Author's Note: Before we begin, I should warn you that this story will involve a lot of cursing, violence, and eventually sex with a minor. Consensual, but nonetheless illegal. If you find that idea troubling, this probably isn't the story for you.

This whole idea was borne from a particularly surreal dream of a young, troubled Daryl Dixon in a classroom. Obviously set pre-ZA.

Enjoy :)

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The final bell rang as a cool breeze blew through my disheveled, chocolate locks. I jammed a wad of money in the depths of my dirty, denim pocket and walked through the outside corridors of Frederick Douglass High School. I was on my way to the last class of the day and I if I didn't hurry I would be even later than usual. I sprinted the rest of the way until I reached the familiar wooden door of History 101.

Shit. Class had already started.

I opened the door and walked as quietly as I could to my seat, trying to remain unnoticed, while Ms. Roberts was jotting something down on the dry erase board. Suddenly, she whipped her head around just as I plopped down into my seat and set my worn-out, blue book bag down at my feet.

"How nice of you to join us for the first time this week, Mr. Dixon." She greeted me sarcastically. "Any particular reason why you're..." She tilted her head to glance at the clock on the wall, "Six minutes late?"

"'Cause I was busy sellin' my last bag of pot" didn't really seem like the right way to answer, so I simply shrugged my shoulders instead. If she were anyone else, especially Mr. Grant in English 204, I woulda told her to mind her own fuckin' business. She aint never been nothin' but nice to me though, so I kept my mouth shut.

"Open your book to page 306, please." Was all she said before returning her attention to the board.

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I glanced up from a random doodle I had just sketched in my notebook to the clock on the wall. Twenty more minutes and my ass is free. I leaned my head into my hand and decided to spend the rest of my time taking a nap.

That proved to be short lived when I heard a "Pssst!". "Hey, trailer trash, you think you could cut me a deal on a dime bag?" Ricky Parker, the World's Biggest Douchebag, prodded my arm until I opened my eyes.

"Nah, fuck off." I laid my head back down and tried to forget how much I hated being called that.

"Fuck off? Who the fuck you think you're talking to, bud?"

"Mr. Parker, Mr. Dixon, what's so important that you can't wait until the the bell rings to talk about it?"

Ricky sat straight up with a shit eatin' grin smeared all over his face. Little bitch. One day I'ma whoop his pretty boy ass up and down the damn hallway. "I was just asking Daryl here how many days it's been since he's washed his hair." He replied, trying to stifle a chuckle.

"Apologize, Mr. Parker. Right now."

"For what?" He furrowed his brow.

"You know what. If you don't have anything nice to say learn how to keep your mouth shut. Now, apologize or spend the rest of your afternoon in detention."

He didn't waste any time gathering his things and stuffing them inside of his book bag. "Later, trailer trash." He kicked the leg of my desk, knocking my pencil to the floor, and walked out as Ms. Roberts returned to the end of her lesson for the next fifteen minutes until the final bell rang, signaling the end of the school day. I hurriedly gathered my things along with the rest of my classmates, but before I could reach the door Ms. Roberts asked me to stay behind.

Great. Not like I wanna go home or nothin'. Actually, I really didn't. I didn't want to go home, but I sure as hell didn't want to stay here either.

Ms. Roberts took a seat in her chair and waited until the room was empty to say, "Are you aware that you have used your maximum amount of absences? If you miss another you will fail this class." She stacked a pile of graded papers neatly on the edge of her desk and looked up at me solemnly.

"Yeah, I know."

"You have a grade average of 1.0. That puts you at a D. If you can apply yourself you could easily bring that grade up to an A before the end of the year."

I stood still and tilted my head to the ceiling and then from side to side to work out a stubborn kink in my neck. Don't matter if I apply myself er not. Still ain't gonna pass.

"Are...things okay with you?" She asked curiously.

I nodded. Sure. My dad's an alcoholic, my brother can't stay outta juvey, I ain't had nothin' to eat but a Pop-Tart in two days, and my teacher won't let me go home. Just peachy.

"Want to tell me who gave you that black eye?" She asked, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

Fuck. I had tried hidin' it under my the length of my bangs but I must'a done a shitty job. I said nothing, just shrugged my shoulders and shook my head as if to say, "Don't worry about it." Wasn't the first time, and I was pretty damn sure it wouldn't be the last either. My Dad tends to get real angry when he gets drunk, and he gets drunk every day.

She waited a minute before she changed the subject and started talkin' about somethin' to do with my late homework. I thought about tellin' her to shut up already, but was immediately distracted by the sudden realization that I could see down her shirt. I chewed on my thumb nail and tried to keep myself from being to obvious. Thank god for peripheral vision.

She continued to talk and I continued to stare from the corner of my eye. I had always thought she was hot, along with every other guy at school. She was the youngest teacher here. I figured she was in her late twenties/early thirties, but I wasn't really sure. She had long, dark hair that she rarely ever wore down, but when she did, it fell in loose waves to the middle of her back. She was in decent shape and wore form-fitting clothing; always looking very well put together-unlike me.

I took one last look at the top view of her tits in a pink bra before she released me to go home.