A/N: Hi everyone!

This is my first Walking Dead fic! Don't be too hard on me... ^^

I'm totally in love with Daryl Dixon, and find him so complex and interesting. I had to write something about him! :)

I'll keep it short, since there's going to be author's notes at the end of the chapter too.

I don't own the characters and I don't make money with this fic.

This fiction contains many warnings; warnings for rape, pedophilia, incest, use of drugs, strong language, cussing, and homosexual intercourse. You've been warned! If this bothers you, I kindly suggest that you go back from where you came. ^^

Also, there are spoilers in this fic up to episode 3x06: Hounded. The storyline of this fic will stop being canon from that point on.

That's about it! Have fun reading!

Mad World

Chapter 1: I want to drown my sorrow

All around me are familiar faces

Worn out places, worn out faces

Hide my head I want to drown my sorrow

No tomorrow, no tomorrow

And I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad

The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I ever had

Gary Jules - Mad World

People talk about the end of the world all the time. It's been announced an insane amount of time, and yet, we always pulled through without it happening. But right now... right now it's the real deal.

It's not some crazy shit like earthquakes, tsunamis and such. No, it's much worse. The dead has risen and is devouring the living, and it was so sudden that no one was prepared for it. People get killed by their loved ones, and they come back as rotten corpses hunting for living preys. Everyone's panicking, is getting lost in this new, harsh world that they are unable to fit in.

I'm an exception. Sure, I panicked at first too, but I quickly overcame that fear and used it to survive. I'm lucky to have skills in that area too. Growing up, I had to learn to adapt quickly to any situation, and it proved quite useful in this apocalyptic world.

In my thirty-two years of life, I've seen and experienced things far more horrible than the walkers. People would laugh if I'd tell them that. Nobody understands me; no one understands what I've had to go through since I was a little kid, what kind of life I lived. They don't understand that human beings can be far more cruel and scary than dead people walking around mindlessly.

Nobody understands Daryl Dixon, nor do they want to understand me. I have to admit I'm not helping. I spent my whole life deliberately isolating myself from others. I don't want people to see how ugly I am inside, how worthless. Undeserving of love and attention. And that's fine with me. If I don't let anyone in, then I won't get hurt again. Loneliness is better than pain. I had my share of pain for a lifetime.

But things never go as I want, don't they?

I don't know how it happened, I don't even know when it happened, but against my better judgment, someone managed to crawl under my skin, to heal the old wounds that never closed. That person is the last one I thought would bother to do it, or would even care about me to that extent.

Rick Grimes. He came into my life and changed everything, forced me to change along with it.

Rick doesn't know everything about me, just like everybody else. I never told anyone this. I doubt even my brother Merle knows everything I went through growing up. He was far too busy being away from home getting drunk, high, doing some time in juvie, or constantly out somewhere to bang some sluts to care about what happened to me.

No, I'm sure Merle doesn't know everything. And even if he did know, there wouldn't have been a lot he could have done to stop it. I wouldn't have wanted his help, anyway. If I'm sure of one thing, it's that I'd rather die than beg for help. I always had to strive for myself and the last shred of pride that hadn't been robbed from me made sure of that.

I didn't get to know my mother very long. I was six years old when she died in a fire, found in her own bed. After she died, it was just me, my brother and my father growing up. Well, I should say just me and my old man, really.

Like I said, Merle was more often out doing God knows what shit than at home. I understood soon enough why he avoided being home most of the time. My old man was not the perfect father. He was drunk almost every day. He had no job, and it took me many years to understand how he was making money to keep the house – no matter how old and rundown it was – and his old truck.

My old man was head deep into the drugs and prostitution market.

Sometimes, my dad was gone for a couple of days and I was left on my own. I had to learn to take care of myself when I was no older than six years old, right after my mom died. I always managed to pull through, even if I usually spent these days hungry, thirsty and dirty. Despite that, I still preferred it when my old man was gone because that meant I had peace and the illusion of safety for a couple of days.

Because my dad was violent, always had been. He didn't hit Merle, though. I suspect he did once, but my brother was quick to toughen up and strike back. Surely it wasn't alluring as much to hit someone who can defend himself. I didn't have the guts to do it, so my father kept the hits coming.

He was even worse when he was drunk. He'd get home late and stumble into my room. He'd yell at me about things I didn't do and slap me hard across the face before beating me up with his fists. The nights that he was really pissed off, he even went as far as using his belt to whip my back again and again, until my skin was raw and bleeding.

Sometimes, he'd hit me so hard I'd pass out. When I was seven years old, I stopped crying whenever he hit me as I realized it was only urging him on to hit me more.

Other times, he'd break bones without intending to. I remember that time he broke a couple of my ribs by kicking me too hard in the side. He had brought me to a hospital to have me treated and the doctor didn't even ask questions about how it happened. He had patched me up and sent me on my merry way back home with my abusive father.

That's the thing. Everyone in our village in Georgia knew what my old man was doing to his kids. Everyone knew he was an abusing father and no one wanted to lift a single finger to help us. We were only redneck trash, after all. All of my life, I was treated like I was dog shit. I can't say they were wrong on that point. That's what I am to the world.

I never asked why my dad did it. I just figured I'd done something to deserve his hate and anger. People talk about love. They talk about how good it is to love and be loved in return. I didn't get it. All I knew growing up, and ever knew was pain, misery, shame and contempt. I was always told by both my old man and Merle that I was nothing more than a worthless trash, and that no one would ever care about me except them. I got used to it.

After some time, it didn't hurt as much as it used to.

If my dad had only hit me, I think I could have handled my broken childhood better. But he didn't stop there. He did so much more. There was the humiliation. He often called me girly names like Darylena – fuck I hate that name – and constantly treated me like a girl. Sometimes, my old man cuffed me outside of the house stark naked for everyone to see and fed me as one would a dog. He even did it once in one of the harshest winters we ever had and I almost died from hypothermia before he decided to get me inside the house.

He began doing that when I was about eight years old, when I was more of age to be ashamed of being exposed in such a way. And fuck, I was. I remember thinking I'd rather my old man beat me to a bloody pulp than do that to me. So I did everything I could to make him angry and beat me up instead, but he knew why I was doing it and continued with the humiliation. He branded me as his toy in front of everyone, and I'm ashamed to say I could do nothing against that.

My dad's cruel ways got craftier and crueler the more years passed. Sometimes, he tied me to my bed for days on end, leaving me starving and weak, and shamefully obligated to stew in my own piss and feces. Fuck, I hated it with a passion when he did that. I'd rather take the pain anytime.

I tried to run away from home once too. It didn't go as I planned, though. I was nine years old. I remember that day. My old man was off on a bender with some waitress and Merle was serving time in juvie again. I was alone at home and I decided to leave while I had the chance. Since I wanted to avoid leaving the village by going through it – someone was bound to tell my old man in which direction I went – I decided to cut through the forest around the village.

I lost my way, though. Back then, I didn't have the orientation skills I have now. I got lost for nine days, eating berries, building a small fire in the nights and trying to survive there. I eventually found my way back home and made myself a sandwich. I never tried to flee again. I knew I had nowhere else to go and at least at home, I had a shelter from the cold and food on the table. It was better than nothing.

When my old man learned what I did though – he learned it from one of our neighbors who'd seen me leave the house – he was furious. That time, he beat me so hard that I thought he'd kill me. It was the first time he used a knife on me. He carved my flesh over and over with a vengeance, ignoring my broken pleas for him to stop. By the time he finished with me and I was left curled up on the ground bleeding, I wished I'd died. It'd have been merciful, in fact, considering what happened to me a few months later.

I realized something over the years. I realized that no matter how hard my father bruised, cut or marked me, he made sure that he didn't do any significant damage that would make me deformed or to bruise my face too hard. He never left scars on my face and I often wondered why. If I'd known the reason for it, surely I'd have made a run for it again. I'd have taken starving to death trying to survive on my own outside any time over this fate that awaited me.

It was a few months before my tenth birthday when my life turned to a nightmare. Everything I went through before that day was nothing compared to what awaited me. That evening, my old man brought me with him into the city a few miles from the village. That's where he was 'working'. I remember I was completely terrified. I didn't know where he was bringing me and what he was going to have me do. Sometimes, I'm trying to forget that day but it's been branded into my mind, my body, my very soul, and it never left me.

My old man brought me to an old building that seemed abandoned at first glance. When we entered, he dragged me through a long, dark hallway with many closed doors. From behind those doors, I heard moans and cries of pain and it made me even more nervous. My dad took me to an empty room equipped with only a bed. He left me there alone in that cold room for a long time, and when he finally came back, another man was with him.

It was an old man with a cruel, cold smile and ungraceful physique. My old man muttered something to the stranger and then left, closing and locking the door behind him, leaving me alone with the old man who was suddenly leering at me in a way that raised shivers of fear on my skin. It's kind of ironic how you can remember up to the tiniest detail in situations that traumatize you while you often forget everything about the happiest moments. I feel like I never truly left that place, reviving that nightmare over and over again.

Even now, it's not the threat of walkers that wakes me up at night sometimes. It's that very memory. The memory of the first time I was defiled.

I remember it all so clearly. The stranger walked slowly towards me and I recoiled in fear and apprehension with each step he took until I was trapped against the wall. His whispered 'He was right. So pretty…' confused me and I didn't like the avid tone he used. When he grabbed my arm, I let out a surprised yelp and struggled as much as I could to get free. His grip was too tight though, and he managed to bring me to the bed.

He forced me down on the old mattress, trapping me between the filthy bed and his disgusting body. When I felt his hands feel me down and grope me through my clothes, I trashed under him and yelled at the top of my lungs. I was so terrified. I didn't know what he was about to do, I didn't know that my old man had just sold my virginity to some disgusting, old pervert. I had no clear concept of sex yet, and how could I? I wasn't even ten years old.

All I knew for sure at that moment was that the touch of those hands repulsed me.

No matter how much I struggled, the fat, ugly man didn't stop touching me. He slapped me hard across the face and tore at my clothes until I was lying on that bed cold, naked and shivering, and so ashamed under his hungry gaze. When his fat hands touched my bare skin, caressed me in unwanted places, in places no kid should ever be touched, the fear skyrocketed in me and I fought back harder.

He merely laughed this time as he pressed himself down against me, pinning me effortlessly against the mattress. I remember how helpless I felt then. How afraid, abandoned and alone I felt. I realized that no one would save me from what that man wanted to do to me.

My childish mind didn't truly grasp what was happening until my aggressor had gotten rid of his pants and that his fat dick was forcing its way into my small, unprepared body. The pain was so intense that I yelled in absolute agony and my entire body bucked away violently, trying to force him out. But the man wanted none of it; he pinned me down and kept penetrating my unwilling body, brutally splitting me open.

Once he was fully sheathed inside of me, his groan of rapture being muffled by my screams of pain, he began a punishing pace, ramming in and out of my tight, virgin hole. I kept screaming, pleading and sobbing as he raped me, tears running freely down my cheeks.

My violator ignored my pleas and my screams for him to stop. He kept taking what he wanted, again and again, and as my whole body was seized with pain by the violation, I felt something brutally break inside me as realization hit me like a ton of bricks.

My innocence was gone, being taken against my will by an old man in a cold room, and with it, a part of me died. My strength faded away and I stopped struggling, my tears now silently rolling down my cheeks. I looked lifelessly at the ceiling, my body wracked by spasms in the rhythm of the man's trusts inside me. A welcomed numbness took over me, blinding my pain, blinding my shame, my agony, leaving me with a frightening emptiness.

I lied there motionless and took it. I don't know how long it took before the man was finished with me. My mind had completely shut down, and with it, my sense of time became blurred. Eventually, a strange, wet and sticky warmth filled my abused ass and the old man groaned loudly, his filthy breath caressing the side of my neck. He collapsed on me, crushing me under his weight.

He stayed there for a moment before finally sliding out of my abused and broken body. He got dressed in silence and left the room without another look at me. I remember I stayed lying on that bed until my old man came back to fetch me, blood and cum coating my thighs and silent tears still running down my cheeks. It earned me a vicious slap in the face and my old man calling me a 'fucking pussy'.

That was the last time I'd cry for a long, long time.

Something really broke in me after that day. It's hard to describe what it was, but I felt it. It was torn away from me so brutally and I resented my old man for that. If I didn't feel so empty inside, I think I'd have tried to murder him in his sleep. But any desire to fight back against my fate, to get revenge for all the shit he threw at me was just... gone. It was robbed from me that day when I was lying on that dirty bed, used and broken.

My old man brought me back to that godforsaken place often after that. When I said nobody cared about me because I was just some redneck trash, I wasn't joking. Everybody knew what my old man was doing, what shit he was up to. They all knew that he was prostituting his own son in exchange for money for the living and no one did a single thing to stop it.

I stopped praying for help a long time ago, though. I felt that maybe I deserved all that was happening to me, that maybe it was meant to be and that I couldn't have a slice of happiness. I was a worthless piece of trash, after all. Eventually, I made my peace with the fact that maybe my sole purpose in life was to be a sexual reliever.

You can get used to a lot of things with time, but not to the pain of being taken by strangers on an almost daily basis. You can't get used to the fact that your own father is selling you. You can't get used to the humiliation and shame of being brought as nothing more than a fuck toy for a couple of old perverts.

You can't get used to the fact that on nights when your father is too drunk, he begins to visit you in your room in the middle of the night for a quick, painful fuck.

It lasted for four years; four long years when my existence was filled with endless pain and shame. I could have killed myself to escape it all; it would have been so easy. But I didn't. I'm not a coward and there was no way I'd have taken the easy way out. Most of all, I wanted to show Merle and my old man that I wasn't a weakling like they thought I was. So since I couldn't bring myself to escape it all, I muted my pain the best I could.

Drugs were a good way to go about it.

I might have been young, but I wasn't stupid. I've seen Merle take drugs too many times to count and I knew by now which ones could help numb my senses and the constant pain chilling my bones. I knew my brother had a stash of drugs hidden in his room, but I didn't dare steal some from him. He'd probably kill me if he found out. I needed money to buy some, so I tried to get a decent job in the village.

I should have known from the start it was useless. No one wanted to hire a filthy redneck, even less one that was not even of age to be paid other than under the table. Desperate, I went directly to one of the guys who sold drugs to Merle. Seeing I had no money and how desperate I was, he told me I could always trade sexual favors for the drugs.

I accepted. What did I have to lose, anyway? I had lost my pride a long time ago and I was so used to spreading my legs like a common whore that it didn't make a difference for me at that point.

I'm not proud of what I did, but there's no changing the past. I ended up whoring myself around to get drugs that helped numb my pain. Being fucked into a mattress daily and being beaten down by my old man became more tolerable thanks to the drugs. I was almost always high on some shit or another. I'm pretty sure the drugs would have ended up killing me if I'd kept it on, but it was the only thing I had left, the only anchor against the pain I constantly felt.

I was alone, and the few people I knew out there always used me or hurt me. Except for Merle. He was different. I'm not saying he was gentle with me or anything. If he'd be home more often, he'd probably take turns with my old man to beat me up if he thought it'd help me become a man like him. No, that wasn't it.

Merle cared in his own twisted way, but he cared nonetheless.

Merle. Nobody understands why I care about him even though he treated me like shit more often than not. It's not only because he's blood. Merle saved me from myself. He forced me to feel again, to wake up from the lethargic state I had hid into to mute my pain. Without him, I'm sure I would have died sooner or later. He helped me grow strong enough to stand on my own.

Like I already said, my brother was almost never at home while I was growing up. He's eight years older than me so he was already a teenager in my earliest memories. Always was a rebellious one too. He knew about the fact our old man was beating me up daily, probably because our dad used to do the same thing to him. He knew, but he didn't try to stop him.

I'm not stupid; I understood that it was because he wanted me to toughen up. In our family, there was no place for sissies. He wanted me to take it like a man and grow strong like him so I could protect myself in this harsh, cruel world. It was his way to show he cared. A shitty way, but a way nonetheless.

I doubt he knew about our old man raping me and forcing me to whore around to get money for the living, though. Our dad was always cautious to rape me on nights when Merle was not around. I didn't understand why he didn't want Merle to know. It would have only given me another reason to feel ashamed of myself, to know that my own brother would despise me for being as weak as to let myself being used as a fuck toy, by our own father no less.

Merle found out about it eventually, though. I was fourteen when it happened. That night, there was a party in one of the village's houses. The kids gathered there were older than me and I didn't know anyone, but I still went because I knew there'd be drug dealers mixed in and I was in a desperate need for some relief from the pain. Finding a dealer ready to exchange drugs for a quick fuck was easy. I didn't know this guy, I just knew he was way older than I was, maybe eight years or so. I stopped giving a shit about all that a long time ago.

We found an empty room upstairs and we were quick to get on to it, not even bothering to get rid of our clothes except for our pants and underwear. I found myself face down on the pillow, ass up in the air while the drug dealer took me eagerly from behind without much foreplay or preparation. I didn't want foreplay anyways. I didn't want the illusion of having someone care for my pleasure, because this was only a transaction and nothing else. All signs of affection would be nothing but lies and I was done fooling myself.

Nobody cared about me that way and I made my peace with it. I also lost hope that someone would eventually. Who'd want such a broken, used toy?

The room was soon filled with the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh and the grunts of pleasure from the man pounding into me. I stayed still, biting my lip to skilfully stop my moans of pain. I learned the hard way that it was best I hide the signs of my discomfort and pain. I met all of the dealer's trusts with my hips, taking him deeper each time and clenching my muscles to give him more pleasure and to quicken his release, ignoring the enhanced pain at my antics. I just wanted this to be over so I could have my drugs and numb the ever-existent pain again.

The dealer's hand sneaked around my waist to grab my limp dick and I quickly slapped it away. I didn't want pleasure from this disgusting act. I didn't want anything from those men. Some of them had tried to bring me pleasure while they raped me, but when their hands touched me there, it brought me only more pain and shame. It was already bad enough to let them use and take me however they liked, I wasn't about to find pleasure in getting raped.

The older guy did not insist when he heard the threatening growl bubbling from my throat. His hand found its place back on my hip. He kept on his punishing pace and I knew he was almost there when his breathing grew labored. He would probably have finished right then and there if it wasn't for the door suddenly opening. We both froze and when I turned my head to have a look at the intruder, I felt my heart stop in my chest.

It was Merle.

My brother merely stood there, looking at us with no emotion that could help me decipher what he was thinking. He met my gaze and I was unable to tear my eyes away from him. I couldn't believe he was there. Then again, the dealer I was fucking was probably one of his acquaintances. The drug dealer broke the uncomfortable silence. "Hey Merle, mind if I finish here?" he asked breathlessly, still buried balls deep inside my ass. Merle's gaze didn't stray from me as he answered in his gruff voice; "Go 'head. Can't let such a fine bitch pass ya up."

My brother's harsh words had such an impact on me that it left me breathless and I almost didn't feel it when the dealer resumed fucking me into the mattress under Merle's eyes. It cut into me like a knife and I turned my head away in shame, burying my face into the pillow. An emotion I had buried deep inside of me long ago suddenly came bubbling to the surface once more: self-disgust. Here I was, letting a stranger screw me like a common bitch in heat under my own brother's gaze.

I realized then that I couldn't have fallen lower.

Now my brother knew how much of a weak pussy I was. I never felt more ashamed in my entire life. When the drug dealer climaxed inside me with a loud groan, I asked myself: what have I been doing? What was I doing letting everyone use me like that? Did I have so little self-respect and pride? The fact that my brother was there to witness this was like a slap into my face, shoving into my face what I had become.

I felt so ashamed I wanted to die.

My entire body felt so numb that I barely felt the dealer slipping out of me, leaving behind only the sticky, disgusting mess that had become the bane of my existence. I slowly moved, putting my pants back in place while the dealer threw the little bag of drugs on my lap. He then left with Merle, who didn't even spare me another glance.

I don't remember how much time I stayed in that room still smelling of sex. Eventually, I went home in a second state of mind. Once there, I helped myself in the drugs I just earned and took more than I used to. Maybe I hoped to overdose; maybe I only wanted to forget the burning gaze of my brother watching me as I let myself be taken like a whore. I don't know why I did that, but when I was finished I was high as a kite.

Then, I took a long, cold shower, still completely clothed. I sat on the cold ground of the shower, my back to the wall and merely let the water run down over me. My senses were so numb this time that I barely felt the cold seeping through my clothes and skin, chilling my bones.

My mind was so drugged that I was barely conscious of it when Merle entered the bathroom. I slowly raised my head to look at him. The water ran down my pale and tired face and my eyes tried to focus on my brother's face. He stared at me for a long time and I was sure he'd begin to insult me any second now, calling me a pussy, and a whore, and everything that'd come to mind and that I already knew I was. But he didn't. Instead, only one word passed his lips.

"Why?"

He could have asked for anything. He could be asking me why I was doing drugs, or why I was whoring around... I didn't know what he wanted me to say, but it didn't matter because there was only one possible answer to that. "Dad," I slurred weakly. He was the answer to everything I was doing. Our old man had broken me, and I had let him. By the light of understanding that appeared in Merle's eyes, I'm certain now that he knew what our old man was doing to me.

Surely because he'd tried it with Merle too, but my brother had been strong enough to resist him.

I wasn't. I was never nearly as strong as Merle and probably never would be.

Merle didn't say anything else. He stopped the water and got me out of the shower with almost caring gestures. In silence, he dried me up, helped me into dry clothes – I was too high to do it myself – and brought me to my bed. I passed out not long after.

This was the first and last time I'd seen my brother so caring.

I woke up later in the middle of the night at the sound of my brother and father fighting downstairs. The drugs' effect had lessened some and I could distinctly hear what they were saying. They were fighting about me and it seemed ugly. Merle was standing up to me and preventing my dad to come to my room. If my body wasn't feeling so numb, I would have gone downstairs to fight my own battle, but I couldn't move. Besides, I felt so weak and sick that I succumbed to sleep soon.

The next day, my old man was nowhere to be seen. When I asked Merle where he was, he told me not to worry about him anymore. I feared at first that Merle had killed our old man. Don't get me wrong; I wouldn't give a shit if my dad was dead. I only feared the consequences for Merle if he killed him. I knew Merle enough to know he could have done it. I'd find out later that Merle had beaten our old man so hard that he'd sent him to the hospital. I was relieved to know he was far away from me for the time being, but I was a little disappointed that I wasn't the one sending him there.

Still, I was grateful to Merle.

Merle kept me locked into my room for a couple of days after that, forcing me to go into withdrawal. I can easily say that those were the most horrible days of my life. Being locked there with nothing other than my own fucked-up mind, I became quickly delirious and forced to face my twisted emotions, fears, everything that I'd pushed deep down inside me.

The memories of everything I'd been through at the hands of my old man also got mixed up with everything else. All the times he beat me to the ground with his fists, all the times he cut my skin with a knife, all the times he humiliated me, all the times he touched me in ways no father should do to his kids...

It all came crashing down around me.

Reviving my memories made me realize something; I never wanted to go through this again. I never wanted to let someone use me again; I never wanted to feel this weak, this powerless and helpless ever again. I'd rather die than be someone else's bitch again. Given the chance, I'd do whatever's necessary to survive and grow stronger so I could take care of myself. I had enough of being a victim. It had to stop.

Still, I wasn't being delusional. I knew I was used and damaged beyond repair and that I'd probably never be able to trust someone else again or let them in. I was scared to be hurt again and the only solution in my eyes was to stay away from other human beings. That's why I had to be strong enough not to rely on anyone else.

I had to do it. If I couldn't do it, I knew it was only a matter of time before I'd wither and die.

It was with this renewed need for survival that Merle found me when he let me out after almost a week locked in my room. He asked me to pack my bags, telling me we were leaving the house for good. I didn't object. I didn't want to see my old man's face ever again and I knew that wherever Merle would take me, it'd be better than to stay in this hellhole that contained so many bad memories of continued abuse. He was giving me an occasion to have a new start with him.

And so I and my brother began to travel around the States. We never stayed in one place for too long. Everywhere we went, people looked at us distrustfully. We were rednecks wherever we went and I knew this would never change. It would always be us against the world, but still I felt better than I ever did before. Whenever someone was trying to get at me, I fought back. I didn't let anyone get the better of me anymore.

Merle helped me greatly in regaining my confidence. He wasn't doing it with words of encouragement. That wasn't my brother. He did it with insults, treating me like a 'pussy' and girly names. If anything, it pushed me to show him I wasn't a damn girl and that I could take care of myself.

Merle taught me everything I know. He taught me how to hunt for food, how to steal without being caught, where to find the best places to sleep at night, everything that would help me survive in a world that rejected people like me. If I was still alive today, it was because of him. I owned him much, I knew it, and he knew it.

We didn't have the healthiest relationship. I knew Merle was the only one who cared about me and he used that to keep me chained to him, to keep a sense of control over me. But I didn't mind. I wasn't alone, and it was the only thing that mattered to me.

We traveled around for eighteen years, just my brother and me. Like I had promised myself, never once did I get attached to someone. Merle kept on sleeping around whenever he could, and tried many times to get me a good fuck, but I refused every time. I wasn't interested in sex; I sincerely doubted I'd want to have sex ever again, to tell the truth. I learned to loathe such intimate contact and the fact of doing it with a girl instead wasn't helping much. Merle ended up giving up on trying to get me laid and I was grateful for it.

And then, the unthinkable happened. The dead began to rise and it was total chaos everywhere. When shit started, Merle and I were stranded near Atlanta. We could stand our own in a fight, but there were just too many of those fucking abominations. We knew we wouldn't survive alone against those things so we reluctantly joined a group of survivors.

They accepted us among their mixed group without a second thought, but I could feel they were still keeping their distances with us because they didn't trust us rednecks. Merle wasn't helping much. He was constantly throwing racists comments in their faces and each time he did I fought hard not to tell my brother to stop. I'm not like Merle on that point. I'm so fed up with being treated like shit that I don't want to treat people like that even if they'd deserved it. Merle just figures that he should treat everyone poorly to make up for the way he was treated.

I wasn't agreeing with him, but I kept my trap shut, knowing it wouldn't help anyone if I angered my short-tempered brother.

Then, a couple of weeks after the outbreak started, Rick Grimes arrived in the group, and my life was turned upside down.

A/N: There you go for chapter 1!

Now this is my personal take on what Daryl's life was before we met him. We knew he was physically abused since we saw the scars on his chest in the episode 2x05: Chupacabra, and by the way he recoiled as if he was going to be hit when Carol leaned down to kiss his forehead.

As for the rape, I personally highly suspect that he went through sexual abuse too, though not at the hands of Merle. Maybe I was imagining it, but I remember how pissed off Daryl was when Randall talked about the men in his group raping two girls. I found it odd that he would react so strongly, because we only ever see him that angry when it concerns him or Merle. But well, it's merely my opinion! ^^

I'd be very glad to have your feedback, everyone, at least to know if it's worth continuing!

Thank you for reading!

Rose