𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐫, 𝐋𝐢𝐚𝐫 | 𝐉𝐉 𝐌𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐤

44. Negan-ette.

F O R T Y - F O U R
Negan-ette.

I'm beyond mad. I'm fucking livid, seeing red, seething, whatever you want to call it. But on top of all that, I'm heartbroken and exhausted from it all. Some tiny part of me wants the life I had before the gold hunt back, because at least I knew where I stood back then.

But, when that thought runs around my mind I feel guilty. And I am angry that I'm guilty. Because back then, I was also angry at the world and my situation; it was shitty, in a very different way. I was constantly walking on cracking ice. At home with my father, or out with my boyfriend. How could that be better than now? JJ didn't hurt me physically, or even mentally.

My brain is really not fun.

Five minutes into my at least forty-minute walk, I think I'm getting burns on the soles of my feet from the sun-beaten road. But when I walk through a patch of bindiis and experience the soul-destroying terror of navigating that mind-field, I decide third-degree burns are—of course—the lesser evil.

Honestly, depressingly, I think that my presence in the attempt to save the Twinkie won't be missed. Knowing my luck with vehicles I'll explode the damn thing before towing it out.

Being so focused on not getting a shard of glass in my foot, I only notice the rumble of the car when it's right beside me. I look up from the uneven road, and my eyes rest on the driver of the car. A face I don't think I'd forget, even with a severe case of dementia.

Rafe.

With a sheen of sweat across his forehead, one that reminds me of all the nights when I had to stop him from overdosing on whatever the hell Barry gave him. All while his 'friends' leered at me. Those friends would stab him in the back for a hit; they may even just stab him in the back for a good time.

Rafe doesn't have friends, he has people who hate him a lot, and people who only hate him a little.

I remember one night, he'd pushed it too far—my fault, no doubt—and I was made to shove my fingers down his throat until he coughed up the pills onto the cracked bathroom tiles of Barry's cramped trailer bathroom. That night was a heatwave, it broke a million records. I was pissy because I was sleep-deprived, and he made me go to one of the stupid parties. Rafe swore up and down that he'd be sober. At the last party we attended, I got thrown into the shallow end of the pool and almost snapped my neck. All while he watched, laughing. He promised that if I wanted to leave, he'd leave with me. No questions asked.

That didn't happen. At that point in our relationship, I didn't even entertain the idea that it would.

It ended with me desperately trying to find the narcan I had stashed in my bag, attempting to remeber the beat of Stayin' Alive by Bee Gees and not have my fingers be the first meal Rafe ate in days.

"Get in," he demands plainly.

Fat fucking chance. I don't really feel like dying today. Not when things finally feel like they could be getting better; I've spent so much of my life wanting it to be over, surely now I actually want it to continue, it won't be cut short.

Not to mention, I can't make JJ sleep on the sofa from the grave. And you'd best bet he's spending at least a night on the sofa after that stunt.

The way I currently see it, I've got a few options.

One, try and run down the road and lose him that way. This seems like an awful plan.

Two, running up to the nearest house and trying to convince them I'm actually not as crazy as rumours may suggest. Considering the nearest houses are on Figure Eight, that idea is a bust.