SPOILERS up to S03E15
Mar. 25th, 2013 10:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
squirrelstewWith everything so surreal as it's become, it isn't so hard.
Close your eyes, pretend.
Even the scenery isn't so different: the broken-down farmhouses, the radio blaring in the background...it's just like home. It's supposed to be closer to summer than it is now, but maybe it's just a cool day. There's something off about the smell in the air, but that's probably just the squirrels you caught earlier curing on the porch.
Lets play a game, your brother says. You're angry at him, red-eyed from crying -- not because of something he did, but because he took the blame for you. He yelled at you, of course -- how could you be so damn clumsy all the time, you stupid fool? He said worse things than that, actually, but right now you can't really remember them. When your bastard of a father comes into the room, he takes one look at the broken bottle on the floor and unbuckles his belt.
Merle looks at you for a split-second before he looks away and steps forward. You run out of the room, but not fast enough to escape the sound of that first 'crack'. Now even though you're the one crawling out of your hidey hole and into the yard, he's the one who's smiling when you know he's just taken a licking.
You nod eventually. It will, you figure, keep his mind off of things just as well as it'll keep yours off of them -- and besides, it's a good day for it.
Cowboys and niggers, comes the response, and even though you want to tell him you're pretty sure that's not a real game, you nod again and sniff, wipe your nose with your sleeve.
He starts running and you grin, because you know you're faster than him. Merle wants you to catch him, anyway, because it isn't much fun if the game is just a marathon race. He pretends to trip on a tree root and you lunge at him once you're sure his back is solid on the ground, the stick you picked up as your knife held in one hand. He reaches up to push your shoulders playfully and then shoves a little harder (Merle's always been so angry, you just let it go), enough that you shove him back and see him wince. That brings the anger right back up to the surface, seeing the edges of his eyes glint with something he'd never admit to. Pain.
"Dammit, Merle!" You slam the stick into the ground next to his head, only it isn't the ground -- and it isn't a stick.
The knife slides wetly into his skull and you know from the resistance that you hit brain, but it isn't enough.
You'd always promised that if you ever found Merle you'd figure out a way to make things all right for him, because he'd spent so much time taking care of you. You never blamed him for leaving, not really -- he'd have killed their father, and then they'd have both had it worse, somehow. That had been a line to cross after the dead began to rise again, and not before.
At least this way you know he'll be at rest -- really at rest.
That's all you can do now, other than cry. It's just another day of being useless, another day of stupid emotions that you can't control or express.
Just another day.
Close your eyes, pretend.
Even the scenery isn't so different: the broken-down farmhouses, the radio blaring in the background...it's just like home. It's supposed to be closer to summer than it is now, but maybe it's just a cool day. There's something off about the smell in the air, but that's probably just the squirrels you caught earlier curing on the porch.
Lets play a game, your brother says. You're angry at him, red-eyed from crying -- not because of something he did, but because he took the blame for you. He yelled at you, of course -- how could you be so damn clumsy all the time, you stupid fool? He said worse things than that, actually, but right now you can't really remember them. When your bastard of a father comes into the room, he takes one look at the broken bottle on the floor and unbuckles his belt.
Merle looks at you for a split-second before he looks away and steps forward. You run out of the room, but not fast enough to escape the sound of that first 'crack'. Now even though you're the one crawling out of your hidey hole and into the yard, he's the one who's smiling when you know he's just taken a licking.
You nod eventually. It will, you figure, keep his mind off of things just as well as it'll keep yours off of them -- and besides, it's a good day for it.
Cowboys and niggers, comes the response, and even though you want to tell him you're pretty sure that's not a real game, you nod again and sniff, wipe your nose with your sleeve.
He starts running and you grin, because you know you're faster than him. Merle wants you to catch him, anyway, because it isn't much fun if the game is just a marathon race. He pretends to trip on a tree root and you lunge at him once you're sure his back is solid on the ground, the stick you picked up as your knife held in one hand. He reaches up to push your shoulders playfully and then shoves a little harder (Merle's always been so angry, you just let it go), enough that you shove him back and see him wince. That brings the anger right back up to the surface, seeing the edges of his eyes glint with something he'd never admit to. Pain.
"Dammit, Merle!" You slam the stick into the ground next to his head, only it isn't the ground -- and it isn't a stick.
The knife slides wetly into his skull and you know from the resistance that you hit brain, but it isn't enough.
You'd always promised that if you ever found Merle you'd figure out a way to make things all right for him, because he'd spent so much time taking care of you. You never blamed him for leaving, not really -- he'd have killed their father, and then they'd have both had it worse, somehow. That had been a line to cross after the dead began to rise again, and not before.
At least this way you know he'll be at rest -- really at rest.
That's all you can do now, other than cry. It's just another day of being useless, another day of stupid emotions that you can't control or express.
Just another day.
