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Disclaimer: I don't own The Walking Dead or any of it's characters. All I own here is the plot :)
Stupid...
Ugly...
Worthless...
Waste of space...
The words of his father seemed to echo in Daryl's mind, played on repeat over and over until fresh tears stained his dirty, blood-smeared cheeks.
Why didn't his father love him?
Why didn't anyone care?
When had his father started hating him so much?
What had he done to cause his father to hate him so?
His 12-year-old mind couldn't process any of it. His head hurt. His back hurt. Daddy had whipped him good. Blood trickled down between his shoulder blades, collecting on the waistband of his pants as Daryl sat in the corner of his bedroom sobbing.
It hurt. He was afraid. He wanted Merle. He wanted Mama. Nearly five years had passed since the fire, and he missed her more and more with each passing day.
Still sniffling, Daryl slowly got up, wondering what on earth he was supposed to do about his back. Will Dixon had beaten him before, used the belt on him many times since his mother's death, but it wasn't until now that he had actually broken the skin.
Daryl's back was a canvas of black and blue bruises, angry looking red welts, and -even more frightening to the 12-year-old boy- bloody gashes overlapping one another every inch or so across his bare back.
It was terrifying, but he knew he had to deal with it. He couldn't go to a hospital. Daddy would be sure to exact revenge on his youngest son if he did.
Later that evening, after Daryl had managed to wrap himself with two or three ace bandages and hide the evidence, Merle came home unexpectedly.
Daryl never told his brother about what had happened earlier that day.
When Merle asked about the black eye and the split lip he was sporting, he brushed it off with a lie that he had beaten up a kid at school, the kid just got a few lucky hits in, no big deal.
But deep down, Daryl knew it was a big deal. He wanted to tell Merle. Oh, how he wanted to tell him. But he just couldn't bring himself to. Merle was drunk, and Daryl knew he wouldn't listen.
I wanna tell you, Merle. Can't you see it? Please, Merle! Hear me! See me! Help me...
Couldn't his brother see his sadness? His pain? How frightened he was when Will Dixon finally came home from his latest bender? All the pent up depression and anxiety locked away behind his sad blue eyes?
No. Merle was too high or too drunk to notice. Always was, and probably always would be.
So Daryl stayed silent. Ashamed that he was so weak and small for his age, and afraid of what Will Dixon would do to him if he caught him tattling on his own father.
Daryl went to bed that night and cried himself to sleep.
When would this cruel and miserable existence be over?