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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 :)
Daryl staggered into his room, dropping on his rickety bed like a ton of bricks and groaning in pain.
Wrapping his arm protectively around his middle, he curled up, trying to stifle the whimper that tried to escape past his split lips.
Stay awake, he silently chided himself when he felt his eyelids drooping heavily. He wasn't sure if he had a concussion or not, but he didn't want to take the chance.
Thankfully, Will Dixon had gone out for the evening and Daryl would be alone.
Lying there alone in bed, Daryl's mind wandered to the events that had unfolded just an hour ago.
Merle had left again. He and Daddy had had a huge fight, ending with Merle nearly beating Will into a bloody pulp and storming out the front door, leaving his baby brother to take the brunt of their father's rage.
Daryl had managed to successfully sneak into the kitchen and make himself the fastest peanut butter sandwhich ever when Daddy came stomping in, exploding on his youngest son in a fit of rage.
Daryl had payed dearly for making that sandwhich, and he gave a pained little huff of a laugh at the thought of it. He hated peanut butter. Why had he even bothered?
Rolling over, he groaned, hugging his ribs protectively. He felt nauseous just thinking about eating.
The images of the earlier events continued to flash in vivid color behind his closed eyelids, and he grimmaced at how real it all seemed, even as a memory.
*flashback*
Slipping downstairs, Daryl crept cautiously into the kitchen, trying desperately not to be seen or heard by his father or brother as they yelled and screamed at each other in the living room.
Carefully, he got himself out a slice of bread and smeared peanut butter over it. Hearing the front door slam and Merle's angry voice fading before his motorcycle roared to life, Daryl quickly put the grape jelly back in the refrigerator, grabbing up his peanut butter bread and hurrying for the kitchen doorway as the yelling of his daddy died down in the living room.
He hadn't even gotten a chance to take one bite. Daddy was storming in a moment later, screaming at him and snatching the sandwhich from his trembling hands, calling him worthless, a sneaking little shit. A thief.
Will grabbed him by the hair when Daryl tried to make a run for it, grabbing his arm next and swinging him around, slamming him into the kitchen table and knocking the wind from his 15-year-old lungs.
"You little bastard!" Will screamed as Daryl cowered before him, trying desperately to hide his terror. "You worthless, thieving little shit! I oughta beat your skinny ass t' death! You hear me?! That's what I oughta do!!"
"Daddy, I-I'm-I'm sorry!" Daryl cried, pleading with his father.
He should have known better. Begging never helped.
"Sorry?!" Will screamed in his face, rage doubling terrifyingly. "Sorry ain't worth shit you little jackass!!"
A moment later, Daryl was sprawling across the kitchen floor, a right hook to the jaw flattening him.
Will began beating on him mercilessly a second later, fists flying wildly. And after what seemed like an eternity, Will stopped. Instead, he resorted to using his steel toed boots.
Three kicks later, and Daryl heard at least two ribs crack. Five kicks later, at least one was broken. One last lucky kick, he was fairly certain he would have a concussion.
Will had stormed out of the kitchen, ranting angrily as he snatched up his truck keys and stomped out the back door, his truck revving loudly as he peeled out of the Dixon's driveway and gunned it for the nearest bar.
Slowly, Daryl drug himself to his feet, staggering into the bathroom to look at the damage.
His face was a mass of bruises and cuts, one eye already black and swelling shut. Carefully, he had bound his ribcage as tightly as he could on his own and promptly taken to his bed to rest.
*Present*
Now, as he lay there staring up at his dirty bedroom ceiling, he wondered why he had even bothered going downstairs in the first place. He hadn't been hungry. Not really. His stomach growled in protest, and he promptly ignored it. Why hadn't he just stayed in the safety of his and Merle's shared room? Why had he taken the chance of getting caught?
Groaning to himself, he sat up slowly, good eye drifting lazily over the room.
Four walls and a roof. That was pretty much all it was. The walls were bare save for a few car magazine pages he had taped up and one or two sports illustrated pages Merle thought they needed to look at on a regular basis. Otherwise, there was nothing.
Sighing, Daryl winced, looking over at their broken dresser. Knowing that Merle had a fresh stash of drugs under the bottom drawer.
Would he have anything for the pain?
Slowly, Daryl got up, dropping to his knees and pulling the drawer out with a grunt.
Merle would probably be pissed if he found out Daryl had gotten into his stash, but he didn't care. He hurt too much to care.
Rifling through the mess of bags and bottles, Daryl marveled at the amount Merle had accumulated over the past week or so.
Names like Diazepam and Doxycycline appeared more often than not, and finally, praise be to the Big Guy upstairs, painkillers.
With a soft sigh of relief, Daryl took the bottle, checked the dosage and popped two of the capsules into his mouth, dry swallowing them before replacing the bottles and bags under the drawer and closing it.
Once the drugs started taking effect, Daryl propped himself up in bed to try and stay awake, reading through a hunting magazine Merle had brought home.
His mind wasn't on the reading material though. Through the haze of relief, Daryl found himself thinking back to the painkiller under the drawer.
How many would he have to take before he would just close his eyes and never open them again?
How long would it take before someone found him?
Would Merle even care that he was gone? He knew his father wouldn't. The bastard would probably throw a party. But what about his big brother? What would he do?
Troubled by his own morbid thoughts, Daryl decided he couldn't stay awake any longer. The possibility of a concussion be damned.
Sliding down under his tattered sheet, Daryl tried to forget his dark thoughts.
Please, Daryl baby, Mama's voice seemed to echo in his mind as he drifted off. A memory of her tugging at his half-asleep mind. Don't be like your big brother. You're the sweet one, darling. You're my precious little boy. Don't be like Merle, or your Daddy. Please? For me?
"Yes, Mama..." Daryl muttered to himself as he finally relaxed and fell asleep. "I'll try..."