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❛ YOU PROMISED. ❜ 49. Killing Myself ❛ SEASON 07 EPISODE 03 ❜ ▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔
I flinch, listening to the distant echo of a knock banging against the door; blinking roughly and swallowing dryly, their knocking presses me to remember previous events. Blood leaking from his skull while his choked up voice reaches out to me, giving me an unfinished goodbye. I huff sharply, holding in my tears and shivering back into reality.
"Um.." I flinch again; suddenly, a woman stood in front of me with a tray of food rattling in her hands. "Negan asked for me to give you this." I sigh, looking up at her flatly. "And he asked for us to make friends.. a girl you could talk to and question."
"I don't want any friends." I scoff while gently taking the tray away from her trembling hands.
"Kendall—"
"Just get out."
The girl huffs, using both her hands to push her dark brown curls away from her eyes; she turns toward the door before reluctantly reaching out for the knob, gripping it roughly. Just when she pulls the door open, she stops and glances over shoulder at me. "You're gonna need friends." Is all she tells me, her southern accent thickening, before stepping out the room and slamming the door behind herself.
Basking in my own silence once again, I shiver and release a deep breath while staring down at the tray of cold food sitting atop of my lap; and within this silence, I hear it— again and again, like a broken record— I hear his skull crushing beneath the weight of my father's bat, crunch!, I hear him gurgling and choking over the blood filling his throat, attempting to give me his last words... And if I shut my eyes, I see him again; his dismembered, bloodied face and his beaten, battered skull.
It's just so clear. And it played in my mind over and over, continuing to torture me— reminding me who I lost.
crunch!
I slam my hands on my thighs, recoiling when the food from the tray splashes across my face, forcing me to drag my hands down my skin to swipe it away. I cringe— crunch!— clutching my hands into tight fists and whimpering, with pressed lips, as my nails dig deep into my skin.
In a fit of rage, I snatch up the tray and throw it against the wall to the left of me, watching it as— whatever was left of my food— slides down the white wall, following in suit of the tray that fell onto the floor, immediately after hitting the wall. I bend down and pick up the tray, holding it tightly while continuously whamming it onto the wall, instead of throwing it again. Very tiny pieces of the dull plastic rain onto the floor; the small makeshift shards stabbing and slicing my skin, matching the temporary scarring from my fingernails.
