Chapter Text
Chapter 1
The sound of the first whimper woke him. If he’d been in a deeper sleep, he may have confused it for a new litter of kittens mewling from under the cabin, tucked back in a far corner where the mother had sought shelter and safety. It had happened before, more than once, a stray mother curling under the cabin, waiting out the coldest months, birthing too soon, the harshness of the winter taking motherhood from her just as quickly as the kittens spilled from her. But he hadn’t been in a deep sleep. He hadn’t been in a deep sleep for the last 3 weeks, the infant deciding to enter the world during a harsh storm that was rather uncommon in their region. Merle had to help him loose from his mother, an image he hadn’t been able to clear from his mind. He rose on his elbow to take in the boy, his small face puckered, his body wriggling from the wrap that Merle had worked around him tightly in hopes to keep him warm. The baby's eyes remained closed, scrunched tightly, his head twisted back and forth, working his whimper into a louder whine.
Merle ssh’d him and glanced toward the opening of their room. He sat up and scooped his brother to his lap, the infants head lolling with the movement, the ten-year-old forgetting to cradle his head as the woman at the convenience store had taught him. It was only a second before he brought him high to his shoulder, muffling the sound the infant made. He scooted to the edge of the bed, finally supporting the baby’s head when its head slipped backward. He walked to his dresser, grabbing the bottle that sat waiting just for this moment. He’d mixed the formula before he lay down, using water he’d boiled in a cast iron pot he’d found in the corner of the main room. He’d braved the cold and started a fire in the barrel while his father and mother were in their room, obscene noises drifting through the thin walls. Thankfully the water boiled before his father emerged to the main room, adjusting his dick in his thick sweats, muttering under his breath. Merle had taken the pot to his room and left it on his dresser; it should be enough to get him through the next two days. He hoped that in that time his father would head to town again, leaving him alone in the cabin with his mother and brother. He poured enough water from the pot to fill the small bottle halfway, added a small scoop of the powder from the jar with the picture of a baby on it, and shook it until he didn’t see any grit left behind. Then he left the bottle sit on his dresser for a time like this. He pressed the nipple of the bottle to the lips of the infant and rubbed it back and forth until the baby opened enough for the nipple to go into his mouth. He smiled as the infant latched and sucked heartily, small noises erupting as he drank, both from the child himself and from the force of which he drank.
“That’s it.” Merle whispered, swelling with pride as they infant drank, feeling accomplished for keeping him alive thus far. It hadn’t been easy. His mother ignored them both, gone was the smile he used to receive when he walked into the room. This pregnancy had changed her. She’d become withdrawn, mean, and cold. His father was heavier handed and stayed gone more and more. That fact, at the very least, was a major factor to Daryl still being alive. Merle shifted his arms, careful to keep the infant’s head still, fearful that any startling movement would cause the child to release his hold on the bottle and cry out. Their father was home, and he was high. He’d gone after their mother only hours before, pulling her around the house by her hair. She’d refused his second advances on her, her body still healing from birthing. His father would take what he wanted if it wasn’t given freely, and he had, right in front of Merle, right on the couch where his mother lay, drunk on wine, her cigarette burning away in the beer can she used as an ashtray.
He retreated to his room, his mother’s sharp cries causing his chest to tighten and the air to pull from his chest. God how he wanted to intervene. He had before. He’d jumped on his father’s back, put his arm around his throat and pulled back, he’d kept at it until his lust for his wife turned to rage against his son. Times were different now. His mother showed no care for the infant she birthed, rarely allowing him to latch and draw from her the milk her body produced for him. If she was drunk enough, or on the right pills, Merle could coax her to it for a time, until she realized that the infant was latched to her breast. She’d just as quickly wretch him from her body and toss him aside, as if he were not a living human, but much more a ragdoll, and worse yet, one she despised. If Merle had intervened, he’d not be there to keep Daryl from the clutches of his parents. The choice had been necessary. His mother would survive this; Daryl would not have.
Daryl shifted and released the nipple, turning his head. Merle raised him up and held him up and turned him, his hand holding to Daryl’s face as he patted his back sharply. He’d learned quickly that he preferred the child to sick up away from him, rather than on him. It was baffling that the infant would eat a small amount, then moments later seemed to spit out more than he’d taken in. Still, somehow the infant grew. Merle could tell he’d gained a little weight, he held him enough to tell the difference, slight as it was. Daryl burped, this time only a small amount of the formula came out with it. Merle dabbed it with one of his mother’s old tank tops. She wouldn’t notice it gone, it was rare that she changed out of the nightgown she wore, tattered and frayed at the bottom. He turned the infant around and worked the bottle into his mouth again, though Daryl didn’t take to it with the same ferocity. Merle watched him, his puckered lips slowing their grip as the infant nodded off, woke to drink, then nodded off again.
It was odd to suddenly have a brother. He knew his mother was pregnant, watched the slow swell of her belly, the change of her face, the anger and frustration within her brewing. She’d slowed her drinking during the pregnancy. She’d spoken of a distant relative that drank a bottle of wine a day during her pregnancy and when the baby was birthed there was an obvious birth defect, the child’s eyes too small, it’s head not growing like it should. The child had grown with difficulty, screamed often and was inconsolable and violent. Later in life the child, grown to a young teen began physically attacking his own mother. Last Merle knew, the teen ended up in a home for people that were dangerous and couldn’t care well for themselves. Merle wasn’t sure if her mood was so angry because she didn’t drink as much, or because her body was changing, or both. It didn’t help that his father grew angrier each time he came home, her stomach growing, another mouth to feed, unwanted. Yet, his father complaining about a mouth to feed was comical. His father didn’t feed them. His mother would drive the old Cadillac down the mountain and wait in line at the food pantry. She’d get enough to fill a small box, then hide the items around the cabin. It was all dry goods. Rice she’d soak in the same pot he used now to store boiled water, boxed crackers, flat with salt on one side. There would be cans of Ravioli, cans of soup, cans of vegetables. Occasionally his father would bring home a loaf of bread, large cans of peanut butter, left- overs from an appetizer he’d gotten at the bar. Merle was allowed, with permission only to eat a piece of bread with a thin layer of peanut butter when his father was home. When he left, he’d lather up two pieces with a thick layer on each and eat them slowly, one at a time. He’d make the same for his mother, she’d eat half a piece, then tell him to eat the rest. He wondered if he could stretch the powder by offering Daryl small pieces of bread, a lick of peanut butter. He learned quickly that this was not successful, instead, Daryl ended up with diarrhea and a sour stomach to which they had to flee to the woods in the cold weather because the infant shrieked inconsolably, drawing their father’s attention. It was too cold for them to sleep outside ill-prepared. Merle walked to the convenience store and his friend allowed them to sleep inside through the night with a promise that Merle wouldn’t steal food from the shelves. She’d given Merle a turkey sandwich and a large bag of plain potato chips. He was allowed to get as much Coke from the machine as he wanted, but nothing else. He’d spotted her slipping cash into the register to cover his sandwich, chips and Coke. She’d also given him a small bottle, one not seen sold at the store, and a baggie of powder to get them through the night, along with a clear liquid medicine that was to help the infants swollen and painful stomach.
Daryl slept, his mouth no longer working on the nipple, the left-over formula resting in the tip. Merle wiggled the bottle lightly at first, then a little more forceful; nothing. Merle settled the infant back beside him, Merle pulling the wrapped infant to him, both providing and seeking heat. Merle’s eyes drifted closed, sleep claiming him, the infant tucked in tight and secure as the brother’s found comfort in the other.