A/N: Hello again! Apparently I'm a sadist - I just can't get thoughts of Daryl's childhood out of my head so here I am writing about it and sharing with you. Seriously, my muse will not let this subject matter go.

Warning: This story contains explicit descriptions of abuse and adult language. If that's not your cup of tea, turn around now. If it is, welcome to the party, glad I'm not alone.

Look at that M rating up there. You've been warned.

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, I am merely borrowing them and will return them when I'm done. The plot is mine, however.

Dog Days of Dixon

The wind was bitterly cold against his bare face and arms, it cut through his thin dingy tank top and torn up jeans as he ran. The ground was wet from recent rain and leaves stuck to his bare feet. As much as his heart pounded, as much as his lungs burned, as much as his muscles screamed for him to stop, he couldn't. He couldn't stop sprinting away from the monster on his heels. Panic and adrenaline gripped him, pushing him forward. He knew, he knew what would happen if he stopped. Certain death.

Daryl didn't know what set the old man off again. One minute he's lounging, drunk, in that beat up old recliner next to the fireplace; the next he's chasing Daryl through the woods, leather belt wrapped around his fist.

"Git back here, you little shit!" he hollered. Daryl could tell he wasn't far behind – he could feel the tips of the drunk bastard's fingers brushing his neck and back. Panic gripped him even tighter.

The panic blinded Daryl from his surroundings and his waning adrenaline rush was leaving him fatigued. He didn't see the tree root but his foot felt it and he stumbled to the ground, getting a face-full of mud and leaves. Daryl whimpered and tried to crawl forward, knowing it was a futile attempt. Not even a second later the monster was on him, fingers wrapping around his neck, pressing his face into the hard ground. Daryl drew his arms up over his head and waited for the blows to come. He didn't have to wait long.

The old man straddled his thighs, keeping his left hand pressed against Daryl's neck while he unwound the belt from his fingers, letting the buckle hang limply. Raising his right arm he brought the belt down against Daryl's back. The metal bit into his skin and Daryl screamed but quickly bit his lip to keep silent. He'd learned long ago the beatings were worse when he screamed. He couldn't help the small cries escaping his mouth or his futile writhing, attempting to get away. The lashes stung and he knew the buckle was splitting his skin – he could feel the blood running down his back.

"What the-?" Suddenly the beating stopped, to Daryl's confusion. His father stood on his knees, feeling the seat of his pants – they were warm with moisture. In his pain and fear Daryl had wet himself. "You pathetic piece a' shit. Look what ya done! Pissin' yerself like a goddamn baby. Ya ain't never gonna be a man are ya?" his father sneered at him. "Fuckin' thirteen-years-old and pissin' your pants. Gonna buy ya some damn diapers," the monster raised his arm again.

Shame and embarrassment crashed over Daryl as he flinched, waiting for the beating to continue. The skin of his back stung like it was on fire and he could smell the blood. A cry escaped him as the belt struck him again, hitting previous wounds. The pain was too much and Daryl couldn't keep silent as tears ran down his face and he sobbed, begging for an end to it.

"Useless!" –smack- "Stupid!" –snap- "Ugly!" –crack- "Sonofabitch!" Each word from the elder Dixon's mouth was punctuated with a blow from the belt. "Quit yer damn cryin' 'fore I give you somethin' to cry about!"

Daryl couldn't stop. He just couldn't – he was in too much pain, he was too scared. He just wished he could die and escape this torment forever. But it never happened. No matter how many times he'd been at the mercy of his father's belt, no matter how bad his injuries had been, Daryl always lived to see another beating. And this time would be no different.

His crying out only fueled his father's rage and he flipped Daryl over onto his back, the dirt and debris from the forest floor rubbing into his wounds. He received a quick smack to the face, splitting his lip, but it silenced him. The monster dropped the belt and lay into his son with his bare hands, smacking, punching, and scratching Daryl's chest and stomach. Two swift punches to his cheekbone knocked Daryl out cold and he went limp.

It was some time before Daryl awoke again and he was confused as to why he was staring up at trees and blue sky instead of a water-stained drop ceiling. The pain reminded him – his whole body ached, no, throbbed; the gashes in his back stung something fierce and he couldn't open his left eye. The pain brought his memory roaring back.

Groaning, he forced himself onto his side and then into a sitting position, nearly vomiting from the pain. He knew he had to get home, get cleaned up. His clothing stuck to his skin and made moving even more difficult than it already was. Daryl barely made it to his feet but was determined to stay upright. Slowly, he shuffled through the forest, making his way back to the shack he shared with his father.

It felt like several hours had passed before the house appeared in the distance but the placement of the sun in the sky told Daryl it had only taken him a couple hours to trudge his way through the trees.

A knot of apprehension settled in his stomach and Daryl paused, unsure of what awaited him. He grew angry with himself for being afraid and clenched his fists.

"Stop bein' a pussy and walk yer ass in there," he muttered to himself. With new resolve, Daryl completed his trek home and stepped up on the back porch, took hold of the door handle and shoved the door open.

The house was dark and quiet, Daryl stepped inside carefully, keeping an eye out for his father. He shut the door behind himself, tip-toeing through the kitchen and into the living room where he found his daddy passed out on the couch, snoring. Daryl breathed a small sigh of relief and made his way to the hallway towards the bathroom.

He closed and locked the door and turned on the shower. While the water warmed up, Daryl tasked himself with peeling his clothes off. He started with the easier of the two articles – his pants. They weren't stuck to him like his shirt was but they smelled something awful and he tore them off angrily, balled them up and tossed them into a corner. Fresh shame assaulted him, the memory of wetting himself and the things his father said to him replaying in his mind.

'What would Merle think?' Daryl stomped that thought quickly – Merle wasn't here. He'd gone and left him alone with their old man to go play soldier. 'Fuck him, he ain't here anyways. Prick.'

As angry as Daryl was, he couldn't deny that he missed his brother. Merle could be a class A asshole but unlike their father, Daryl knew he cared. Or he thought Merle cared, until he up and left. Now he wasn't so sure. But he still missed him; things weren't so bad when Merle was around, he at least had someone to talk to, to go hunting with. Now Daryl was painfully alone.

Steam was filling the bathroom and Daryl attempted to get his tank off but it was practically glued to his back from the dried blood. Again, he tried to peel it off slowly but it hurt too damn much. Growling with frustration Daryl thought 'fuck it,' took a firm grip and tore the shirt over his head in one fast motion. He nearly cried out from the pain but stopped himself in time - he had reopened all of his new wounds and they were bleeding freely again. Daryl stood with his hands gripping the sink with white-knuckles, clenching his jaw and waiting for the pain to pass.

After a time the painful stinging subsided to a dull throb and Daryl made his way into the shower only for the hot water to set off the pain again. He groaned, clenching the shower door handle, forcing himself to stay under the stream of hot water. Tilting his head back, the water wet his hair and face and Daryl scrubbed trying to get the muck off. He didn't bother with soap or shampoo figuring he'd set his wounds on fire enough for one day. Once the muck was rinsed from his body he shut the water off and stepped out of the shower. He dried himself off with the towel he left hanging from a previous shower, not bothering to dry his back.

Once sufficiently dry Daryl approached the mirror and wiped the steam from it, all too prepared for what he would see. His front was mottled with dark purple bruises and red scratches. His left eye was still swollen shut and his bottom lip was a little swollen where it had gotten split. Daryl turned around and looked over his shoulder to examine the damage from the belt. Hot pink welts and deep red gashes marred his back, crisscrossing over wounds, new and old alike. Most of it was congregated towards the top of his back across the shoulder blades but there were a few nasty gashes on his lower back as well. He knew the new injuries would scar, just like the old ones had.

Daryl sighed and turned away from ugliness that was his body, wrapped the towel around his waist and grabbed the soiled clothes from the floor. Snoring could still be heard from the living room and Daryl was grateful for that. He made his way to his bedroom, opened the door and froze.

His room was trashed – he didn't have much to trash but what little he had was destroyed. The picture of him and Merle, it was torn to pieces. What few clothes he had were strewn about instead of in the laundry basket he kept them in. The hand-made arrows his grandfather had given to him for his crossbow on his 7th birthday were all snapped in half. Then his eyes landed on his bed, if you could call it that. It was just a dingy mattress on the floor.

It had been stripped bare – no sheets, no pillow, no blanket. And sitting atop it was a package. Of diapers. Daryl could only stare, dumbfounded. His daddy had made good on his word to buy diapers for his youngest son.

The humiliation turned him beet red and Daryl ducked his head in shame even though no one was around to see it. Swallowing the unwanted emotions, Daryl dropped his dirty clothes and picked through his room until he found a clean pair of boxers and pulled them on. He kicked the diapers off his bed intending to get rid of them later. Right now though, he was too tired and in too much pain. He went to the closet and dug deep, fingers grasping, hoping his father hadn't found what he had hidden there. For once, he was in luck – his fingers grasped the soft leather jacket Merle had given him for safe-keeping and pulled it from the back of the closet. It was worn and supple and much too big for Daryl.

He curled up on the mattress and threw the jacket over his shoulders in a makeshift blanket. With his knees under his chin the jacket covered him completely; the weight of the leather fell over him comfortably, keeping him warm. It wasn't long before he was fast asleep.

-TWD-

A/N: Thank you for reading. I would really appreciate feedback if you would be so kind. I hope you enjoyed.