Even though this chapter took a long time to write, it was fun, experimenting with Daryl's Pov and his background.

Take me down
Where the water doesn't make a sound
It's the only place where I
Can think out loud

I need you to unhold me
Unhold me
Let me swim on my own
Let me sink on my own

Unhold Me - Peter Sandberg ft. Arctic Lake

Chapter 24 - Road Map of Scars

As your father takes a sip of his whiskey, the sound of ice cubes clinking against the glass breaks your concentration. You sit across from him in his dimly lit office, the chessboard placed between you both. The warm August night air drifts softly in through the open window, carrying with it the sweet scent of blooming flowers and the distant hum of crickets chirping in the dark.

Your father pushes his e4 pawn two spaces forward, and you immediately respond with e5, mirroring his move. The smirk that breaks out on his face is slow and deliberate, and you twitch, looking down at the board again. You know he is trying to get in your head, but you won't fall for that. You look up at him, returning the leering smile, but unlike you, he only seems entertained by it. He chuckles as he takes a puff from a lit Cuban cigar, the glowing ember casting an orange gleam on his face.

It has been two days since you last saw Daryl on that terrible date night. Even though you are hurt, you are no longer angry. In fact, you miss him terribly. Every day for the whole summer, you've been together, and you can't help but feel like something is off with your day without his presence, like you forgot something important. And constantly, your mind eats at you with the vision of him standing in that parking lot, gripping his hair as you drove off that night.

It seems as though the days are dragging by, except for when your usual meet-up hour arrives. On both days, you had to fight yourself not to get up and go to the park, forcing yourself to sit in front of your open book. You reread the same pages unable to concentrate as the seconds tick away in the background. You know a bit of separation would do you good, but this gut-wrenching pain in the pit of your stomach feels like it's trying to consume you from the inside out.

Part of you knows Daryl will never purposely try to hurt you, and you also know he can be hot-headed sometimes. You let out a sigh, wondering when he started having this much control over your day.

Your thought is interrupted as your father makes his counter moves, and you curse under your breath. You have been at this game for over an hour, both of you unwilling to give in, countering his relentless moves one after another. You bite your nails, trying to think of the best move, but just then, a soft breeze flows from the open window, moving the papers on his desk. Your eyes are drawn to the open manila folder sitting on his work table.

"Greg, the way he acts when he comes around here… he's afraid of you, isn't he?" you ask as the thoughts come to your attention. "You have something big on him, don't you?" Your fingers advance your bishop.

He lets out a thick smoke, looking at you through the fumes. "The significance lies not in the information I possess about him, but rather in his perception of me," he tells you, and your eyes follow as he taps the cigar to the ashtray. "You see, humans possess a natural inclination towards both violence and compassion. Therefore, the question at hand is whether you would rather be liked, or feared."

Asking a question that you already know the answer to, you inquire anyways, "What is his perception of you?" Memories of your childhood flood your mind, when your father used to take you to work with him, allowing you to sit in his office with your books and puzzles. Though most of the conversations were beyond your comprehension, you would observe his body language - how he would intrude into people's personal space, his eyes devoid of emotion, a cold and calculated smirk on his face.

"That I am a man prone to violence. It is an innate trait, passed down to me, after all." You furrow your eyebrows in response to his answer. As a child, you didn't understand why people trembled in his presence, but as you grew older, you began to connect the dots. You also understood that he wanted you to witness his behavior as a visual aid, as part of his process of teaching.

"Aren't you afraid of retaliation?" you question. After all, Greg is the police commissioner, a powerful man in his own right.

Your question seems to hit home, as his face lights up with a genuine smile, and his eyes become lost in thought for a moment. With a shake of his head, he turns to face you, extinguishing his cigar on the ashtray.

"When I was around your age, I posed that very same question to my father." He says, nostalgia heavy in his voice. You lean forward, your curiosity piqued since your father never speaks of your grandfather, and he always brushes you off whenever you inquire about him.

"And I will share with you exactly what he told me," he says, picking up his liquor and taking a sip before leaning in closer to you as well. "Memento mori." He whispers, pausing to let the word sink in. "a Latin phrase that translates to, 'remember that you will die.'" You watch him with wide eyes as he reaches for your chin and gently holds your face.

"So, if we only bear in mind that our demise is ultimately unavoidable, what is left for us to be afraid of then?" His voice is steady, unwavering. He releases your face and slowly moves to the chessboard; and you follow his gaze as his king takes over yours.

"Checkmate," he declares with his trademark smirk displaying on his face.

As he lies on the worn-out sofa-bed, staring at the cracked ceiling of the trailer park home he shares with his brother, Daryl feels a deep hurt that seeps into every fiber of his being. His restless hands fiddle with the portable CD player Alie has given him, but it offers no solace. Instead, he is left to face the deafening sound of his brother's snoring, echoing through the cramped space.

In a moment of desperation, he places the wire earbuds in his ear and plays one of the songs she has chosen for him. The soft rhythm drowns out the noise around him, and he is transported back to the moment when he had hurt her. The memory plays out in his head like a movie, and he wishes he could turn back the clock and undo everything.

He can't shake off the image of the hurt and vulnerable look in those innocent teary eyes of hers, now etched permanently in his mind. The heavy weight of his mistake sits in his heart like a stone lodged in his chest, making it hard to breathe. It has been two days since he last saw her, and the pain of her absence is unbearable.

For two days, he had gone to the park at their usual time and waited at their spot, hoping she would show up so he could ask for her forgiveness. But when she didn't come, he knew he had fucked up big time.

He didn't mean to hurt her. She had told him she saw the real him, but part of him was afraid to show her everything else. She was pure and beautiful, untainted by the darkness of the world. He, on the other hand, had been born into the filth of this world, his skin covered by his ugly past trauma and even uglier scars.

Of course, he wanted her. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him. When she brought up his scars, he had tensed up, feeling a hot rush of shame and anger. The memories of his abusive father flooded his mind, and he felt the old wounds, both physical and emotional, reopen.

His insecurities had taken over, and his temper had flared up like a raging inferno. He had lashed out at her and crossed a line that he could never undo. The moment the words left his mouth though, he desperately wanted to take them back, but it was too late.

Daryl had never shown nor spoken to anyone about his scars, not even his brother. It was a deeply sensitive topic for him, a reminder of the times he felt powerless and alone, lost in a sea of dark thoughts that threatened to consume him.

As he rises to a seated position, his hand reaches over his shoulder, his fingers tracing over the rough, raised skin on his back. He closes his eyes and remembers her lips pressed to his neck, her soft voice whispering that she sees the real him, and he never has to hide from her.

In that instant, he longs to reach out to her, to show her everything and apologize. There as he sits, he fights the self-doubt, the fear of rejection, and shame that try to keep him rooted to his spot. As the night wears on, and the darkness outside his window deepens, he finally makes up his mind. With enough courage and bravery he can muster, he gets up and grabs the key to his motorcycle.

As you lie in bed, your gaze fixed on the rapidly spinning ceiling fan, your mind races at the same dizzying speed. Restlessness, anxiety, and a hint of loneliness weigh heavily on your heart, and despite your efforts to shake off these emotions, they cling to you like a thick blanket.

Just as you think you may never fall asleep, a tapping sound on your window catches your attention. Initially, you dismiss it, thinking it's a tree branch or the wind. Only when the noise persists, growing louder and more insistent, do you get up into a seated position. You check the time and realize it's almost 2 am. Scrunching your forehead, you swing your legs out of bed with a mix of curiosity and apprehension.

Quietly tiptoeing over to the window, you peer out into the darkness between your curtains. At first, you see nothing but the swaying silhouette of trees. As your eyes adjust to the dark, you notice movement. With the moonlight as your aid, you gasp when you see Daryl standing outside your window, his face half-hidden in shadows. Your heart leaps into your throat at the sight of him, only to pull your face back as a pebble hits your glass window.

Yanking your curtains open, you push the window up. "Daryl, what are you doing here?" you whisper, not so quietly.

He doesn't reply immediately, just stares up at you like you're a princess high in a castle. "I gotchu the chocolate you like," he says after a moment, holding up a plain white plastic bag you didn't notice before. You want to scold him for showing up unannounced at almost 2 am with sweets you didn't ask for. Especially when your father is sleeping in the other side of the house. However, the look on his face, even in the darkness - a mix of sadness, regret, and longing - stops you in your tracks.

You let out a deep sigh and give in, opening the invisible door. "The minty kind?" you ask, and he immediately steps forward.

"Yes, and the orange soda you like," he replies, lifting the bag higher. You know it's not about the contents of the bag, but rather an excuse to see you.

"There's a ladder in the shed behind you, but make sure you're quiet," you instruct, pointing towards the garden shed. Daryl follows your direction, and soon he's out of sight. All you can hear in the pitch darkness is the sound of metal scraping and a door latching. Eventually, he comes back into view, raising the ladder to your window. You open the window wider as Daryl climbs up to the opening, stumbling a bit as you help him inside.

There's an awkward pause once he stands in front of you. His eyes glance around your room, like the first time he was here, hesitation obvious on his face. He clears his throat and hands you the bag. You curiously take it and look inside, finding three pieces of your favorite chocolate and a bottle of orange soda. Your heart warms at the gesture, knowing he got you what he could afford. "Thank you," you whisper.

"You didn't come," he says, his eyes landing on you. He finally seems to notice the way you're dressed as he scans over your thin and barely covering pajama shorts and the matching silky top. Without even asking, you know he means the park.

"I thought we needed space," you tell him, moving towards your desk to place the sweets.

"No, we don't," he speaks firmly. "We don't need no space. I ain't mean to make you think I didn't want you. I do." His tone softens as he continues. You lift your gaze towards him, the dim light from your nightstand casting a gentle glow. "What I said... I'm sorry. I ain't mean it at all. I'm not tryin' to hide from you either. I just didn't know how to show you."

"But Daryl, you've already been showing me every day, little by little," you tell him, and he rubs the back of his neck while his eyes drift away from your face.

"I wanna show you everythin', but I don't know where to start," he confesses. You realize that maybe you have been pressuring him to open up. Perhaps It would have been better to allow him to disclose his thoughts and feelings gradually, as he has been doing all along.

"It's okay, Daryl. You don't have to show me everything right now," you say, stepping closer to him and nibbling on your lip. "I'm sorry if I pushed you too hard. Whenever you are ready, you can show me. I'm not going anywhere," you reassure him, but he doesn't meet your gaze. Instead, he plays with the hem of his shirt and stares at the floor, his throat constricting as he tries to muster the bravery to speak up.

"It's okay, Daryl, it's okay." you whisper, extending your hands towards him. But before you can touch him, you watch in slow motion as he grips the hem of his shirt tightly and pulls it off in one swift motion.

You stand there, holding your breath, as he gradually meets your gaze. In that moment, you can sense how vulnerable and exposed he is feeling. His chest heaves with each breath, his heart pounding. As he turns around slowly, you bear witness to a deeply personal and painful part of him. The last time you saw it, it was nothing but a brief glance, but now, it's at full display.

You are momentarily taken aback again, fighting the urge to gasp as you observe the scars that crisscross Daryl's skin. They are deep, lengthy, and jagged, resembling an abstract painting. Some of them even appear to be cigarette burns, a testament to the abuse that he had suffered at the hands of his father.

For a moment, neither of you utter a single word. You stand there, trembling, as you take in the full extent of the damage that had been inflicted upon him. Although you feel the urge to trace and memorize each of his scars, your body moves instinctively. You take quick steps, wrapping both of your hands tightly around his waist, and press your face against his warm skin. You can feel him gasping for air, his body held tight, but you hold him even tighter, tenderly grazing your lips over the uneven surface of his scars.

As you bestow a few more kisses, your thoughts race, pondering what kind of remarkable individual he must be to survive such trauma and still possess such a gentle soul.

When you turn him to face you, your fingers brush against his face, sweeping back the unruly strands of hair that threaten to obscure his eyes. But as you gaze upon his anxious-filled face, you realize that he fears your reaction. Perhaps he expects judgment, ridicule, or even rejection.

"You're amazing, Daryl," you tell him, lifting yourself onto your tiptoes to press a gentle kiss to his parted lips. He responds with a shaky breath, his fingers drawing you closer to him in a tight embrace.

"Come," you whisper as you break the kiss, tracing his cheekbones with a gentle finger. He follows, as if under a spell, as you lead him towards the bed. Crawling back to your side, you pull back the covers and invite him to join you. Every movement he makes is hesitant, and you can tell he's out of his comfort zone as he kicks off his shoes before sliding under the covers beside you.

He moves easily towards you as you pull him in, resting his head on your chest and clasping his hands tightly around you. The room is quiet, except for the soft hum of the fan overhead, and your hand that's trapped underneath him traces the lines of his scars on his back with your fingertips.

"It's your dad, isn't it?" you whisper softly, barely above a breath.

Daryl finds himself lying under the soft, cool bedsheets that smell just like his Alie. He isn't sure how he ended up there; all he had planned was to see her and apologize. But there he is, feeling the strong beat of her heart as she pulls him close to her chest. Her breast becomes his pillow, while one of her hands gently strokes his hair, and the other maps the scar on his skin. As he lies there, surrounded by her warmth, with one of her legs nestled between his, he realizes that he has never been held like this by anyone before. There is something about her flowery perfume, and her soft, feminine voice that makes him feel so safe.

"My old man was a shitty human bein'," he says, opening himself up to her. She tightens her fingers around his back, and part of him understands, it's an unspoken promise to be there for him. "I can't recall a single day when he ain't violent." As Daryl speaks, his voice vibrates, echoing through her skin. "He would come home drunk and if we're lucky he'd just pass out on the couch and leave us alone."

"Back at our old place, we had a big ol' pillar that was 6in by 6in in size, and it stood tall outside of our house," he recalls. "We'd hang our huntin' game on it and use it to skin our harvest. It was a real handy spot." He remembers it so well - the thick wooden post, cemented into the ground. It was where he had learned how to hook his first catch. "It's also the same spot where my old man would dole out his best beatin's."

"Merle taught me how to hide," he says. "I used to hide under the bed, all the way at the end, where I could still catch a whiff of the musty smell. That way, my pa wouldn't be able to get to me. But sometimes, Merle's screams were so loud that I'd come out of hidin' and watch through the crack in the window."

Merle had never given their father the pleasure of hearing his screams, until their father got creative. Then his screams would pierce through the thin walls. Occasionally, his father would swing at his mother, and Daryl would cry too as he heard her soft pleas. Even though he was small, all he wanted to do was fight for her and protect her. "He ain't never held back his punches."

"There were days when my father would set his eyes on me. I was a scrawny kid, and Merle knew I wouldn't be able to take his beatin's, so he would jump in and start swingin' at him, sayin' some vile shit, the kind of shit that would irk my old man." His brother was the toughest asshole Daryl had ever met, and he had never seen anyone take a beating like that, just to come back the next day with his chin held high, and stand in front of him, shielding him from his father's rath. Daryl remembers how his small hands would cling onto his brother's pants, as their father looms over them.

"There were times when he would give me a little smack, but the first time he really got me, he knocked me out cold. And I wasn't even four years old yet." Daryl says as he recalls waking up to his brother's bruised face, his head swollen, but he had felt so tough, as Merle christened him as one of the Dixon boys. He remembers smiling, holding a frozen meat to his head.

"The year my mom died was the same year Merle grew like a fuckin' weed," he continues, the memories flooding back, how much worst it gotten after her death. "He had it comin, and Merle gave it as good as he got. He regularly started puttin' him to sleep." His father was older, often drunk, and he couldn't handle Merle's payback.

"One fuckin day, Merle up and decided to join the military," he says, his voice heavy with resentment. "He used to say, ain't nobody else but the two of us, and he left me." Even after ten years, the anger still sat heavy in his chest. Merle chose to join the military only to fuck up and get court-martialed. Daryl can't help but feel like his brother abandoned him for something he didn't even take seriously, only to be sent to prison for sixteen months.

"I was only 8, when the first time my old man dragged me out to that pillar-" Daryl's voice trails off when he hears a whimper coming from underneath him, and he suddenly becomes aware of the trembling in Alie's body. He lifts his head, looking down at her worriedly.

You're not sure what to expect as Daryl begins to recount his experiences. You realize that you can't fully imagine or comprehend the hardships he has faced. You know that he has been through something difficult, but hearing the details is overwhelming. Your mind fills in the gaps, and you can't help but picture a young and vulnerable Daryl, feeling powerless and small in the face of an adult's anger, always scared that today might be the day when he will become the target. You envision him hiding under the bed in tears, listening as the people he loves cry out for help.

As tears stream silently down your face, you can't help but hold Daryl even closer, your fingers digging deeper into his skin and hair. You feel as if you can shelter him deep within your own skin, protecting him from the pain and hurt that he has experienced.

With each piece of his life story Daryl shares with you, the puzzle that is his past begins to come together. You have heard about the neglect, the lack of a proper childhood, his mother's depression, getting lost in the forest for days, the burning down of his house, the death of his mother, the abandonment of his brother, and the absolute wrath of his father. Each piece adds to a clear image of his suffering.

You're unable to hear it when Daryl reaches the part of the story how he receives his scars, a whimper involuntarily escapes from you. He lifts his head from your chest to look at you, and you can see the distress in his eyes as he takes in your tears. His hands immediately move to your face, gently wiping the wetness away from your cheeks. He adjusts his body and pulls you close to him, holding you just as you had done for him moments before.

Despite his fingers running through your hair, you can tell that he's unsure of how to comfort you. But it doesn't matter; his presence alone is enough to soothe you.

Because as you weep in his arms, you feel incredibly inspired. Despite the trauma he has faced, he manages to retain the core of his authenticity and remains true to himself, even in his darkest moments. You desperately desire this in your own life - the kind of fierce loyalty and deep well of compassion that he often tries to hide.

You love him, you know you do, as you hold him here, but this realization only solidifies your thoughts. You're absolutely and irrevocably in love with him.

"Daryl," you whisper, and he responds with a hum. You pull yourself up and lean on your elbow.

"I'm at my happiest when I'm with you," you tell him, your voice strong and true. As he lies there next to you, staring at you with an intense gaze that you cannot decipher, the weight of your confession hangs heavy in the air.

It's impossible to truly comprehend what it's like to experience physical and emotional abuse he went through at a young age. It's something that you may never be able to relate to him, but that's okay because you're committed to making him happy, to bringing a smile to his face, and above all, to protecting him from a world that has hurt him so deeply.

"Stay with me tonight?" you ask, but without waiting for his answer, you press your lips to his, pouring all of your intense emotions into the kiss. His lips are soft, his tongue even softer as it meets yours. His fingers tangle in your hair, and the weight of his body feels like home.

When you break the kiss, you gaze at his handsome face and wonder how you got so lucky to have someone like him as your first love. "You need to leave before 7am. That's when my father wakes up and he can't see you here," you whisper your warning as you lay your head back on his chest and pull the covers over you both. You let out a deep sigh, as his strong heartbeat drums against your ear, creating a soothing lullaby.