Daryl's Angel: Saviour (Book Two)

Chapter 61: An Exception

For all the bravado I put up in front of Negan, there is one thing that the Saviours have done that wears on me. Two sandwiches aren't enough to keep me going, and this cell is starting to feel like a tomb. Isolation and discomfort weigh on me.

Being upright is nauseating. I hug myself into the tightest ball I can manage in a bid to warm myself up, shivers racking me as I lie prone on the hard floor. I'm so tired, and yet every time I sleep, it seems like I've barely blinked before I'm awake again, longing for sweet, dreamless release.

I weep. I'm not proud of it. I've tried so hard to be stoic, to keep my tears to a minimum, to be used when I need them as a weapon, but my discomfort only seems to grow with no relief in sight. I ration the pitiful water I was given, sipping only when I can't bear the thirst any longer, but it's not enough. The cell stinks from my piss, robbed of the luxury of relieving myself away from where I sleep, forced to squat in the corner like a dog.

Does Negan think that if I get hungry enough, I'll trade Daryl for a hot meal? I'd rather starve. Even as I think that, my stomach growls and aches and cramps, and I cry harder.

I pray, seeking the comfort that talking to Jesus used to bring me when I was younger. He fasted for forty days and forty nights in the desert. I can hold out for three, four, five.

If Negan truly plans to use me, then he will want me alive until there comes a time when my death will hurt the most. If he wants to starve me, then I will have to suffer it. Even if he physically weakens me, I have to steady my resolve and wait for my moment.

It's hard. It's one of the hardest things I've ever done.

For Daryl, I remind myself. For our son.

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I don't stir when those distinct knocks ring out. I can't. Maybe I could, if I really tried, but I don't want to, and a part of me hopes that someone will take pity on me if I refuse to move.

The lock clicks, and the door creaks open. I flinch away from the light, keeping my eyes firmly closed. They can drag me out of here if they want.

I hear a grunt of effort as someone comes in, then a sigh.

"You know, I hate seeing you like this, Hopey-girl."

What a joke. If he really hated it, he wouldn't do it. Whatever it is, whatever his reasons, I'd spit in his face if I weren't so dehydrated.

"I've told you," Negan murmurs. "You don't have to suffer. Just ask, and I can make all this go away."

He's persistent, but I've come to realize that that's his method. Wear them down until they break under the constant pressure. An opportunity unfolds before me, and I force my eyes open. He's seated beside me, staring down at me with a neutral expression.

"You don't strike me as the type of man who begs," I say.

His eye twitches again, but then he laughs. "You've got a mouth on you," he says. "You don't strike me as that type, but hell...I'm not complaining. It is hot as hell."

I wonder if he's lying, trying to push back against me in this game that I've decided we're playing, repeating my words. Still, this is the same man who got excited when he found out about my pregnancy, so I'm giving up on trying to understand what makes him tick.

"You've made your feelings clear," he continues, "but I think you just don't know me." I keep staring at him, deadpan, and he smiles. "Sure, I bashed a few skulls, but let's not forget that your group started it. I retaliated against a wrongdoing. That's the way of the world. Doesn't make us monsters."