𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄 -Negan x Reader

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One would think that after so many mornings you've spent hungover, you would have grown a tolerance to it. Nope. Not in any way. You groan as you writhe awake on the bathroom floor. Before you can form your first thought of the day, you feel the gush of bile making its way up your throat.

You make it to the toilet just in time. Thankfully, it's all liquid. You thank your past self for choosing not to eat yesterday. Shortly thereafter, you chastise yourself for drinking. Another round of bile makes its way up. After hugging the toilet, you sit back into the floor with your head in your hands.

It doesn't take long for you to recall the events of last night, making you sit up straighter and feel a bit more nauseous. The hole in your chest reappears for the day, not faltering until you fall asleep. You pick yourself up from the floor and rummage through the medicine cabinet, popping two Tylenol before you get ready for the day.

-

You emerge from the bathroom after grabbing a shower and throwing on a less provocative outfit than yesterday. There isn't any sign of Dwight, saving you from a very awkward conversation. You sit down on the couch and run a brush through your wet hair. Almost like clockwork, your eyes find the bottle again. Half of the amber liquid remains.

It's a slippery slope. One more drink leads to another, then leads to another, and then you're right back where you started. You realize you had stopped brushing your hair in your fixated trance on the bottle sitting upon the table. Continuing the task, you try to convince yourself that you don't need to take a drink.

No. I can't. Bad things happen when I drink.

But-

What's the worst that can happen?

I've already lost the last two things I cared about. Who gives a shit if I get back on the bottle?

As if it were going to play out any other way, you take the bottle and turn it up. Giving up what little self-control you managed to scrape up. What reason did you have to be sober? Negan and you are no more. Things hang in the balance with Dwight. Nobody here wants to kill you anymore. If anything, this is the best time to drink.

You sit on the couch, gulping the bottle here and there, letting yourself fade into the soothing waves of intoxication. The thought of work crosses your mind. Avoidance is probably the best way to handle the situation with Dwight so that crosses work off your schedule. Staying here and risking him coming in early isn't an option. Every other idea that pops into your head either risks involvement with either Dwight or Negan.

A knock sounds at the door after you're pretty well wasted. You chalk it off as laundry delivery on account of the softness of the knock, and decide against answering. But it happens again, a bit more urgently. You pull yourself to your feet and fight against the spinning of the room and the numbness of your legs. Nearly empty bottle in hand, you swing the door open.

Sherry stands on the other side. Her face is done with meticulously painted makeup. The tightness of her clothes gives the impression that she wants to be gawked at. Her hair falls into loose curls over her shoulders. Your blood runs cold and the grip on the bottle tightens, whitening your knuckles. Her bright green eyes give you a once-over. She crosses her arms over her chest and shifts her weight to one leg. Her lips pull into a small smile and her eyebrows raise.

"Wow, you look like shit."

Her voice is venom. Her presence is poisonous in and of itself. You feel your nerves burning at the ends, wanting nothing more than to bust the bottle over her head and feel the satisfaction of watching her crumple to the ground.

"What do you want?", you don't come off as harshly as you intend to, instead it's an angry slur.

"You might be too drunk to comprehend it. But I'll do my best to make sure you get the message, even if you are in the most pathetic state of your life."