Daryl was observant. He noticed small things about other people they didn’t even notice about themselves half the time.

He’d noticed how you’d acted when you were first brought here. You didn’t talk— didn’t answer their questions about your group properly, fumbling over your answers or changing them when you felt too threatened, never giving a straight answer. He also noticed just how easy it was to frighten you. You curled up on yourself, flinched at small things— always had this wide eyed look of fear on your face.

He listened to you talking to a boy in the other cell, eavesdropping on the two of you as you spoke about your group, about your parents. He could tell by the way you spoke that everything you were saying about them was bullshit.

The day after, he came into the cells, standing by yours. He stared at you for a minute before getting you to stand by the bars. He yanked on your sleeve, staring at the welts on your arm. You jerk it away from him, and gave some bullshit story he knew wasn’t true. It was silent after, he didn’t say anything, just watched you. He knew exactly what the welts were from.

He came back later, holding a switch in his hands. He observed your reaction, knowing you saw it as more than just a branch. He started to pick the leaves off of it as he spoke to you. “Some parents’ll come up with any excuse to beat the shit out of their kids.” His voice was rough, he was speaking from experience. “Maybe they’re drunk. Maybe they can’t get drunk. Belts are good, but these assholes, they ain’t picky— they’ll use whatevers laying around.” He looked at you, taking in the slight quiver of your lips and how you averted your gaze from the branch. “But a good switch, from a birch tree, that’ll work.”

He held it up, “You knew exactly what this was when I walked in here. And those bruises on your arm— those come from a beating.” He nods at your arm. “So who gave ‘em to you?”