He's Just a Baby

Shower Thoughts

Daryl was fifteen when the first signs of his classification started to show.

Typically, between the ages of thirteen and sixteen, a person would begin to develop certain traits and actions that often identified with what their classification would be. For example, people who started to feel a strong urge for protecting others and being a leader, were most likely caregivers. On the other hand, people who started to display more childlike behaviors, like sudden mood swings, or sleepiness during the day, were almost always littles. People who stayed relatively the same were neutrals. Regardless of if you had or hadn't started to notice the changes in your body and attitude due to your classification, on the day of your sixteenth birthday, your blood was drawn and tested, and you were given an official classification. Then the appropriate arrangements were made so that your biological needs were properly met.

Daryl's experience had been very different.

He had never had an official classification test, mainly because his parents had been ashamed of what they knew he was.

A little.

This was because on one Sunday morning, a couple months before he turned sixteen, Daryl had woken up to a wet bed...he hadn't wet the bed since he was six years old.

Needless to say, when his dad had slammed open the door to his small, shabby room, and smelled the strong stench of urine, he was livid. Daryl couldn't remember exactly how many lashes he had gotten with the belt, or how long it took. He just knew that by the time his dad had finished, his skin was long gone, and the early morning sun had started to set. Eventually, his dad left, a string of curses leaving his mouth as he slammed the old door to the room, leaving Daryl in a pile of blood and tears on the rotting wood floor.

His dad hadn't shown up the rest of the day, and all throughout the night. Shortly after the man had left, Merle had walked into the room holding a bottle of water and a towel, gagging as he looked over at the untouched soiled bed, before he took a seat next to Daryl and hoisted him up to a sitting position.

"Make sure that never happens again," Merle had said as he began to absentmindedly rub over the scabbing wounds on his little brother's back, checking to see if any of them looked infected. Thinking back on the moment, Merle seemed to be disgusted with the fact that Daryl had wet himself. Although, he could also sense that the disgusted look on Merle's face, was due to the fact that someone had hurt his baby brother. It was a sort of awful tough love that the two brothers shared.

At last, after Merle deemed Daryl's wounds to be not lethal, he stood up, dropping the blood-soaked towel and half empty water bottle next to Daryl on the floor.

"Sleep on the floor tonight, since the mattress is dirty. Sleep on ya belly so that the cuts on ya back can scab up."

And with that advice, Merle had walked out of the room, leaving Daryl, who was still broken to pieces, alone.

He didn't go to sleep that night, he couldn't with all that had happened. His body, and mind, and heart had never ached so bad. He had felt like he was being skinned alive.

Around eight in the morning the next day, Daryl's room door was pushed open, and his dad walked in. Daryl, not being asleep, stared up groggily at the old man and watched as he fumbled for something in his pocket. At last, the man pulled out a small white bottle and threw it at Daryl, hitting him in the chest. Even back then with his pea-sized brain, Daryl knew what the illegal pills were for.

"One, twice a day, ev'ry day."

With that, the geezer stomped out of the room, once again slamming the old door behind him.