CONQUEST • Negan

Wounds Unmended

Negan had surprisingly given in to what I had asked of him, claiming he was too busy to be able to entertain me that night, and actually leaving me alone. I had spent my peaceful night in my new room in blissful silence, given a brief yet well-needed respite from Negan's insistent yapping, and reading one of the smutty books from the shelf. It was trash, but that's all I wanted. It's all I needed. Something that could help me escape from my current situation, from my mind, and just forget: a distraction.

I didn't think Negan was actually too busy, but instead, I think I had managed to wound his ego somehow. Go me! Only, I think I kind of felt bad, which just made me feel worse because I shouldn't feel bad at all. Not for him. Not for the man that cackled as he bashed Abe's skull in and taunted an ill woman whilst brutally murdering her husband infront of her. But I felt bad. And that made me feel queasy and angry at myself, because there was nothing to pity about Negan. Apart from maybe how lonely he seemed, or how desperate he must've been for real companionship to even consider seeking such a thing with me.

Maybe this was the stockholm syndrome starting to set in already. How pathetic. It had only been three days since the man had stolen me from my home and within those three days he had— well he had fed me and proposed to me, taunted me and fought with me, and then flirted with me, gave me my own room, flirted with me some more, and then finally, subjected me to witnessing his wife attaching her face to his— which other than the branding situation, that I didn't completely blame Negan for (though maybe I should)— was the most traumatic experience he had forced me to endure since arriving at the sanctuary.

So it wasn't all bad. But regardless of how well I was being treated, I knew that the same sentiment wouldn't be shared by Daryl.

God, I hoped he was okay, but I knew that he wasn't and there was nothing that I could do to help him. Shit, I couldn't even help myself. It made me want to yank fistfuls of hair from my head.

It was times like this when I was reminded; even though I hadn't touched a single drug other than antibiotics since before the fall, I still remained a recovering addict. Emphasis on the word recovering because even if the wound of addiction had scabbed over, it hadn't yet scarred and at any moment, it could tear open anew and bleed again.

When I was as stressed as I was now, it became difficult to shove down that clawing, frothing need and desire to just find something to numb myself with. Exercise had been one of the only things I found to help distract me from the blurring static in my brain, constantly beckoning for something that could quiet the noise. It didn't numb me the way I wanted, but instead, it forced me to feel and focus on other parts of my body. My legs, my arms, my core.

So thats what I did for the majority of that morning. Sit-ups and press-ups and squats, wincing every now again in pain as the scabbing burn on my back tightened and pulled with each stretch. I performed my reps, over and over again until my entire body was trembling and exhausted. Then I used the ensuite bathroom, showered with warm water— making the effort to avoid getting my bandages wet— and changed into clothes that must've been provided by one of the wives or saviours. Either way, I sent them a silent thank you for picking me out clothes that I would actually choose for myself.

And then I sat myself down on the foot of my bed and stared at the door for maybe an hour or two, my ears ringing, the static still rushing between them.

The door was locked from the outside. Right now, that was probably for the best. I didn't trust myself not to wander down to Carson's office and demand some type of strong painkiller just to quieten the noise and lull my fraying nerves.

My nail beds were picked to shit, stinging and bleeding before someone finally came to my door, knocking but not entering, waiting for me to allow them in.