Daryl has to help you get up in the mornings. He has to mush up your food, help you get in the tub, make sure you take your medication. He didn't even really remember how he became this caretaker for you, it just kind of... happened.

It's not like he didn't care, of course he did. But as time went on, it was difficult to keep up. You weren't exactly coping well with your illness. It was a constant battle to keep his eye on you, make sure you didn't disappear. You acted out a lot, and sometimes he felt like your damn father.

That's why he ended up lashing out. He didn't mean to, but God, the man was beat, and you'd pushed him over the edge. You got into his stash, chugging half a bottle of whiskey while he was on a run. Back in your shared home, Daryl confronted you, waving the bottle in your face.

"Y'think this is some game?" Daryl barked, towering over you angrily. "You're an ungrateful little bitch, y'know that? Y'know how hard I work to keep you safe? Y'know how many days I spend out there searchin' for the right meds?!"

You just stood there, blinking up at him. Daryl couldn't tell if you were just drunk, or if you were getting teary-eyed. Either way, he was too angry to care. Slamming the whiskey bottle down, he paced the kitchen.

"Fuck," he ran a hand through his hair. "You make life so fucking tirin'. Y'know how hard it is to keep you alive when all you do is try to kill yourself? You realize what that does to me?"