The house was never quiet.

You and your older brother, Daryl, sat together in the floor in your bedroom. You both slept in the same room. Your oldest brother, Merle, wasn’t home. He never was, and neither of you could blame him. The place was hell.

Daryl sat with his knees up to his chest, his arms propped up on them. He laid his head on one of his arms. He glanced over at you, catching how you flinched slightly when the argument escalated. He reached out, turning the music he was playing up a bit louder, trying to block out all the other sounds.

It was some loud rock band. You liked it better than the screaming between your mom and dad.

“Atleast they’re yellin’ at eachother and not at you.” He mumbles, his weak attempt at reassurance. He didn’t know how to comfort people. He never got any comfort or reassurance, just a hit or a ‘toughen up’. “They’ll stop eventually.”

He was never good at dealing with people. Feelings. Emotions. But he was even worse at it when it came to you, because in all honesty he considered you fragile. You were a lot younger than him, and he’d always feel the need to protect you.