𝘊𝘖𝘕 𝘖𝘍 𝘙𝘌𝘝𝘌𝘕𝘎𝘌 | ᴘʀᴇ ʀᴅʀ2

Chapter Twenty-Six

A/N: 

Warning for this chapter!

This chapter contains heavy topics of grief, alcoholism, and rough sexual content. Nothing is done without consent here, but it's not pleasant either.

A reminder that I have a discord for this fic!: https://discord.gg/NYBnhBZ7yn

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Rosalie returned to camp with John and Arthur. Hosea and Dutch had scampered off from the docks before the law could arrive. As soon as she arrived with Arthur and John, she told Dutch and Hosea that she had finally killed Cormac, her eyes glazed with a distant look. It was still nighttime, and the trio smelled of smoke, sweat, and swampy waters.

Dutch immediately chewed her out, reprimanding her for her reckless behavior and acting without his approval. He berated her for allowing her need for vengeance to control her, putting them all in danger. He was determined to drive his point home, even if it fell on deaf ears.

Rosalie, like a zombie, barely reacted to his harsh scolding. Hosea noticed the faraway look in her eyes and stopped Dutch in the middle of his long speech. He could tell that something was off with her, and no amount of scolding from himself or Dutch would make her see reason now. So, Hosea told her to get some rest, and that he and Dutch would see to it that Forswood was dealt with for her grandfather while she gathered herself.

Rosalie didn't say anything else to anyone and listened to Hosea's instructions. There was no victory, no whooping and hollering with joy. All she had the energy to do was meander to her tent and crawl inside, laying on top of her bedroll fully clothed, still smelling of ash and covered in debris.

The next few days progressed as such too. She barely dressed or left camp. She would wear the same clothes for days at a time. Rosalie made no visits to Annie, or to her cousins. She didn't go to see Isabella or George. The only time she left her bedroll was to find a fresh pack of cigarettes or to make her way to the crates of alcohol near the campfire. Bottles of alcohol filled her tent and she didn't bother to clean.

Rosalie would lay there in her own filth, rotting away as she stared at the tent wall aimlessly. She barely thought about where she was or what she did each day, the thought of food or doing anything productive slipping her mind.

John would come by often, opening her tent flaps to peer inside. He would stand there in silence, at a loss for what to do as he stared at the husk of a person lying in her filth. It scared him. This person was not who he had come to know as Rosalie as over their months together.

Sometimes John would say hello, or ask if she wanted any food. She wouldn't respond. He resulted in leaving bowls of their nightly strew or roasted game just inside the tent flaps in hopes she would pick at it. The only reason he knew the food was eaten was because he would find empty dishes when he came to bring her the next meal.

Dutch and Hosea were at a loss for what to do. John asked if they should talk to her, or force her out of the tent. Dutch would say she needed to deal with her grief in her own time, and that they were busy tying up the loose ends with Forswood now that the O'Driscolls were no longer a present problem.

Dutch didn't have any words of wisdom he could offer himself anyway, as he was still wrestling with the loss of the opportunity to take out Colm and his grief over Annabelle.

There was no trace of the O'Driscolls in New Orleans since the fire at the docks. It seemed they scampered off to their hole now that the loose canon of Cormac O'Driscoll was dead. It wasn't a surprising fact, as the loss of leadership made the O'Driscoll gang vulnerable—but he knew Colm wouldn't stay in hiding for long.