Disclaimer: I do not own The Walking Dead or any of its characters or story lines.

I kind of wrote this on a whim after watching some of season one today (read: I was procrastinating on my homework and decided to do a drabble for my Merle Dixon ask/RP blog- askmerledixon on Tumblr, if anyone's interesting in talking to Merle). So um, yeah. Really short piece here. I would appreciate it if you could read and review! Enjoy!

He couldn't feel anything but pain; sharp, stabbing, aching, throbbing, pulsing, agonizing pain. His heart was beating so fast and so hard he thought it might burst through his rib cage- break the bones, rip the muscles, tear through the flesh and drop to the fucking ground. He half wished it would. It wasn't like it was doing him any good anyway. Stupid fucking thing just kept on beating like his stupid fucking life was worth the effort.

His lungs burned, every breath making something in them rattle and shake and he'd try to cough it up but all he got was spit and blood that splattered all over the pavement. His vision swam, making pictures out of the droplets. Sweat clung to every inch of his sun-burnt skin.

He saw his daddy. Standing over him, screaming at him. "Git up, ya good-fer-nothin', useless son of a bitch! Yer a fuckin' disgrace, boy, yer a worthless fuckin' bastard. Git up, I said! Ain't you listenin', boy? Don't ever do what yer told, do ya? That's why they're always lockin' yer pathetic ass up. Don't give a damn whether ya live or die, do ya? Fine. Fuckin' fine, ya little shit. Stay out here. Die. Ain't no one gon'a miss ya. Ain't no one gonna care, ya fuckin' piece 'a shit."

His daddy spat at him. He swung his fist, and Merle came crashing down the ground, the side of his face pressed up against the blood and the sweat and the spit that had all come from him.

"No one ever cared 'bout ya, ain't that right, boy? 'Cuz you was never worth carin' about. Give up an' die, if that's what ya want. Lay there in yer own fuckin' filth and die. Do somethin' good fer the world, fer once, and quit this fuckin' life."

And like that his daddy was gone, and he tried to sit up but his exhausted, aching muscles wouldn't lift him off the ground and he couldn't see straight and everything hurt so fucking much and fuck, what he wouldn't give for a fucking gun. The blood already left a raw, metallic taste all through his mouth; a good appetizer if a bullet were to be the main course.

In the midst of all his pain, the endless torment of lungs taking in air he didn't want, a heart beating out a tune he hated, something caught his eyes. Dirty shoes. Holes in the toes, fraying laces, the boots themselves all scuffed up.

"Merle?" The voice was like a pebble dropped to the ground. "Merle, wat'cha doin' on the ground?"

He knew that voice. That innocent sound. He knew those shoes, and those tattered, grass-stained jeans.

"Merle?" his kid brother asked again. Couldn't have been more than six years old. He was chewing on the side of his thumb as he looked down at Merle- he'd never grown out of that habit. "Merle, ain't ya gonna get up?"

"Yeah," Merle said after clearing his throat. His voice was hoarse, his throat raw, and the word sounded strange to his own ears. "Yeah, kid. I'm gettin' up."