl with financial backing. He could then hire the best lawyer in the country to fight against your father's legal actions if need be. You understand all of this must be done discreetly and with the assistance of professionals who can maintain confidentiality and specialize in such matters.
2:22am
Step 4: Unearth damaging information.
Take a page out of your father's playbook. Dig into his own dirt. Given all the questionable things he's done, it's highly likely he has plenty of skeletons in his closet. You contemplate whether your grandfather's background is a secret—a mobster's son turned politician. If you can uncover your grandfather's original name, there's a chance you might find some damaging information that could tarnish the Hart family name. You could consider hiring a private investigator to search for any compromising details. Alternatively, you could seek someone who has firsthand knowledge or grievances against your father, like Commissioner Cox.
Step 5: Leverage.
You could strategically leverage the media and public opinion against him. Whatever you uncover needs to be significant enough to hold over your father's head and make him think twice before taking any legal action. It should be something that has the potential to risk his reputation and legacy.
As you ponder the plan, you find yourself thinking, "Yeah, this could work." You're aware that it won't all happen in a single day, but the first step is to wait at least three months and have Daryl accompany you to New York, where he can blend in with the crowd.
You look at the clock again.
3:57am
Excuses dance in your mind like fleeting mirages, conjured in a desperate attempt to explain Daryl's delay. Maybe he got caught up with something more important, or perhaps he simply lost track of time. But as you watch the minutes tick and change, a nagging doubt creeps into your thoughts like a poison seeping through your veins.
In a sudden, jerking movement, you shut off the car, and the green glow of the clock disappears along with the music. Now, you are left with nothing but darkness. Anxiety tightens its grip around your chest, constricting your breath and causing your heart to race with an erratic beat. The once comforting and intimate space of the car, where you shared kisses and made love, now feels like a suffocating prison. The air grows thin, and you find yourself gasping for each precious breath, weighed down by the oppressive silence that surrounds you.
"And he understands, clear as day, that ain't nobody worth puttin' himself in that kinda danger for. Nobody." Merle's voice echoes in your head.
And then, like a bolt of lightning, the realization strikes you with merciless force.
...
Daryl is not coming.
...
The truth rips through your fragile defenses, tearing apart the delicate web of hope you had woven.
There is a moment, time stops still. In that moment, your world shatters...
Your vision seems warped as everything moves around you. Panic takes hold, squeezing your thoughts and blurring the boundaries of reality as you gasp for air.
Daryl is not coming.
Your trembling legs carry you out of the car, stumbling and unsteady. The ground beneath your feet feels foreign, as if the earth itself shares in your disorientation. Tears stream down your face as you stand there, not knowing what to do.
He thought about it, didn't he? Took his time and considered the danger—maybe this is why he stopped coming to school. He's letting you go, isn't he?
It isn't worth it for him, the risk of being with you. Can you blame him, though? You know it's selfish to ask him to put you before the safety of the people he loves.
But... he is who you love. You love him... you love him... you love him...
Memories assault you—promises and future plans. The whisper of "I love you" at the crack of dawn as he leaves your room.
Daryl is not coming.
4:51am
His voice rings in your head... "I been in love with you since the library, you know."
"Hey, don't stress, I'll do whatever, aight?"
He didn't mean that; it was a momentary thought.
"Whatever it takes to have you, I'll do it. I want you to know that, without a shadow of a doubt."
The edge of the cliff beckons, and you take a step forward, standing at the precipice that mirrors the abyss within your soul. You find yourself slowly sinking to the ground, your knees unable to support you. The first delicate hues of dawn brush across the sky, as if nature itself mourns with you.
Your ears feel deaf as your scream tears through your lungs, but you can't hear it. Just the thumping of your heartbeat takes over everything.
You don't hold back your sobs as the morning light, though feeble and distant, casts a soft glow upon your tear-streaked face. It is a bittersweet reminder that life continues its relentless march, even when your heart is dying a slow death. Your anguished weeps reverberate through the silence, carried by the gentle breeze that caresses your cheeks.
You raise your gaze, your weary eyes meeting the slow ascent of the sun. In this moment, you surrender to your pain, allowing the weight of your grief to be witnessed by the half-asleep world around you. The echoes of your sorrow mingle with the waking sounds of nature—the distant chirping of birds, the rustling of leaves, the soft lapping of waves below.
Get up, get up!
If your father wakes up before you get home, Daryl's decision won't matter. Your father will see it as a blatant lie and disrespect—a rebellion. You have to protect him. You know it couldn't have been easy for Daryl, but he made his choice. You must accept that. You must protect him.
Your knees feel weak, and you crawl and stumble toward your car, your cries still loud and your vision blurry as you struggle to get inside. There is a moment of pause as you find yourself gazing out at the cliff where it all began for you, where you fell in love with a boy so kind and selfless. Memories flood your mind—moments of laughter, greasy food, sunsets, and warm kisses.
He's letting you go... he's not coming.
You start the car's engine, the soft rumble filling the air, and you turn away from the cliff, leaving behind the memories and the echoes of your tears.
You stand in the familiar comfort of your own room, numbness blanketing you. As you watch Scarlet's vibrant red feathers, she chirps at you from within her golden cage. Tears have carved a path down your cheeks, leaving behind traces of your emotional turmoil. Your eyes are red, and your face is swollen. With trembling hands, you reach towards Scarlet's golden cage, its ornate bars representing the confines of your own prison—the prison of your life, demands, and expectations that made you lose Daryl.
You cradle her delicate form in your hands, as Daryl's words ring in your head.
"You're like this bird, with wings to take on the world, only to be trapped in a cage."
You gently carry Scarlet towards the window, the same window Daryl used to crawl in almost every night. The pane of glass acts as a threshold between the world of confinement and the realm of possibilities. Without hesitation, with a single, purposeful motion, you release your hold on Scarlet, allowing her to take flight. The beat of her wings fills your hand, a symphony of freedom that echoes your own yearning for release. As she soars into the open expanse, her vibrant plumage against the backdrop of the sky, you watch her disappear into the distance.
A mix of emotions swirls within you as you witness Scarlet's flight. There is a bittersweet ache in your chest as you wish the same for yourself, and the same for Daryl.
"Alice, it's time!" your mother calls, her voice echoing throughout the hallway. With a sigh, you wipe your tears, though they keep falling one after another. With nothing else left to do, you walk out of your room, leaving behind only the empty golden cage and Mr. Beans, your stuffed toy.
My dearest Daryl,
I don't know where to begin... I couldn't sleep last night because my mother washed my sheets, and I could no longer smell your scent on my pillows. It all feels like a nightmare, and I just want to wake up with you in my bed, warm as you hold me, to the familiar smell of you.
I would even welcome the late-night pebble-throwing at 2am on a school night. I miss that, I miss the distinct sound of a tiny rock hitting the glass, as I sit awake night after night, waiting to hear it.
I don't know if I told you this before, but before I met you, I felt adrift, like a piece of rock in space with no control over my life. My parents dictated how I dressed, what I ate, and everything in between.
But then you entered my life, a boy who shone so bright, so radiant, amidst all the darkness surrounding you, and I was blinded. You are like the sun, Daryl, and your warmth, kindness, and selflessness drew me in, just as the sun pulls a planet with its gravity. In your presence, I was transformed from a lifeless rock into a moon, orbiting within your gravitational pull.
And what a pull you have...
With you, I feel passion, excitement, adventure, and even a hint of danger. With you, I have never felt more alive, never felt more free.
God, Daryl, there is not a single part of me that doesn't crave every part of you.
You are my light. My warmth. You are my sun, and I am your moon. Like the moon, I reflect your light, and like the moon, I cannot exist without you. I cannot imagine my life without you.
Ever since the moment I last saw you walking away from me, I've been feeling this overwhelming pressure in my chest, as if it was the final glimpse I'd ever have of you. I thought we had time, but I now realize that we don't. My parents intend to take me away from the city, pulling me out of school. I've spoken to my father, and he has given me an ultimatum.
I am leaving tomorrow.
Now, that pressure has turned into panic, but through the haze, everything in my head is clear. That day, underneath the bleachers, I am so sorry if I made you feel like I didn't want to fight for you. I was terrified of my father, and what he would do to you and your loved ones. But I am no longer afraid because I can be brave, just like you, Daryl.
I can be brave because we have something worth fighting for, worth going to war for, worth dying for. And then that realization struck me so easily, effortlessly, like breathing, how I would die for you in a heartbeat and truly mean it.
I wouldn't even blink. Not once, not ever.
God, I love you, Daryl Dixon.
I love you!
I love you with a fever!
You and me,
To infinity and beyond.
Meet me tonight at the cliff at 11:30 pm, my sun. I have a plan, and I will be waiting for you.
I'm ready.
Yours forever,
Xoxo, Your Moon.
Notes:
Wow, over 8k words later, this chapter is done. This will conclude the story for- The Start of Infinity.
I have one small chapter I want to add as epilogue, but that will be it. After that, we will maintain present time only.