Sneaky

Chapter 42

AN: Trigger warning. Physical & Emotional trauma, traumatic childhood, descriptive panic attacks, suggestive trauma, etc.

Skip by pressing ctrl + f and copy(ctrl C)/pasting(ctrl V) the phrase: 'I'm not even sure I wanna know anymore.'

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Daryl pulled up his blanket again for the 9th time in ten minutes and I've finally had enough of it. It's bad enough he's barely touching that tray Carol left. As far as I know, he hasn't eaten since this morning.

I understand why he's hiding— trying, to hide those scars.

My shoulder rolled unconsciously. A knot tied my stomach, sinking by the second and forming a pit deeper than the one I was actually in the day before last.

And here I thought my gut was done havin' somethin' to say.

...Maybe it's time.

It's not like I've been waitin' for a "special moment". Even if I was, this would be it. Wouldn't it?

Before I could talk myself out of it, I set my cards down(face down) and slid my jacket off.

Daryl looked at me curiously, and when I grabbed the rim of my shirt he lurched, "What're ya doin?"

I pulled the fabric up, being careful to keep the front of it from rising too high and twisted until I knew he could see them.

The circular burn scars on my shoulder blade.

It was quiet before but it's deathly so now.

I side-eyed him as he took several uncomfortable but examining glances, before forcibly fixing his eyes on the cards in his hand.

Huh, he doesn't usually have a problem staring at things. When it comes to stuff like this though... good to know he's not as insensitive as he likes to believe.

Attempting to ignore the pull in my chest, I swallowed the extra saliva in my mouth. Geronimo.

"When I was 13, I was livin' with this family with two other girls like me...The parents treated us well. Sent us to school, the mrs made dinner, bought us new school clothes, shoes, helped with our homework, asked how our day went when we came home."

Daryl looked up from his cards to watch me carefully. Almost the way he looks at people he doesn't trust.

"They were the nicest host family any of us ever had by far... 'til our foster father's drinking friends came 'round."

"Every Sunday. The wives would go out with their friends for girl's night, while their husbands played cards or watched the game in the living room downstairs."

"They drank, smoked. Talked about work, sports, their wives. All that nostalgia crap from high school and college."

I shifted, tryna force a bit more air into my lungs than they want and swallow the constricting muscles in my throat.

"Every Sunday night...like clockwork, one of 'em would come stumblin' up the stairs to our room, the room the three of us shared."

Daryl shifted; Something cold and burning setting in his gaze. I could only bring myself to take glances at him the more I recanted.

"One of the girls was younger than me—9 I think— but the other was much older. Nearly 18. I don't remember their names anymore. Something starting with G or M."