Oh, can anyone guess where Maria is from?

Baby you were 5 a minute
Eyes open
I didn't wanna see it
Took me to the tower of meaning
Then blindfold deaf
I can't hear it

Shoot me in the dark
You did it
Cover me in blood
(Cover me in blood)

I don't mean to blame your feelings
Just wanna be enough

Blindfold By Lyves

Chapter 38 - David vs Goliath - 1999

You pace back and forth in your room, enveloped by the dead of night. The silence around you seems to reverberate, while moonlight seeps through the cracks of your drawn curtains. You know what you must do; you have planned for it. However, actually taking action is an entirely different ordeal. The fear coursing through you is almost paralyzing as you slowly creak open your bedroom door.

The hallway lies concealed in darkness, and you tiptoe through the hushed corridors of your family home, ensuring your bare feet make as little noise as possible. Carefully, you descend the stairs, feeling a mix of anticipation and fear welling up inside you as you draw closer to your father's office.

Step by step, you inch your way forward, attempting to be as quiet as a whisper. Finally, you reach the door and turn the handle with utmost caution, glancing around to ensure no one hears you. The door opens with a soft creak, causing your heart to thump with a blend of anxiety and determination.

As you step into the room, everything lies still, bathed in a dim glow emanating from a lone desk lamp that casts elongated shadows upon the walls. The air feels heavy, as though it carries untold secrets waiting to be unraveled. The scent of old books and polished wood intermingles with the faint aroma of ink and cigarette smoke—a testament to your father's countless hours spent behind this closed door.

With a flick of a switch, the ceiling light comes alive, illuminating the room further, revealing meticulously organized files and shelves filled with thick legal tomes. You take a deep breath, summoning all your courage, as your gaze fixates upon the towering metal filing cabinet behind your father's desk, holding within it the truth you seek.

Your hand slides slowly into your pocket, retrieving the spare key. For the past week, you have searched everywhere whenever you were alone in the house, and just yesterday, you found that spare key tucked inside one of his law books— the inside cutout perfectly fitting the key. Your hands tremble as you insert the key into the lock, the subtle click resonating in the stillness of the night.

The cabinet's doors pull open, exposing countless manila folders filled with documents—warrants, court cases, depositions, and criminal records meticulously cataloged within. You don't know what you will uncover, but in that moment, you close your eyes and silently pray that your suspicions are mere paranoia, and there is nothing concerning the boy you love. With a sigh, your fingers glide over the documents, organized chronologically and alphabetically.

And then, you spot it—Dixon (04/17/1999).

Your heart leaps into your throat, and your fingers tremble as you pull out the thick folder. Part of you clings to the hope that this could be another Dixon, unrelated to the one you hold dear. Gathering your resolve, you split open the folder, much like ripping off a band-aid.

The first page reveals a raid warrant, the legal language and official stamps underscoring the gravity of its contents. Below, names are listed—William Dixon, Merle Dixon, Daryl Dixon, Jess Collins Dixon, and Randy Collins Dixon—names that send shivers down your spine. The world around you seems to distort as you flip through the pages, your eyes fixating on documents that outline their criminal records—a compilation of misdemeanors, felony offense and possession charges.

The following page reveals a mugshot of an older man bearing a striking resemblance to Daryl. His dark hair shows a touch of gray, eyebrows furrowed in a frown, and his firm ocean-blue eyes brim with rage as he stares at the camera. William Dixon, age 54—an extensive history of assaults, battery, DUI, disorderly conduct, and failure to comply. You don't need anyone to tell you; this is Daryl's father.

Turning to the next page, you come face to face with a familiar face you know all too well—Merle Dixon. Merle Dixon, age 28. His list of offenses is longer, starting from Juvenile record, primarily consisting of drug-related crimes, along with assault, public intoxication, trespassing, DUI, disorderly conduct, and failure to comply.

Your body shakes like a leaf as you leaf through the remaining pages, your eyes scanning the descriptions and charges, and each passing second feels like your lungs gasping for air. Jess Collins Dixon, age 37—charges of embezzlement and fraud. Randy Collins Dixon, age 19—a history of theft and vandalism. Every name is accompanied by a mugshot, freezing past transgressions in glossy photographs.

The final page lacks a mugshot but holds a sealed case of Juvenile record. Daryl Dixon, age 18—unauthorized use of a vehicle.

The words blur before your tear-filled gaze, merging into an indistinguishable jumble of ink on paper. Your body can no longer bear the weight of this knowledge, and you crumble, sinking to the floor in a flood of tears, your back hits the edge of the desk, the impact jarring your senses.

Dazed, In the solitude of that softly lit room, you allow yourself to release the pent-up anguish that has plagued you. The sounds of your sobs reverberate off the walls, mingling with the hushed whispers of regret and betrayal that echo in your mind. You press your hand to your mouth, attempting to muffle the cries that wrack your body.

The magnitude of the situation finally becomes clear as you realize that your father wasn't just targeting Daryl, but everyone in his family. In this vulnerable moment, every suppressed feeling, every ounce of guilt that has built up within you, pours out. The images of your father's secret dealings intertwine with memories of happier times—a stark contrast that magnifies the pain. The absence of Daryl in the past few weeks, the strained relationship with your father, and the loneliness all converge, overwhelming your senses.

It feels as though the walls of your world are collapsing around you, the illusions shattered, leaving behind a painful reality. A reality where you find yourself questioning everything—the choices your father has made and the person he has become. Memories of sitting in your father's lap and reading a book, laying on the carpet putting puzzles together, or holding his hand as he takes you to work—everything feels distant now, replaced by the cold, harsh reality of the present moment.

The tears continue to flow, your body shaking with the intensity of your emotions. Each sob is a release, a cathartic expression of the pain and confusion that envelops you. Time seems to stand still as you desperately seek solace within the confines of the documents before you, your finger tracing the name of the boy you hold dear.

Eventually, as the tears subside, your breathing steadies, and with a single release of breath, your body grows cold yet steady. Determination emerges within you—you must protect Daryl from your father—by any means necessary.

With trembling hands, you wipe away the tears, your gaze now firm. The fragments of your shattered world begin to piece together as newfound clarity dawns upon you. Rage like fire ignites within, fueled by the knowledge that you must confront the storm that lies ahead.

Carefully, you return the files to their original place and quietly close the filing cabinet. The room seems to exhale a collective sigh as you flick the light off, casting a fleeting shadow across the room, the darkness mirroring the conflict that awaits you. As you slip out of the office, your fist clenches, the weight of the discovery heavy on your shoulders.

You stand beneath the bleachers, having skipped class just to meet up with Daryl, and now you observe as he approaches. Every aspect of his presence captivates your attention—the casualness in his step as he walks, the nonchalant way he holds a lit cigarette between his fingertips.

Every day feels like a slow death, consumed by fear and anxiety that blankets your existence. It has been a week since you saw Mr. Robertson with Commissioner Cox. It is just as you guessed, and let's just say that Mr. Robertson is no James Bond; his surveillance tactics are far from discreet. He closely monitors your every move, trailing behind you whenever he's in proximity, and even when he's not, his presence seems to linger nearby.

Even though it's only been a week, the effects of this unnerving scrutiny are evident on Daryl's face as well. The weight of the constant surveillance takes its toll on him too. You long for the days when you could steal moments together, hiding by the bleachers during lunchtime. You miss the intimacy of lying on his lap as his fingers delicately toyed with your hair, occasionally weaving a tangled braid into your locks while you read a book aloud or simply talk.

The only thing left now is the fleeting moments when Daryl signals for you to follow him, his eyes silently pleading, but you have to shake your head 'no' in refusal. The fear of being monitored, the dread that it might somehow reach your father's ears holding you back.

Now comes the difficult part - you have to reveal what you've discovered. How do you even begin to convey such grim news? "Hey, my father is targeting your entire family to get to you because it's easier to implicate you in their illicit activities." How do you tell someone that?

The words weigh heavily on your tongue as you imagine the impact they will have—how you might lose him in all this.

Daryl's demeanor shifts as soon as he catches sight of you—red-rimmed eyes and dark circles painting a stark picture of your emotional turmoil. His casual stride quickens into a jog, tossing his cigarette aside.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" he asks urgently, his hands cradling your cheeks the moment he's close enough. The tears come unbidden, a seemingly constant companion these days.

You shake your head, the words stuck in your throat, consumed by shame and guilt. Instead of answering, you press your face against his chest, seeking solace in his comforting scent. "Hey, come on, tell me," he pleads, holding you tightly, his voice resonating in his chest.

Taking a moment, you reluctantly pull back to meet his gaze, vision blurry with unshed tears. "I think…" you start, the words barely squeezing past the lump in your throat, "I think we need a break." You confess, barely louder than a whisper. You've spent the entire night sleepless contemplating this decision, and at the moment, it feels like the only sensible course of action.

His brows knit together in confusion, visibly taken aback by your words. He steps back, putting a little distance between you. "I already told ya, we don't need no break." He retorts, his voice-tinged with concern.

"Daryl, please, listen to me. You don't understand what's at stake," you plead, desperately seeking his touch as you grab his hand and press it against your chest.

"We don't need no break," he insists, his clear blue eyes filled with certainty. "Whatever it is, we'll handle it together. You and me." The love in his eyes only deepens your guilt, knowing that you have to tell him.

"No, we can't," your voice breaks, and you continue, "My father is planning something significant. He has his eyes on us everywhere, and if we continue seeing each other, there will be massive consequences. We need space between us, we have to let things cool down."

"There's nothin' to cool down. I don't care what he says, he's just gonna have to accept it," he says with a hint of desperation, pulling his hand to cup your cheeks once more. "We ain't separatin', okay, you ain't leavin' me."

You gaze at his face, feeling your heart cave in on itself, yet your eyes never waver, capturing every detail. You can't help but notice the way his dark hair delicately falls upon his forehead, framing his face. His deep blue eyes captivate you, drawing you in like an irresistible gravitational force, and the small mole adorning his upper lip... oh, those lips. The way he kisses you, as if he can never get enough.

You reminisce about that moment when you stood before him in that biology class, almost a year ago, under the watchful eye of Mr. Lanigan. The way he used to glance at you during those library days, his shyness around you. Memories flood your mind, the time you sat on the back of his motorcycle, riding toward the beach. It was during that particular ride, your cheeks pressed against his scarred back, your fingers gently caressing his abdomen, that you first felt an overwhelming sense of protectiveness toward him. It was in that very moment; you made a promise to yourself—to do just that for him.

"William Dixon, Merle Dixon, Daryl Dixon, Jess Collins Dixon, and Randy Collins Dixon," you list the names in a choked voice—names you shouldn't know. You watch as Daryl's brows furrow, as Merle and Jess are the only names he has ever mentioned around you, always referring to his father as the 'old man.'

"I broke into my father's office and saw that there's a warrant ready for a raid, waiting for my father's signature," you confess, pulling away as the shame of your father's actions resurfaces. "They have a deposition about Merle's illicit activities, and he's coming after you, all of you. They're going to make it seem like you're all involved in his business."

The look on his face is a mix of confusion and slight widening of his eyes. "He can't just do that. I ain't involved in that shit," he protests, his brain trying to process everything.

You gaze at him, your stomach tied in knots, feeling the weight of it all. You can only imagine how he must be feeling, how your parents looked down on him that day, how it must be to be seen as beneath, if knowing that because of what he lacks, he's at the mercy of the rich and powerful.

"We can fight it. I can..." he starts, desperation etched on his face as he tries to come up with ideas. "I can inform Merle and get him to ditch his stash. Jess smokes weed, but that's about it. He ain't involved in that life, and there's no proof. Randy is his stepson, and he mostly lives with his moms in Atlanta. They can't place him here." The wheels of his mind turn as he searches for a way out.

"This is something we can't fight," you explain helplessly, your words tinged with frustration. "Daryl, my father represents the state. So when the DA's office comes after you, it doesn't matter which city you live in. It's the state of Georgia itself coming for you." After all, the DA's office is responsible for prosecuting criminal cases on behalf of the state, which is why your father has the ability to go after politicians, judges, and police commissioners.

Daryl paces back and forth in front of you, the confined space of the bleachers restricting his movements. "It don't matter," he asserts, his voice laced with determination. "Once Merle gets rid of his stash, they can raid us all they want, but they won't find a damn thing."

"Daryl, this isn't about them finding something, this is about my father trying to get to you," you insist, your desperation palpable. "Trust me, they will ensure they find something, one way or another," you doubtfully add, aware that your father is not above planting evidence. "Ultimately, it's you he wants. The others are just casualties in the process. He'll make sure you stand trial in a courtroom he controls, with one of his judges presiding over you... you'll be at his mercy."

"That's some fucked up shit, man." Daryl mutters, his desperation giving way to anger. "So what, we just break up? He gets to take you away from me. Hell no." He hisses and you catch a glistening in his eyes.

Shaking your head vehemently, you draw closer, your tears mirroring his. "We're not breaking up, that's not what I'm saying," you clarify, your voice filled with urgency. "I'm suggesting that we pretend. So please, don't think that it means I can even fathom my life without you. You're my endgame." you whisper, using a chess reference, stressing that losing him is something you refuse to entertain.

"I love you... look at me," you gently guide his face back when he averts his gaze from your tears. "I'm in love with you. You're the person I want to spend the rest of my life with. Just you and me. Just like we planned." Your fingers tighten their grip on his shirt.

"No, We ain't givin' in," he protests, unable to swallow the idea. "What's stoppin' him from using this against us for the rest of our lives? I don't give a damn what that rich prick does to me, I just need you by my side. That's all that matters," he pleads, his fingers tenderly wiping away your wet cheeks.

"I know, but it's not just about us anymore," you explain, the people he loves are at risk, people who didn't have a say in your relationship are being entangled in your mess. "We have to create distance between us, just to appease him, just to take his focus off of you."

"And then what? How long will that last?" he questions, his pain carefully veiled in his voice, yet obvious in his eyes.

"Just until I can think and plan," you reply, knowing that you're unsure of how long it will take. But you brace yourself for the upcoming pain though, knowing full well the heartache, and loneliness that you've already been experiencing. "My father is an incredibly intelligent and ruthless man, but you told me I'm the smartest person you know," you begin, offering him a glimpse into your thought process. "The only way we can win is by planning and outsmarting him... that's our only chance."

"It still don't feel right," he says, his unease evident in his words.

"I know, but Daryl, I'm scared, terrified at the thought of something happening to you because of me, something happening to your family. You're in real danger, and you should be scared too," you whisper, wondering how he manages to remain brave in the face of it all.

"I ain't scared of nothin'," he asserts, chin held high. "You said that when you love someone, you'd go to war for them. And I stand by those words. I'll fight tooth and nail for ya, no matter what."

Those words shatter you.

You can no longer suppress the cry that escapes your throat. It was the night when you first confessed your love, that you had told him those words. With a shaky hand, you pull him closer, your lips meeting his in a tear-stained kiss. He inhales, pulling you into him, and his tongue effortlessly meeting yours, as he deepens the kiss. His fingers move to your hair, as he grips the back of your ponytail, while his other hand tightens around your waist. Your feet leave the ground momentarily, as he lifts you slightly to match his height, and you sigh into his mouth, intoxicated by the taste of his cigarette and the saltiness of your tears. Your fingers dig deeper into his shoulder, pressing him tightly against you.

The school bell rings, its sound resonating through the field, marking not only the end of the class but also, in a way, the end of countless things.

Reluctantly, you break the kiss, and he lowers you until your toes barely touch the ground. "I want you to trust me, to have faith in me. This is just temporary, okay? Graduation is right around the corner. So, let's just lay low for a few more weeks," you reassure him, your fingers tenderly sweeping his hair back from his face.

He nods, albeit with a sense of reluctance, his willingness to comply evident only for the moment. Just then, a discord of noises reaches your ears—students dressed in red and blue jerseys heading towards the athletic field for their practice. You realize you need to return to class promptly, before you draw Mr. Robertson's attention.

"We will figure it out, okay? We will, because in the end, it's just you and me, to infinity and beyond that," you assure him. He nods once more, and a brief pause hangs in the air as his gaze meets yours. You muster a hopeful smile, attempting to convey your hopefulness for his sake. He releases a sigh and plants a final kiss on your forehead before slipping away from the cover. Instead of heading towards the school, he veers towards the parking lot.

With tears welling up in your eyes, you stand there, unable to tear your gaze away as you watch him walk away. Each step he takes feels like a slow-motion sequence, stretching time itself. There's something about this sight that sends a jolt of panic through your being, as if it might be the last time you will ever set eyes on him. Your hands instinctively clench tightly, your fingers desperately holding onto hope and fending off the encroaching fear. As the second bell echoes, its ringing reverberates in the depths of your mind, akin to the beating of a war drum.

"Let's go to war," you whisper to yourself, steeling your resolve.

Maria approaches her husband's desk with slow steps. His head is leaned back against the headrest of the chair, and she watches his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. In front of him, a manila folder rests, with a pen placed on top. A few papers are scattered around, and with a quick glance, Maria can see mugshots of unknown men.

Even though she was just a kid at the time, Maria remembered the tales her Abuela used to tell her – that her Abuela was a "Vidente," someone who possessed supernatural abilities. She believed that she had a sort of clairvoyance, an ability like a sixth sense to predict when something bad was about to happen. As a child, Maria wholeheartedly believed her Abuela.

Now, as an adult, she understands that this belief in supernatural abilities was a part of her culture, often intertwined with religious practices. It was a folklore tradition that had been passed down through generations.

However, lately Maria has been sensing something terrible brewing within her own household. As she watches her husband and daughter exchange thunderous glances, it feels like witnessing the collision of a tornado meeting a volcano. The tension between them is so palpable that it could snap at any moment.

"Dave, you have to listen to me," Maria begins, reiterating her concern ever since he told her what he is about to do, but her husband remains determined. "I have a really bad feeling about this. If you go through with it, there will be consequences you may not be prepared for."

David pulls his hand away and gazes at her. "I don't think you understand, my love. Every father believes no man is good enough or worthy of their daughter. However, in this case, it goes beyond that," he says wearily, gesturing toward the warrant resting on the desk. "The boy is a threat to everything this family stands for, everything."

"He's just some kid... you can scare him off," she says, pushing past his legs to perch on his desk, between his thighs. "Other lives are at stake here, people who have nothing to do with this." She had always turned a blind eye to his actions because she knew the type of ambition he possessed when she met him. He was unlike any other man she had ever encountered, and that's what initially attracted her to him. That is why she has always strived to embody perfection, both in herself and in her daughter, monitoring everything from dietary choices to sense of style. Now, however, his actions were following him home.

"You saw him, he's not one to scare easily." She agrees with that. She had witnessed how the boy looked at her husband without flinching, even when he put a hole in the ceiling. "He's a weed, and they all are. They need to be uprooted," he states firmly.

"David, please don't let your ego cloud your judgment," she pleads, reaching out to grip his hand.

"This is not ego," David says, leaning forward and meeting her gaze from his seated position. "You know I have no problem with humble beginnings. We are both second-generation immigrants; we understand humble beginnings. But it's what he represents." His hand reaches behind her, pulling out the manila folder and placing it on her half-folded thighs.

"He's a degenerate from a dysfunctional family of drug addicts, alcoholics, and wife beaters. This will stain her image and tarnish our family's name," he explains, pulling out documents detailing criminal records. After all, she knows the name 'Hart' is supposed to be a fresh start for her family, a legacy they have to uphold.

Maria glances at the papers without reading them, understanding that her husband is concerned about maintaining a certain social status and reputation for their daughter's potential political future. "So, your solution is to throw him in jail? Is that the answer?" she questions, knowing that such an action would only exacerbate the situation.

"You saw how she jumped in front of the gun, how she's been looking at me, how she's already questioning my actions," he says, frustration evident in his voice. "He has an influence over her that is far greater than I might have imagined. Everything we have worked so hard for, everything I have instilled in her—her choices, her ambitions, our values, our legacy—he can sway it all, undo it."

Maria pauses, finally realizing what her husband is trying to convey. This isn't just about some degenerate hanging around their daughter; it's about the unforeseen consequences he could bring about without even trying. It isn't solely about their social standing but also about the influence this boy has over their daughter and how she is already challenging the power dynamics. This could lead their daughter to question the very foundations of her father's worldview. It is the erosion of authority, the fear of losing control over his daughter entirely.

Maria lets out a sigh, unsure where to go from here. It has been a month since she walked in on that boy, and her daughter is visibly deteriorating. She barely eats, struggles to sleep, and the dark circles under her eyes deepen day by day. However, Maria understands that the boy is beneath her daughter, obstructing the path to her bright future. She is destined to rise higher than her father, and the boy will only serve as a stumbling block.

"If you allow your emotions to dictate your decision, you will expedite all the outcomes you fear," Maria says, her gaze fixed on her husband, her voice carrying a subtle warning. "She may be young, but she is crazy about that boy. If you proceed as you intend, she will rebel against you."

David puffs, pulling back to lean on the chair. "I can handle teenage rebellion. What I can't handle is her getting pregnant and jeopardizing everything we have worked so hard for." Maria hacks, cringing at his words, a sudden realization that had slipped her mind: her daughter is sexually involved with this boy—a significant consequence she hadn't even considered.

"God, when did she grow up? How are we even discussing about her getting pregnant?" Maria exclaims, bringing her hand to her lips in disbelief. "Do you remember how cute she was, dancing in her tutus and refusing to take them off for days? I used to keep spares and swap them in the middle of the night." She reminisces about her little Alice in her wonderland, now a woman. Even at a young age, she was just like her father—quick-witted, sassy, and too clever to be tricked by sweets.

The thought of her clever daughter brings up another realization. "I think there's one thing you haven't considered, David," she says, looking into his unwavering steel eyes. "At the end of the day, she is your daughter, and she thinks like you... She embodies every part of you." Their daughter may resemble her mother, but she is nothing like her.

"So, put yourself in her shoes and think. What would you do if you were in her position?" she asks, knowing well enough what the answer is. However, he needs to confront it himself. "Would you simply accept it and surrender?"

There is a moment of pause…

A slow, proud smirk breaks out on his face as he realizes the potential move his daughter might make. "No, I will not. I will retaliate. By any means necessary."

"Exactly. If you do this, you will be reaffirming everything she thinks about him," Maria advises, leaning over with her hands on his strong legs. "The boy she thinks she loves will become a martyr, and you will be the villain in your daughter's eyes... who knows where she might take that."

He lets out a sigh, acknowledging that she is right. "Then what would you have me do, Maria? You saw how he challenged me in our own home. I can't let that slide." She knows her husband would never admit it, but he is intrigued by the boy. When powerful men tremble under his gaze, that boy had simply stared back, fearless.

"I say we pull her out of school and get her out of this city. We can go to New York and start preparing for college," Maria responds swiftly, a thought she had already contemplated. Though she may not be her husband or daughter, but she, too, is a Hart. After all, she had walked into this office with the hope of introducing this very idea. "She has completed all the required coursework to graduate; they can mail her diploma."

"But what about her graduation?" David questions, shaking his head. "She's worked so hard, and she's a valedictorian. These milestones matter for her future."

"Dave, do those steps truly matter?" Maria asks, questioning the significance of walking across a stage. "Look at our daughter. She's barely eating, barely sleeping. She's walking around like a ghost. Graduation is just a ceremony. We need to prioritize her well-being." She knows that this is the best course of action, the one that will spare many lives.

"I don't know, sweetheart," David sighs. "Leaving the city feels like running away from the problem." He has never been one to run away; he faces his challenges head-on, runs through it.

"I'm not suggesting we run away. I'm suggesting separation," Maria leans closer, her eyes pleading with him. "It's the best thing we could do for her before she makes irreversible mistakes. She's young; eventually, she'll forget about him." After all, young love is often fickle and fleeting.

There is a pause as he considers her thoughts, his hand resting on his chin. "But my work, the expectations, the demands... I can't just leave."

"I can go with her," Maria responds quickly, another idea forming in her mind. "My salon is fully staffed, and I'm prepared to take the next two months off. I can manage everything remotely. You can come and see us on weekends."

"Maria... I don't know," he sighs, uncertain if this is the best option.

"Dave, my love, just get her out of this city. It's the best thing we can do for her right now. Trust me," she says, leaning over to press her lips against his in a tender gesture.

Notes:

Jess Collins is Daryl's uncle from the TWD video game, and Randy Collins Dixon is made up character for this story.