Here we are at W already. Seriously, where is the time going?
Here's another drabble for you. I won't bore you with a long introduction on this one. I'm not sure where the inspiration came from, and I hope it speaks for itself.
Daryl hates crying. It reminds him of his childhood, when his mother would be gone for days and his father would (if he was lucky) be too drunk to even notice him.
When the man did notice him, Daryl went to bed covered in bruises. He only allowed himself to shed tears whilst hidden beneath his threadbare comforter.
He hasn’t cried since his mother finally disappeared altogether.
Now he stands before the coffin, tears streaming down his face. Though he hates his father, he laments the loss of hope that things could’ve been better. That he might’ve had a dad.