Hi there, y'all!

Here it is for all of you who have any interest! I'm sorry for being a bit rusty.

-Gabby

7. Doll

The bitter cold never bothered him as much as the sweltering heat did, though most seemed to disagree with him. As he grew, his daddy had given over to him an old, worn jacket that was usually topped with the leather vest that had the angel wings on it. Despite the boy's begging to receive his father's faded, yet still colorful poncho, he still felt somewhat satisfied with what he had managed to collect. Though the poncho would have provided more warmth during the late night watch he had taken in place of his father, he kept any grumblings to himself. He especially felt no need to complain while he was taking watch with the farmer's younger daughter, who recently announced that she was pregnant again but refused to give her watch duty to anyone else.

Over the years he had known her, she had gradually lost the softness she once held. She gave him a tight nod when she caught him glancing at her. "Best watch out there. It isn't as cold out tonight and Glenn said there was a buncha' walkers in the next town over last time he went on a run," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. The woman buried her face into the collar of her olive green jacket, which he believed belonged to the sheriff's son, until only her wide, blue eyes peeked out from the top of it, blonde waves spilling over her shoulders. The death of her father hardened her. She did not laugh as much. She lacked the sparkle her eyes once had. She simply was not the same.

She and the sheriff's boy had a little girl of their own, whose name was Lorelei Annette Grimes, after their mothers. The child looked just like the woman with her innocent blue eyes and light blonde locks, but even at three years-old she had the mouth of her father and aunt. "You got it, Beth," the boy replied, taking a moment to pull the collar of his jacket up around his neck. When she was around little Lorelei, the hardened woman seemed to take on a softer demeanor. In a way, she reminded him of his own mama. His mama was a tough woman; no one would argue with him on that. Hell, she shot his uncle without a second thought and then managed to argue with his daddy about making the drunken man live outside the walls for the rest of the time he was alive. No one could have done that to his uncle unless they ate nails for breakfast without milk. At least, that is what he had been told.

Sometimes, he wondered how the young Grimes boy got through to her because he was left to assume she was not always so stony. His mama usually had her break downs in the middle of the night after tossing and crying out in her sleep. Not that the farmer's daughter had suffered the same loss as his mama, the pain of losing both parents must have brought about some sort of pain that had to surface at points. The thought of the sheriff's son not being quite sure what to do with his woman weeping beside him brought about a chuckle in the boy until he realized that he was he one who was unsure of what to do with a girl when she was upset. "Don't get too lost in thought there, skippy," the woman whispered to him as her gun made a sharp pinging sound. Three stray walkers had wandered close enough to the wall to be considered a threat. Not batting an eye, he took out the one closest to him while his comrade sent the third's blackened brains flying out into the open road. "Not too much to handle, but we need you on your toes, little Dixon. Wouldn't want you to put your dad's good aim to waste."

He wanted to grimace, but she gave him a rare, small smile before burying her reddened face back into her jacket. Instead, he scoffed, burrowing into his own coat. In many ways, he was constantly compared to his father, but his hunting abilities were the most commented upon. "Baby Dixon," a voice called up to him. None other than young Grimes, a lankier, paler version of the sheriff himself, stared up to him. "I've gotcha covered tonight. Why dontcha' go warm up and then see if Jude's still up? She's been having some trouble with Dad tonight and that probably means she won't be sleeping much." With a grim nod, he agreed to dismount the wall. "Think she went over to your place. Can't be sure, though." More and more, the sheriff seemed to grow increasingly discontent with his daughter for unknown reasons. The young Dixon had a theory that his deceased wife's face being resurrected in their daughter had plenty to do with whatever was causing him such grief. Walking away from the new pair on the wall, the young man glanced back to find the two giving each other a small nod of acknowledgment and an exchange of warm smiles before they focused beyond their safe zone.

The building his family had claimed was definitely the smallest—at least he concluded that was based upon his time spent in the other buildings. Its brick face had turned to a brown-red over the years from when he was left to guess had been a bright red. Above the front door, '21 High Street' read in large, faded-gold print. To him, it seemed like such a strange notion to give names to streets. It seemed to make more sense, in his mind, to explain where something was with a more permanent landmark or anything of the like.

As quietly as possible, he pushed the door open, assuming Asskicker would be sitting somewhere close to the door while his parents slept upstairs. "Ya' ain't fine, woman," a voice hissed from the back of the place called home. "Ya' best tell me what's botherin' ya' or else." A light seeped from underneath the door to the kitchen, giving him some ability to see in the room before him. On the sofa against the wall directly across from him, a group of long limbs hung scattered about. "What is goin' on in that damn head?" The form on the couch stirred slightly, but did not move from its laying position.

"You really wanna know, Daryl? Do you?" His mama's voice rang though the quiet with more bite than he had ever heard come from her. "Well, you should know that my daughter's been dead for twenty-some years, and I may or may not get upset over that from time to time." There was a pause where he could only picture his father, resting his elbows on the countertop with his face buried in his hands, as his mother leaned up against the same counter, arms crossed over her chest and eyes pointed to the ceiling. "I'm sorry. Some days are just worse than others." Another crippling silence came, his mama's hand rising to her face, so her thumb and forefinger could press into her eyelids in an attempt to force back her tears. "Every time I look at him, I see a little bit of Sophia, and it kills me. Each time I think it's getting better, he'll say or do something that just reminds me of her. I try to push it back. Really, I do, but some days, it's too much to handle."

His father released a heavy sigh while the floor let out a muffled creak, indicating the man had leaned back on his heels and was now resting the palms of his hands on the counter. In the moonlight, the young man envisioned, the steely blue eyes of his father were now trained on the reddening face of his mother. "Carol, what happened today?" the older Dixon's voice came out barely above a whisper, as it normally did once his frustration dissipated. "Don't tell me it's nothin' neither. 'Cause you and me both know that's a crock a' shit."

Guilt sat in the pit of his stomach like a lead weight. He knew about his sister: very little but he still knew a bit about her. More often than from his mama, his daddy told him about Sophia. There was not very much he knew about her, as that was the time before he and the boy's mama were together, but he shared all the information he could. She had blonde, wavy hair, much like his own, and their mama's eyes. According to his daddy, she was a little waif of a thing, only twelve-years-old. She had a gentle and quiet nature about her, like his mama, and was, more often than not, afraid of even her own shadow.

"I don't know, Daryl. He was—" his mama's voice cut through the silence his thoughts had been brewing in, "—holding that damn doll Lorelei carries around all day, and he didn't look like her exactly." Another strangling bit of quiet came between the duo, leaving their unknown third party on the edge of his seat. "H-he looked like you... the day you came back in real bad shape with Sophia's doll. I just felt like she should be here with us: with a real family."

"I'm sorry I didn't—"

"You did more than anyone." Outside the door, now sitting on the couch next to the form he had identified as Asskicker, the young man knew his parents were still standing apart from one another: his mother's hand now resting on her cheek as she watched his father bury his face into his palms once more. "And that's all I could have asked for from you. She wasn't your responsibility."

Rare was the occasion where he heard his father's voice grow weak and small. "She coulda' been," he choked out. "She woulda' been."

His daddy was a strong man: the tough hunter with a temper. When it came to the sister he never got to know, his daddy crumbled. "I know," his mama whispered before allowing silence to slip over them once again.