"And I've been meaning to tell you, I think your house is haunted
Your dad is always mad and that must be why
And I think you should come live with me and we can be pirates
Then you won't have to cry or hide in the closet."
– Seven, T.S.
Mila
The blissful smell of roast chicken gently caresses my senses, but my stomach can only churn in response. Seeing Daryl get shot and thinking he was dead has sent my nervous system into overdrive, possibly putting me in emotional hangover territory. Being roughly snapped from heartwrenching grief to effervescent relief has given me whiplash, and I'm still trying to get my bearings. Mantras of he's okay and he's talking and he's alive play in my head, over and over, in an attempt to evade the impending panic attack. Crisis successfully averted, at least for another five minutes.
Frenzied hands pile their plates sky high, but I don't have it in me. Maybe later. The awkward silence between our two mismatched groups isn't helping either, only multiplying the stifling claustrophobia threatening to suffocate me. You could hear a pin drop… or the click of a safety being disengaged. Herschel is clearly pissed that someone got shot after Rick made a big show this morning of putting the guns away. We didn't last six hours with that rule. Thanks a lot, Andrea. I've been keeping a wide berth ever since, for her benefit, as I have absolutely nothing nice to say.
"Does anybody play guitar? Dale found a cool one." Glenn amiably tries to break the tension, but the look between Patricia and Herschel makes me think he's just pushed us onto another landmine. The air practically ripples from the weight of the extended silence. "Only Mila knows how?"
My ears burn from being called out, making me wish I could turn invisible. I love to write but having an audience hasn't ever been my thing. Performing for Carol at the CDC had been a rare show of emotional bravery. A perfect crafted song is real-life alchemy, conjured out of thin air like magic until a living picture is created. The way it can transport you to a different time and place or how even the darkest secrets feel less scary when they're in a song. How it can uncover things you didn't even want to admit to yourself.
Playing alone is liberating, a way to soar through the clouds for three minutes without ever leaving the ground. Once other people get involved, it becomes a performance– all about being entertaining and good enough, tainting the very essence of why it was special. Not to mention, it makes me feel like my skin is made of glass and allows anyone listening to see right through me. Straight to all the bruised parts of my soul.
"Otis did," Patricia replies quietly.
"Yes, and he was very good too," Herschel pointedly adds. The oxygen is once again sucked out of the room, leaving only a cavernous vacuum in its place. Every muscle in my body is tightly coiled and ready to snap.
"Mila, maybe you can play for us?" Maggie calls out, apparently determined to act as a bridge between feuding families while dragging me into it. I'd glare at Glenn but it would be somewhat unfair, considering I never explicitly said that music is a private endeavor for me.
"Oh, I don't know… it's been a while since I've touched one, and I've never thought I was very good." I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans, not daring to pick my head up to look around. The wood grain of the table is much more forgiving.
"No, please, you have to! She played piano and sang for me at the CDC, and she's so good. We'd love to hear you," Carol encourages from her spot across the room. Giving her a tortured wince and feeling doomed for the gallows, I reluctantly stand to grab the guitar from where it's propped against the wall.
"Okay, one song. Any requests?" I ask, heart racing as I try not to crumble under the weight of being the center of attention. The stern glare of the spotlight has only ever served to highlight my imperfections and provide an endless shame reel to haunt me while I try to sleep.
"Something happy," Beth responds with a small smile. "I think we could all use something happy."
Flicking through the rolodex of songs I know, I try to locate an uplifting song with lyrics that won't get Herschel's blood pressure raised. No sex, drugs, or rock and roll. None of the depressing shit you usually gravitate towards either, Aly's voice reminds me. My mind blanks unhelpfully, leaving me frozen. Have I ever heard a happy song in my life? Finally, one populates and my fingers nimbly move up the fretboard. The first few notes come out in an awkward staccato as I try to remember how the melody goes before a sweet song untangles itself. Lori smiles at Rick in recognition.
With a shaky deep breath, I push away the fluttering nerves and open my mouth to sing. Emotional nostalgia carries me away, finally quieting the chatter in my head.
"We get it almost every night, when that moon is big and bright
It's a supernatural delight, everybody's dancing in the moonlight
Everybody here is out of sight, they don't bark and they don't bite
They keep things loose, they keep them tight
Everybody's dancing in the moonlight
Dancing in the moonlight, everybody's feeling warm and bright
It's such a fine and natural sight, everybody's dancing in the moonlight"
Some of the lyrics get fumbled when the phrases don't fall into line the way they should but I can faintly hear others singing too, making up for the words I lack. The energy in the room is freely flowing now, all of us connected by sharing this shimmering moment in time. Only on the last strum of the guitar do I return to my body, finally noticing the enamored eyes and smiles. Pleased embarrassment floods my veins when they begin to lightly clap and cheer.
"Mila, that was amazing!"
"Cant play that well, my ass!"
"I love that song!"
There are too many overlapping voices to know who said what and I'm too busy blacking out anyway, but the mood in the room has definitely been lifted. Even the walls are sighing in relief.
"You all are far too kind, but thank you. You only get one tonight, but I'm always around to learn your favorite songs." My skin is on fire, alerting me that I'm probably sporting a prominent blush. Before anyone can argue with me or continue their fawning, the metaphorical exit sign flashes. "Anyway, I'm going to bring up some dinner to Daryl."
The kitchen provides shelter and much needed space to recover. I take a moment to lay my forehead against the cool counter, greedily inhaling until my lungs burn. My fingers grip the edge, the only force keeping my feet planted on the floor. Sometimes it feels like gravity has given up on me.
"You better make one for you too," Carol materializes silently behind me. "Don't think I missed that you skipped the eating portion."
Lifting my head, I hide my shame behind a veil of feigned absentmindedness. Plausible deniability due to being busy or distracted. Nausea remains lodged in my throat, making eating seem as tempting as dragging my body over broken glass.
"Just needed a minute to decompress after today."
"Are you doing okay?" Warm, maternal concern emanates from her and immediately makes me feel like a piece of shit. She has enough heartbreaking problems to focus on– her own missing child– and here I am, robbing her of precious attention and energy.
"Yeah," the smile is plastered on automatically, before I can decide if I want it there or not. "Sorry, it just really freaked me out."
"You don't have to be sorry." Her analytical stare makes me feel exposed again. Too many people have perceived me for one night. "That was scary. And stupid." She shoots a glare across the room, which Andrea doesn't see. "But you still have to eat."
"I know. You're right." I make a big show of picking up a second plate and piling the remaining leftovers on it. "This will be for me."
She gives my shoulder a gentle, encouraging squeeze before leaving me standing alone. No one has ever looked out for me the way this group does. Sure, Aly would try but there's a natural order that comes with being the older sibling. It was always my job to look out for her, even when we were kids. I was making her dinner and packing her lunches back when I thought fruit snacks and a roll of oreos was a balanced meal. Even though it's not what I'm used to, it's a nice feeling all the same. Or it would be, if I could feel it under all this guilt.
A plate balanced in each hand, I carefully make my way up the creaky, uneven stairs to check on my newest patient– the butterflies in my stomach threatening to throw me off balance and send me tumbling down. Carol's words from yesterday ring in my ears. Don't let him push you away if he gets scared… He lashes out when he's hurt and that doesn't change overnight. I silently pray to a god I don't believe in that this conversation doesn't go sideways. I've had enough surprises for one day.
—-
Daryl
Fluid guitar and a muffled voice I'd recognize anywhere floats up the stairs, swirling into my room and intoxicating me more than a stiff drink ever could. Annoyance prickles over being stuck in this bed instead of downstairs. Opportunities for her to sing freely are rare and I'm missing it. Every passing second adds to the bitter, copper taste in my mouth– a fitting punishment for wasting the moment.
Silence follows, even louder than the regret I'm bathed in, affording me a second to inventory the day. One clue that Sophia is still out there. One violent tumble off a cliff. Two injuries, one arrow and one gunshot. Around thirty stitches and ten minutes of my hand in Mila's. Does that all add up to a good or bad day? The answer seems obvious, but feels incongruent to how I actually feel. A quiet knock on my door interrupts my mental math.
"Come on in."
The knob turns slowly as the door is pushed open, revealing wild hair behind two overflowing mounds of food. When she enters, a homecooked aroma wafts in with her and makes my stomach growl.
"Brought you dinner," she smiles, passing over a plate. "I was feeling a little overwhelmed down there, so I figured I'd eat with you." She pulls over a weathered chair from the edge of the room, pushing it up against my bed before sitting cross legged in it.
"That have anything to do with your performance?"
Her cheeks flush and she shyly looks away, which unfortunately only makes me want to look at her more. Another crack fissures in the frozen block I call my heart.
"Aw man, you heard that? I tell Glenn one time that I know how to play guitar and he ambushes me in front of everyone."
"It sounded good from where I was sitting."
"Yeah, well, you're far enough away that maybe the bad bits didn't quite make it up here," she jokes, daintily stabbing a potato with her fork. Meanwhile, I'm all but shoveling mine into my mouth.
"I don't think so."
"Alright, enough compliments for one night." She goodnaturedly waves them away like she's shooing a moth. The potato stays pierced and suspended on the tines, but she makes no effort to move it any further. "How are you feeling?"
"Probably about as good as I look."
She presses her lips together, holding back something, but only smiles to herself with a shake of her head. I'm not sure what she's thinking, but maybe it's confirmation that I look like shit. Self conscious, I pull the sheet a little higher up my body. She notices and drops her attention to her plate, preoccupying herself with moving food around. Somehow, I feel this is for my benefit.
"You want that pain medicine yet?"
"Nah, I'm fine. Just a little sore."
"Daryl, you got an arrow through the side and shot in the head. It'd be okay if you were more than a little sore."
Slightly uncomfortable with her caring attention, I grunt around the bite in my mouth to deflect. Complaining didn't get you help or attention or even empathy growing up, so it's not in my nature. Take your lashings and move on. Don't ever let 'em see you hurting. They'll only use it against you or make it worse. I'll give you something to cry about.
"Did I ever tell you why I quit being a pediatric nurse?"
Her tone is a mask of neutrality, overly refined and practiced. I pause, my fork hanging midair between my mouth and the plate, and lock eyes with her. There's something unreadable in her expression, guarded almost, which only makes me more curious. Afraid my voice will shatter something fragile, I shake my head and hope she elaborates.
"There were plenty of things that made the job difficult. Twelve hour shifts, working nights, getting screamed at for things out of my control, missing holidays with my own family." She gets that far off look again, picking at a loose thread sticking out of the border of the chair she's in. "Even the things I had to see– gunshots, car accidents, death of kids who didn't even have a chance for their lives to start. The more experienced I got, the more I seemed to be put in those rooms. It was a testament to my skill, but heavy nonetheless."
She speaks as if under a spell and I'm hanging on every word, every sigh. I have to hear the rest of this. Nothing has ever been more important. Clattering dishes filter in from downstairs, but the sound is a million miles away. Only we exist in this room right now. The sun sets in the window behind her, casting a blue tinted glow over her skin.
"What really got me, what broke my heart and ruined me, was all the abuse. I learned about it in school as if I might see it one day, but it was near constant. There was no pattern. Smiling families that learn your name and say thank you. All-star athlete teenagers. Kind, soft spoken grade school kids who are desperate for any positive attention. The tiniest babies you've ever seen, who can do nothing but cry and sleep."
Her voice cracks, viscerally conveying the lump in her throat that she's trying to speak around. Phantom hands squeeze tightly around my own, as if her pain is mine, making it hard to breathe. She thickly swallows and blinks away the moisture forming around her lashes, her fingers still pulling at that damn thread. Dinner sits in our laps, cold and forgotten.
"I tried to be strong, to keep pushing on so I could be a safe person for them. But it was too much. They haunted my every waking moment… the hollow look in their eyes, the screams of the blindsided parent if they didn't make it. I couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, couldn't be in a happy moment without feeling absolute devastation that monsters like that exist among us."
It dawns on me that she's telling this story for a reason, and the angry scars marring my back sizzle in retaliation. Any semblance of a response disintegrates on my tongue while I curl in on myself. They've only ever been a source of shame, a reminder of what I'm worth and where I came from. So much for hoping she hadn't known what they were. Of course she would.
"I had to leave for my sake and so I didn't end up in prison. The fantasies I would have about hunting their abusers down and subjecting them to the same treatment they gave these kids… The rage I felt. Still do."
Her hands shake, so she balls them up and places them under her thighs. The room is too hot and for the first time since I met her, I wish anyone else was up here with me. Even though I had willingly let her stitch up my back, betrayal flares deep within me at the fact that she's brought this up at all. In typical Dixon fashion, I resent the person currently making me feel the things I don't want to and not the one who caused the pain. My molars fuse together, painfully aching with unresolved tension. Hundreds of acidic, biting words are dying to tear out of my throat. If she thinks this is going to be a heart to heart, she's sorely mistaken.
"My mom was abusive." My head snaps up in surprise and immediately, my betrayal deflates. All I feel is pure, unadulterated anger at anyone that has ever dared to hurt her. "That's why I was good at spotting it with the kids. There's a vibe or something. They all have it."
The muscles in my jaw and shoulders are screaming now, fists clenching with one hand still pointlessly gripping my fork. I have so many questions, but I'm not ready to be on the receiving end of them. Silence is safer, especially with the pounding boom of my pulse in my ears.
"It wasn't usually physical, so I won't pretend my childhood was as bad as others'. But the mental warfare– the psychological torture– was something else. It's fucked up, but I used to wish she would hit me so that I could have some visual proof of the pain she was inflicting."
Mila's shoulders sag under the weight of her confession, guilt contorting her typically illuminated features. The room is now submerged in near darkness, the sun long gone, but neither of us moves to light the lantern on the table. Everything she's ever told me flashes through my brain, triggering a tidal wave of emotion. How could any one person go through so much? Especially one with so much good in her? Rage is at the forefront. It's not fucking fair.
"Someone don't have to hit ya for it to be bad." My voice is low, possibly lower than I've ever heard it, and her hazel eyes finally crawl up to meet mine. Wide and vulnerable, she looks just as uncomfortable having this conversation as I am. "Ya didn't deserve that."
"Neither did you."
We share a long look, trading unspoken words scribbled in a language only we can read. The roaring boil of my blood simmers to a bubble. Despite my discomfort, having my secret out in the open makes me feel lighter, just slightly. No one has ever told me I didn't deserve it before, not that I ever gave anyone the chance. Hell, even Merle doesn't know– although that's just plain denial, since he knew who he was leaving me with. Why would anything change after he was gone, other than which son was on the end of the belt?
"Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that I get it and I'm always around to listen or whatever. Not that talking is your favorite thing," she lightly teases with a smile, standing to strike a match and ignite the lantern, bathing us in warm amber. "But the offer is always there."
She grabs her still full plate to leave, while I bite at my cheek in deliberation. Most days, I'd rather die than talk about myself, but I feel slightly compelled after all that she's shared. Some part of me even wants to. Maybe I did hit my head falling down the ravine.
"If you stay and actually eat what's on that plate, then I'll talk."
Her mouth drops slightly open, lips pouting in disagreement. I want to groan from how fucking cute it is, but restrain myself.
"I already ate down there with everyone. I just didn't want you to feel weird eating alone." The corner of her mouth twitches, her gaze strategically avoiding mine. Sure.
"Take it or leave it."
Reluctantly, she sits back down to swallow a forkfull of chicken. Happy? I can practically hear her mind ask me. Yep, my own replies.
"My old man used to love his whiskey, but he was also partial to beer, scotch– hell, schnapps if that's what he could find."
My eyes pointedly flick to her plate, and she obediently takes another bite. I follow suit, savoring having anything other than squirrel or canned vegetables. This may be the best meal I've ever had. More likely, I've forgotten what real food tastes like.
"Merle left– first to juvie, then to enlist. Anything to keep from coming home. I was the only one around after that, so it was my turn to take the brunt of it from my dad. He had a hell of a temper and sometimes just bein' around was enough to piss him off."
"How old were you when Merle left?"
The memories are foggy from years of actively trying to forget, but I attempt to wade through them for her. While technically I was a kid, I never felt like one– confusing the timeline further. No one was making me dinner or making sure I went to school. I started smoking by the time I was eleven and spent most days alone in the woods. Childhood was a luxury Dixons knew nothing about.
"I can't remember. Maybe ten?"
She doesn't reply, but her face softens around the edges.
"I'm fine, I survived," I grumble. "No need to look at me like that."
"I'm not looking at you like anything."
"You are. Those puppy dog eyes like you feel bad for me or somethin'."
"That's not what this look is," she earnestly shakes her head. "It's empathy. You were so little. Carl's only ten. Imagine someone doing any of what you went through to him."
A blaze of protectiveness ignites at the thought. He's just a kid– a real one. Preoccupied with comic books and weird reptiles, still running to his parents when he's scared or sad. I'd sooner kill someone who tried to hurt him than let anything like that ever happen.
"I never thought of it like that."
"Stuff like that is hard to see when you're in it… but I wish I could beat up your dad."
The sentiment makes me smirk, heavily amused at the thought of Mila fighting for me. He was a mean son of a bitch though, so there's no scenario where I'd let them be in the same room together, much less interact. I never hit back when he was whaling on me, even as a teenager, but I'd level him if he looked at Mila wrong now.
"I have some choice words for your mom that would make Herschel blush."
She giggles and instantly the tension in the room is lifted. Without prompting, she takes another bite which makes my chest puff in satisfaction. Maybe this whole talking thing isn't so bad. The irony that neither of us acknowledges is that even if our parents were alive before all of this, they probably aren't anymore. Devils we used to fear are now ghosts.
"You scared the shit out of me today, you know."
"Jus' keepin' you on your toes."
"Well, I'd appreciate if you didn't," she lightly reprimands, her playful lilt indicating she knows I also wouldn't have chosen for today to go how it did. "You should get some rest. Thanks for listening to my sob story."
Her minimization doesn't go unnoticed and I make sure my face reflects that. She collects my plate with a sheepish grin, stacking her empty one on top.
"Thanks for not lettin' me starve up here."
"That wouldn't make me a very good nurse, now would it?"
A playful, pink tongue sticks out at me and I greedily absorb the sight as I watch her go. Somehow, she continues to find ways to surprise me– both in what she shares and how she seems to release an uncharacteristic part of me. I had voluntarily let someone peek behind the impenetrable wall intended to keep everyone out without imploding. And for the first time in a long time, maybe ever, I don't feel so alone anymore.
I couldn't stop going back and editing this but at a certain point, it just needs to get published. Feel free to let me know if you like/hate anything and I'll keep that in mind in the future! Anything to help my writing get better or more interesting :) thank you for the nice reviews!