CONQUEST • Negan

Daydreams and Fantasies

"Is there anything else?"

"No— anything more than that is up to her to take care of. Keep the skin away from sunlight, massage the surrounding area, wrap it up in gauze— in fact, I'll change her's just now, she should be waking soon."

"So there's nothing more I can scavenge to help it heal faster, its not gonna go away?"

The closer voice scoffed, "You knew it wasn't going to go away, Negan. That's why you use the iron." Steps receded and a door clicked shut.

"Shit," this was said in a hushed tone, "She's gonna hate me."

I was with it enough to grumble, "Already do, Asshole." My eyes stayed shut because I wasn't ready to face the day yet.

Negan chuckled, "You're awake."

"No shit." Already, a headache was starting to bloom from the sound of his voice.

I heard footsteps, but it was my total awareness of his presence that alerted me to the motion of him moving closer.

"How you feeling, Sweetheart?" The calloused tip of a finger brushed against my forehead, sliding a strand of hair behind my ear.

And I was up. There was seriously no break to be had around this prick.

"Sick, after you've just touched me." I slipped an eye open and narrowed my gaze up at Negan who was standing way too close for comfort.

The smile he returned wasn't as Negan as it usually was. There wasn't any delight behind it, none of that, I'm partially insane and I love it, there. It was just a plain smile, one that struggled to even reach his eyes.

"You look like someone just ran over your dog," I groaned as I pushed against the bed to sit up. I didn't miss the hand that Negan tried to reach out with to help me, but then dropped, knowing better.

The flesh of my upper back was tight and itchy, and it felt like a part of my skin had been torn from my shoulder blade. It was bearable, I'd been stabbed and shot, broken bones and dislocated joints, but it was hardly pleasant.

"You'd love it if that were true, wouldn't you?" Negan retorted, but again, that spark, it just wasn't there.

"No, I'd love it if it had been you though. Not the dog, dog's are innocent."

Looking down at myself, I swallowed down my horror. My top was gone. And my bra. The only thing that was sheilding my nudity was some bandages wrapped tightly around my torso. At least some of my dignity remained intact, though I'm sure I left the rest of it behind on that factory floor. I vividly remember screaming and crying and that just wasn't me. That shit is embarrassing.

"Are you—"

"Am I okay?" I finished his question before he got to finish it. I had heard that question so many times in my life that I just knew when it was coming, it was my sixth sense at this point. Though usually, when someone asked that, they didn't really care to hear the answer, it was only a pleasantry. 

It was the same question everyone asked the seven year old whose mom had died. It was the same question my doctor asked after I had revealed to him that my leg wasn't broke because I ran out in front of a car, but because Dad had drank too much again and pushed me down the stairs. It was the same question the therapist who dad had paid off asked when I pleaded with her to believe me about the abuse and she had summed that I was having a mental break. The same question the workers of the rehabilitation centre asked each time I wss in the pits of detox and throwing up in a metal pan.

It was empty and it was hollow and it didn't actually mean anything.

But looking at Negan, a man who wore his emotions without shame, the concern that creased his brow and dimmed his eyes told me his question was genuine. I'm sure it was only because he had some wild plan for me and the state I was in now had stopped that from happening. "I'm fine. I probably would have chosen to get the brand on my ass since thats what you are but my back will do."