Currently, I'm working on rewriting and reposting this story which follows Daryl and my OC, Maureen. I started writing Push in 2014 and it's kind of insane that I'm revisiting it now in 2023, but here we are! Push had 23 chapters by 2015 or 2016 and almost 85,000 words. I will be editing, rewriting, and reposting each of the chapters as I work my way through them with the intent of completing the story... eventually. Content is rated M for adult themes, language violence, and sexual violence. Hope you enjoy it and thanks for reading!

One: Ash Street

There was a girl who lived across the street from Merle when Daryl was in his early twenties. That era was just after Merle got out of jail after being dishonorably discharged from the military for knocking out his Commanding Officer's front teeth. She was gawky and must have been barely out of her tween years. She had a nice look about her with pretty strawberry-blonde hair and blue eyes. Blue as all get out. They made his own blue-grey eyes pale in comparison.

The neighborhood was unsavory. She was a sharp contrast from the screaming fights that could be heard from the people next door and the drug deals going on out front. She came from a better side of town where she grew up slower and he could just tell that she came from money. That is, at least more money than he came from. Her single mother struggled to make money to support the two of them leaving the only option to move there.

She was always wearing a dress with flowers on it. When they passed each other on the crumbling sidewalk on the days Daryl went to visit his brother after school or sometimes when he just couldn't stand to sit in class for one more minute, or when his father was shit-faced drunk again and he didn't feel safe; she'd smile at him. It was a kind smile, never a trace of pity for him in her expression, for which he was always grateful since on more than one occasion they crossed paths after he had a run-in with his Pop. Maybe it was only because she still seemed to think that all in the world was good that she smiled at him like that. She seemed oblivious, thinking back on it now, to the drug deal going on across the street, to the woman above who was throwing her cheating husband's belongings out the third-story window, or to Merle's vile taunts which he liked to spew at anyone who walked by for his own amusement.

He wished he remembered her name. He'd never traded words with her, never smiled back. He'd only ever given her a sideways-downward glance and strong keep-your-distance vibes. He strained his memory, trying to recall the name her mother had yelled out the open window, calling her to dinner one summer night. Meredith? Martha? Something not too common that started with an 'M' and that was all he was sure of. He could still hear the ringing sound of the 'M' humming from the woman's mouth as she gently called her child to the dinner table on a balmy southern night. Daryl found it funny - the things one remembers more clearly than others from a memory.

He wished Merle was around so he could ask him the name of the girl who lived across the road on Ash Street. He'd probably call him some name, something uncomplimentary for asking, and then say, 'hell if he remembered'. After all, Merle only lived on Ash for all of three months before he was evicted. And even then, it wasn't like that was the kind of thing Merle paid any mind to nor would he have been consistently sober enough to. Still, it was nice to have someone to bounce one's thoughts off of sometimes, even if it was something pointless like this.

Daryl was finally truly alone in the world, at least by blood. He knew how unlikely it was that his brother made it off that rooftop and out of Atlanta alive missing one hand, no matter how crafty and stubborn he was. Occasionally, he longed for the leash that had been unclasped when his brother disappeared from his life for good. No longer did he have anyone to lead him around or yank him along in life. As embarrassing and shameful as it could be, being part of the Dixon clan, he still sometimes missed his rough and tumble, bull-headed brother and regarded him with a great deal of familial love.

Merle was a strong believer in tough love. Maybe that was how Daryl managed to survive this long. This time the abandonment he felt was different. Back when Merle would leave him for a time it felt devastating, especially in his youth. Back then it was a sentence for abuse and neglect at the hands of the people who were supposed to keep him cared for and safe. In the present, being on his own was refreshing, like a cleansing dip in a little, secluded waterhole. The guilt that he felt from the relief of this hurt more than the actual loss. But, still, there were things which Daryl couldn't mention to anyone else; that no one else would pretend to understand or listen to. Things he was too ashamed of to ever mention, but Merle knew and felt just as deeply because although he was years older than Daryl and spent most of his childhood apart, they had both been subjected to the same torment. After a while Daryl made himself bury Merle in a little plot in his mind.

Now, he was suddenly allowed to form his own ideas and beliefs without the crude, sexist, racist, and usually cruel rhetoric that his family seemed to believe. However, having no voice to go along with it made it sometimes feel a little pointless. He wasn't always sure why he stayed with the group. He didn't need them to survive, he could do that all on his own. Self-sufficiency wasn't a new concept to the thirty-three-year-old man. Daryl was making strides though and making a difference for the group. No one could say otherwise. These people were slowly beginning to form a family.

Lying on his back with his hands folded behind his head, he wondered if that blue-eyed girl was alive or dead. Best bet in this new world was that pretty much anyone you'd known from your past life, anyone you passed on the street, any girl you'd ever taken home with you after a night of drinking, any guy you'd ever shaken hands with over a bet or punched because he was being a prick was probably, if not definitely, dead. Or worse, they were one of them now.

He had the fleeting hope that she might still be alive, safe somewhere, but then he wasn't so sure if anyone who was still alive was actually lucky to be. What was left of life, but to wander around aimlessly day in and day out just hoping that one day out of the clear blue sky a miracle might fall into your lap? Daryl sighed quietly to himself and shook his head. No use dwelling on the past. He told this to himself daily. He repeated it like a mantra, but deep inside, he knew he was constantly doing just that; dwelling, worrying, gnawing on the inside of his cheek until it was so raw that it was the last thing he felt before falling asleep and the first thing he felt when he woke up.

Please, God, just let me catch an hour or maybe two of shut-eye before I have to take watch. Not that he believed in a higher power, but the plea coursed through his brain anyway. There was no use praying, even for sleep. If there ever was a God at all, he surely wasn't around anymore or he just didn't give a rat's ass what happened to his broken creations.

It wasn't long before Daryl felt a tapping against the toe of his boot. When he managed to pry his eyes open he saw T-Dog staring at him expectantly. Only about an hour of sleep was had.

"Your turn, man." T-Dog shook his head as if he thought it just wasn't right and went to sit against a tree not far from Daryl's make-shift sleeping bag which was really just two thick, heavy blankets Carol had sewn into a sack. It was still too warm to lie inside it, but the nights were getting cooler and soon everyone would be even more grateful to have them than they already were. She'd managed to make one for pretty much everyone in the group who didn't already have a sleeping bag and was now working to finish the last one which was her own. Daryl tried to make her save him for last, but she just wouldn't budge on the issue, saying, "If you don't take it, I just won't use it until everyone else has one." It gave the woman a sense of purpose. It had angered and annoyed him to no end when she said it, but he gave in knowing that on certain matters sometimes she could be even more stubborn than he was. She was different now. She'd metamorphosed more quickly than he knew he ever could or was ever willing to. She was an entirely different person from the woman he remembered from the Quarry.

Daryl leaned against the hood of the Hyundai Tucson. The car had been handy and easy on gas. The curve of the hood was good for leaning on during watch. He rubbed his eyes and leaned his crossbow against the car. His eyes felt puffy. His muscles ached from a lack of protein and calories. His feet were sore from wearing his boot all the damn time. He wouldn't voice his complaints to anyone, but it was all getting to him. He never liked moving around constantly even though it had always been a way of life.

Day in and day out it was the same routine since they'd been forced to abandon the farm: Wake up, eat a meager portion of some cold, canned something if there was enough to go around, make a plan for the day, pack what little had been unpacked from the night before, get a move on. Stop for good mid-afternoon if there was a safe place. If not, stop for a rest, take a leak, take a drink, maybe hunt for a bit, or just keep moving and look for more provisions. Kill some of the Walking Dead. Search for a safe place to hunker down for the night, furthermore, the winter, and eat another meager portion of some canned something if he'd been unsuccessful in hunting that day. All of this before having to take first or sometimes second watch. Press repeat and relive it all again the next day.

Daryl stretched and yawned, running a hand over the back of his neck. It would be another long night.